A Walk in the Hills

Part One: The road least travelled

Frank and Neil gazed out the car window at the white hills of the Pentlands closing in on them.  Their thoughts were pleasantly interrupted for a moment when Frank's father remarked that the rows of fir tree sapling stakes in the ground were actually marking the graves of previous attempters.  For they were embarking on something of an adventure that evening.  Frank's parents were taking them to Harperrig Reservoir for them to set of on their first night hike across the Pentland Hills to West Linton, and from there, after some fortification, to take the longer return route via the Covenanter's Grave back home to West Calder.

The snow had been thin on the ground that afternoon when the boys decided upon this departure from their usual walking habits.  For to follow the familiar rocky military road that marked out their route in pitch darkness was something unique and exciting for  them both.  So they had packed as best they knew how, Neil's mother plying him with jam sandwiches and Frank stealing a hip flask full of Glayva liqueur whisky from his father's drinks cabinet.  For he knew they could eat in the pub in West Linton so a few bags of crisps and the stuff that made you feel warm sufficed for him.

The car winded along the Lang Whang road and drew up alongside the stile that was the unassuming marker of the boys' first step into their small adventure.  Farewells were exchanged and words of caution were nodded to impatiently and they waved Frank's parents off.  They crossed the stile and with that they had commenced their journey.

The first milestone lay ahead of them, the Cauldstane Slap, a saddle flanked by  East and West Cairn Hills which loomed over the Slap in the dying light like colossal gatekeepers ominously guarding the entrance to a remote wild world.  The hills were completely white against the deep blue of the twilight sky.  The first stars were beginning to appear in the darker regions of the sky and by the time the boys had passed Harrperig Reservoir to their right they were immersed in darkness.

They picked their way up the slope to the brow of the Slap.  They found it curious how the snow was so much deeper here than in West Calder, but decided the altitude and remoteness must be the cause.  It did make walking more arduous and they had even lost the path once on their way up, but they found their way as their first destination was clearly visible - a tall stile silhouetted against the moonlit sky at the crest of the Slap.  And here they rested, where they had never bothered to rest before in earlier hikes.

Neil had a sandwich, Frank ate all his crisps and they both shared a swig of whiskey.  The latter of which spread a wave of warmth through their chests.  They looked back at the mile or so they had walked and remarked again on the surprising depth of snow, it went nearly to their knees at some points along the way, yet it had been so shallow back home.  They agreed it did make the going quite a lot tougher.  Then they looked at the journey ahead.  From their position on the Slap they could see far along the hanging valley.  This time, however, the view didn't look at all familiar.  There was no sign of the crumbly military road that snaked its way predictably to West Linton five miles away.  There was only a featureless white glow where the contrasting textures of the land had been.  They knew they'd be faced with this but had assumed the path would be traced out in the snow by tell tale variations in the surface of the snow.  But they hadn't counted on the depth of snow.

With some consternation, they set off again.  It was beginning to feel cold.  Neither said it but each wished they'd threw on a few more layers before heading out.  But they had just rested; the walking would soon warm them up again.  So they cautiously began they're descent of the Slap into the valley, trying to feel for potholes hidden by the snow as they went.  And without noticing it, they left the path.

A mile had passed since the Slap, or had it been two?  It was difficult to tell, all sense of depth was lost.  Objects miles away radiated the same ethereal glow as objects close by.  The boys knew by now they had lost the guiding light of the path as they both had fell foul to potholes and undulations, characteristic of natural ground, made deceptively level by the thick snow.  Each time they had just picked themselves up but they knew that the next hole could trap their leg awkwardly as they fell to easily fracture the bone or tear ligaments.  This is a small risk all hikers face in the best conditions but they were oblivious to the underfoot conditions and were repeatedly stumbling precariously.  They had been heading for what they thought was a small mound a hundred or so yards away at the other side of which to hopefully catch a glimpse of Baddinsgil Reservoir and so get their bearings again, but they never seemed to reach it.   They realised that the mound was actually a small hill much further away than they had originally thought and they had been deceived by the snow.  The snow which hid dangers underfoot, the snow which made every step like wading through water, the snow which was slowly melting into their clothes.

After what seemed like an age, they rounded the hill.  To their utter relief in the distance they saw a black void in the snow that could only be the reservoir.  They knew they weren't lost now, they had only to walk along the hill slopes on its right side and in time they would meet with the tarmac road at Baddinsgil farm.  They walked with renewed enthusiasm.  They tripped and fell with an increased frequency but they had grown familiar with the risk they had so cautiously managed earlier.  After an hour or two, they had lost all sense of time passed or distance travelled in the monotonous white sea, they saw the homely lights of the farmhouse.  They were soon on the road, where the snow was mercifully much thinner and firm enough to walk on without sinking in due to the action of recent tractor movements.  The way was now certain and they marched the two miles on into West Linton without incident, save a nagging coldness around the bottom of their legs.

