knot used for securing the rope through the harness loops.
Then the basic sequence of events for climbing. The leader climbs up, more or less protected by his second, who’s on a hopefully secure stance at the other end of the rope. When the leader reaches a secure position somewhere near the rope’s full extent, he in turn protects the second who climbs up after him. Simple and reasonably safe. At least, I hoped so.
We’d rehearsed it on the passage stairs. We stood roped together at the bottom of the stairs. Mal tied a ‘sling’ – a loop of incredibly strong tape – through the bannister and clipped it to my harness with an oval metal snaplink, the karabiner or ‘krab’. This secured my belay stance. Then he took the rope near where it came from his harness, threaded it through a friction device, a descendeur, and clipped that to my harness. Then with a ‘see you at the top, youth’ he solemnly walked up the stairs while I paid out the rope through the descendeur. About 20 feet up he stopped and pointed out that if he fell now, he’d fall 40 feet in total before the line between us came tight. ‘So I put in a “runner”.’ He looped another sling round a bannister rail, then clipped a krab to it, with the rope running freely through the krab. If he fell now, he’d only go down twice the distance he was above the runner till he was brought up short by the tight rope between us being looped through the karabiner.
I thought about it a couple of times till the logic of it sank in. Yes, it made sense. The runner was there to limit the extent of the leader’s fall.
It was at this point a woman came bustling up the stairs and gave us a very strange look.
With the merest blush, Mal continued on up, putting in a couple more runners till he got to the top. There he tied himself securely to the rail. ‘On belay!’ The cry floated down the spiral staircase. I unclipped the descendeur, tried to remember the appropriate call. ‘Take in slack!’ I shouted. He took in the rope till it came tight between us. I waited as he put his descendeur onto the rope. ‘Climb when you’re ready!’ With some difficulty I unclipped myself from my belay stance, shouted ‘Climbing!’ and set off up after him.
Some 20 feet up I was going great guns, then was suddenly brought up short with a jerk. I couldn’t go any further. ‘Try taking out my runner,’ Mal called down. Of course, the first runner was preventing me from continuing above it. I unclipped the krab, untied the sling and continued.
At the top, we shook hands most movingly.
And that seemed to be the basic principle and practice of belay climbing. I hoped I’d remembered the calls correctly. I mumbled them over a few times in the freezing van. The rest of the gear – the pitons in various shapes and guises, the screws and nuts – were for use when there was nothing convenient to loop a sling over to set up a belay stance or a runner. We’d gone around wedging them into cracks in Mal’s fireplace. It had all been wonderfully ludicrous, but next time it’ll be for real. How did I get into this?
After Callander the glimmering countryside grows wilder and more desolate. Long slopes suddenly swoop upwards, the snow deepens as we skirt the wilderness of Rannoch Moor and wind down towards Glencoe. As we near the infamous Clachaig Inn I think back on the last time I was here, sixteen years ago. High on adrenalin, youth and Pale Ale at 2s. 3d. a pint, I’d stood in a corner in full hippie regalia – the gold cloak, quilted tea cosy for a hat, peacock feathers, the strawberry tunic, oh my God – and thrashed out Incredible String Band songs into a small bar dense with steam, smoke and climbers so large and hairy it was hard to tell where beards ended and sweaters began. Climbers must be exceptionally tolerant, and such was the confidence of youth and the mood of the times that I got off with it, even had a few drinks bought me. Then at closing time walked out with a nurse from Glasgow into the black night to try yet again to lose my virginity, mind intoxicated with Pale Ale, adventure and the great sensed bulk of the mountains …
Now I can’t even recognize the interior. The clientele are much the same, only now they look younger and smaller. A motley crew: straggly hair, gaiters, training shoes, bare feet, old jeans, blue fibre-pile salopettes, bright red Gore-Tex jackets, moving from table to table talking gossip or snow conditions, arm wrestling, playing pool. A number of girls too, some looking decorative and bored, others decidedly capable.
Mal’s clearly well known and respected here. A constant stream of people come up to our table. Climbers’ talk. ‘Tower Ridge … still seconding all the time … solid for its grade … knew he was going to lob, so … Whitesnake … the crux after the chockstone … wiped out in Peru …’ It’s all new to me, exotic and bewildering, but I sense some interesting interactions behind these casual exchanges. Allegiances and rivalries, the seeking and withholding of information, put-downs and half-acknowledged challenges. How much a casual remark such as ‘I thought it a soft touch at Grade 5’ can imply! It suggests that for the speaker the climb was easy, that he is familiar with real Grade 5s, it inquires after the listener’s capability and casts aspersions on his friend who first climbed and rated the route. Just how good are you, anyway? ‘I found it hard enough last time,’ Mal might reply mildly. This counterstroke makes it clear that he has climbed it, and more than once, that he doesn’t need to pretend a hard climb was easy to bolster his reputation …
In fact, it’s just like the literary world. Competition and cooperation; jostling over places in an invisible league table; ideological, personal and geographical divisions. The Aberdeen crowd here to show the others what real climbing is, the hard men up from the North of England to make their point, the Central Scotland boys protecting their patch … Yes, very familiar.
‘Who are you?’ one youth asks me, uneasy he can’t place Mal’s new partner. ‘I’m a guitar player.’ Pause. ‘What are you doing up here, then?’ ‘Learning a few new chords.’ He looks baffled, scowls and retreats. Mal grins and agrees that though climbing itself may be a pure activity, there’s nothing pure and disinterested about the social side of it. Everyone seems extraordinarily vague about what they’re going for tomorrow.
Tony Brindle and his climbing partner Terry Dailey walk in the door. Tony’s one of the lead climbers for Mustagh, the only one I’ve met other than Malcolm. Handshakes all round, it’s good to see a familiar face. I’d seen him last at Mal and Liz’s wedding, carried off to do a Dashing White Sergeant by two tall girls and grinning wildly. Even sober as now, he’s still bouncy and hyper-enthusiastic. As he chatters away about past and future routes it suddenly strikes me who he reminds me of: Davy Jones of the Monkees. Small, looks as if butter wouldn’t melt, innocent brown eyes, hair in a neat fringe, something about Tony makes one want to pat him on the head. He’s twenty-three and looks about fifteen. I think he both resents and plays up to it. It’s hard to imagine that he’s recognized by his peers as having quite exceptional stamina and self-reliance. There must be steel somewhere behind that baby face. Who or what put it there?
‘So where are you taking Mal tomorrow?’ he asks me, for the benefit of Mal who’s locked in conversation about this season’s big challenges on ‘the Ben’, i.e. Ben Nevis.
‘Oh, I don’t know, we’ll just poke around,’ I reply in the prescribed vague manner. ‘Maybe warm up with Smith’s Gully and see what he’s up to. Then we’ll take a look at something more serious.’ Now we have a few attentive ears at the next table. Mal twitches slightly but can’t get out of his conversation.
Tony grins, replies in his Lancashire accent, ‘Yeah, he’s a bit lazy is Duff. The old fella’s buggered. Still, he’ll second anything you lead.’
‘Thought I’d maybe give him a couple of leads if he’s shaping up …’
Mal is saved from further roasting by the arrival of more friends I recognize from the wedding. A big boozy night that was; the climbers there all gravitated