The pub in West Linton was in the throes of late Friday night merriment.  Neil asked at the bar about hot food but the best they could get was peanuts.  Their rather dishevelled appearance attracted some incoherent joking and ripples of laughter among some of the more jovial patrons.  In particular, two young men, each with eccentrically long beards and denim jackets, sparked up a conversation and took it upon themselves to invite the boys to dry out their soaking socks on the mantelpiece over the log fire.  The boys decided to suffer further eyebrow raising for the sake of comfort and were soon bare-footed in front of the rumbling fire happily dining on their peanuts.

The longer the boys stayed there the less encouraged they felt to leave.  It seemed their socks weren't drying properly and the bottom of their trousers were soaked through.  The distinctive tapping of hailstones could now be heard at the window.  They would go on as planned.

End of Part One

A Walk in the Hills

Part Two: A missed grave

With heavy hearts, the boys pulled on their less than dry socks, bade their farewells to their long-bearded acquaintances and headed out into the hail.  They frequently looked back at the ever-diminishing window of the pub, which glowed from the fire that had been their comforter for all too brief a time.  Soon the pub, then the street lights of West Linton, were out of sight and they set march on the path that would lead them home via an alternate route to which they came.  For they were following the dirt path that led them in the direction of the grave of a Covenanter, an unknown victim of the Killing Time in Scotland.  He had escaped from the battlefield at Rullion Green in 1666 but later succumbed to his wounds.  The boys saw that the dirt path was under a foot or so of snow now and they found themselves navigating by memory.

Between them, the boys felt reasonably sure they were roughly finding their way along the hidden path.  Frank assured Neil that when the path ended in a mile or so the rest of the way was marked by posts which would be visible in the deepening snow.  But then Frank nervously felt for the hip flask in his pocket and took a slow small sip.  It took the edge of the sudden chill he felt.  As soon as they had left the pub they had felt the cold more shockingly than at any time on their earlier journey.  It seemed that their respite had weakened them somehow.  They were now more aware of their wet clothes.  There was an icy breeze they hadn't noticed before and they both felt sleepy and lethargic.  The boys marched drowsily onwards through the snow.  Somewhere along the way they carried straight on when they should have turned right.  Now they would never see the posts that would have guided them home.

Hours seemed to pass by in moments, but the boys trudged on almost robotically.  The last they'd spoke was when crossing a stile and Neil had asked Frank for a sip of whiskey.  Frank had said that there was none left but this had been a lie.  He had been regularly sipping at the hip flask for warmth whilst walking behind Neil so as not to be seen.  The liquor was simply becoming too precious to him and he began to jealously guard it as if it had been the Ring in Tolkien's famous trilogy.  Now they walked the desert of snow in silence.  Too tired to even think properly, their minds began to drift.

Frank was on his stomach.  The side of his face was in the snow.  His cheek felt like ice.  But he didn't want to get up.

He didn't remember falling, but there he was, lying in the snow.  He decided to lay there a bit longer.  It didn't bother him too much that he was cushioning his bare face on the freezing snow, so he didn't bother to roll over.  He just wanted to lay there for a while and rest.  He knew he should get up soon.  He could vaguely remember some public safety message on TV when he was a child.  In it, a man w as seen crossing a mountain in a blizzard, and the slogan read something about not stopping to rest because of the risk of hypothermia.  It was while dreamily trying to recall this archaic TV. moment that a voice that sounded real penetrated Frank's thoughts.  Frank managed to focus his mind long enough to realise Neil was calling on him, "Frank!  Frank!”

Because of the lay of the land on the hill they were currently labouring to ascend, and the lead Neil had gained, he could not see Frank.  He hadn't seen him fall and was now looking back across the bleached expanse he had crossed.  When had he last looked round to see if Frank was still keeping up?  He had been aware for some time that Frank was falling more and more behind, like he was slowly giving up.  But Neil had marched on to set an encouraging pace for them.  Or so he had thought.  Now he felt the first ripples in what soon would become waves of panic if he didn't locate Frank soon.  He had been calling for at least five minutes and tracing back his steps when at last a rather annoyed and distant voice replied, "What is it?”

Feeling angry that his repose had been so rudely interrupted, Frank began to clamber to his feet.  But he paused when, in the depths of the white night, his eyes caught sight of something solid.  It was a sheep shelter.  Could it safely shelter him and Neil, at least until daybreak?  But then, quite by its own accord, the frayed memory of the man in the snow flooded his thoughts and he enthusiastically stood up and followed Neil again, leaving the hut to slip into the night.

Neil waited on Frank to catch up.  He wasn't going to lose sight of him again.  Neil thrust a rather soggy, much sat on, jam sandwich towards the approaching Frank.  This wasn't to goad him on but that was the effect.  Frank saw the luscious morsel and forgot all his woes in its pursuit.  Neil ate the other, and last, sandwich.  They both found the energy to speak again, this had been the most delicious thing they'd eaten in their lives.  Frank decided not to mention the half full hip flask of Glayva he was carrying.

It began to snow as the boys treaded the slopes of their latest obstacle, a steep hill that was revealing itself to be something of a monolith.  It seemed the summit was no closer after what seemed like an age of scrambling and stumbling, with only a wire fence by their side to prevent them slipping dangerously back down the slope.  Neil slowly disappeared into what was now a blizzard of hail and sleet as he again outpaced Frank.  But Neil at least knew he would be unlikely to lose Frank, he need only return down the line of the fence if Frank failed to respond to any of the intermittent calls he was now making.  For Frank's part, he had found a renewed vigour since eating the sandwich and he now had a steely determination to make the summit, even though it seemed to be infinitely far away in the white haze of the blizzard and blanket of snow.  It was like they were trying to walk up a huge cloud that they couldn't get purchase on underfoot and consequently the top of the cloud would forever elude them.

Frank's determination and wakefulness waned rapidly.  He felt a stabbing pain in his chest with each breath as his airways became chilled and unwarmed air entered his lungs, also robbing him of heat as he exhaled.  He tried to compensate with increasing the frequency of sips of whisky, but the pain soon returned with more venom.  He then became consumed with an image that was almost tangible to him, that of his father's drinks cabinet back home.  And in the centre of the cabinet was the bottle of Glayva whisky from which he had liberated some of its contents what seemed like a long time ago now.  Whether it was a consciously precipitated thought or one of those sequences that enter your mind when you’re drifting off to sleep, Frank could not tell.  All he knew was it comforted him.  It was while indulging in this irregular fantasy that Frank became aware that Neil was visible again and had stopped.  They had reached the summit.

Without uttering a word they slumped down at the side of the cairn, trying to shield themselves as much as possible from the driving sleet.  Because of the flatness of the summit they would have to walk a further 200 yards or so to view the landscape ahead and try to figure out what direction to head home.  So they would just gather their strength now and rest for a little while.

It felt comfortable huddled against the cairn.  The pain caused by the cold in their lower legs and feet seemed to subside to a merciful numbness.  They could no longer feel the sharp pain with every breath as freezing air entered their chilled lungs.  Even the sleet soaking their hats gave no cause for alarm.  Everything seemed fine.  So they each rested their eyes for a moment.

They both woke up with a start.  Got up, and headed to the lip of the plateau to reconnoitre the wilderness ahead.

About a mile ahead of them, slightly to the right, was a wooded area.  They decided to head for this.  Maybe there was a road connected to it.  In any case it would offer succour from the sleet that had taken on vehement ferocity since their rest at the cairn.

They were relieved to find the slope down the hill was of a much shallower gradient at this side.  The pain and discomfort of hours before had now been completely replaced by a more tolerable numbness all over and they ambled on.  Indeed, their very minds seemed afflicted by a kind of numbness as the worry and hidden panic they had worked hard at suppressing less it be evident to the other was no more, but only because not a thought was passing through their minds.  They were simply walking in zombie-like fashion towards their objective, the wood.  Their silent procession was halted.  A small burn crossed their path.

Neil was the first to traverse the burn.  With a large stride he easily found the other bank.  Frank found he had to make more of a small jump being not as tall as Neil.  It should have been effortless, just an easy skip over the crevice, but Frank, in his compromised state, misjudged the distance and found himself staring at the stars with his body submerged in the stream.  He was quick to get out and climb on to the other bank but it hadn't been quick enough.  The water had soaked through the remaining dry clothes he was wearing and excess freezing water formed a layer on his skin which felt like a vice crushing the breath out of him.  On any other occasion this would elicit unbridled laughter from Neil, but not tonight.  This wasn't a humorous faux pas to Neil.  There wasn't a place to dry off and laugh about being clumsy.  They were lost in the Pentland hills, freezing and not sure if they would be overcome by the cold whilst trying to find their way to civilisation.

Frank couldn't believe his bad luck.  Had he not suffered enough?  He had felt like Julius Caesar on the Ides of March when he had entered the burn.  Why could he not just of put a foot in?  Why did he have to fall in entire?  If he had a guardian angel, he decided, he or she had long since turned in for the night.  But the water trapped in his clothes and boots soon froze, so it seemed to Frank that was as good as drying out, and he soon forgot about the incident.

The wood was now getting closer.  But then Frank noticed what looked like a river away to their left.  They agreed they would follow the flow of the river, as it would take them to lower ground and, hopefully, out of the hills.  But when they got closer to the black strip winding its way through the snow they noticed there were no ripples of flowing water lit up by moonlight dancing on their crests.  It was a solid mass.  It was a road!  They were overjoyed.  It was only a matter of time until they found a farmstead to call for help from or a passing car to take them to safety.  They knew they would soon be safe.  It may be a further ten miles but civilisation was inevitable.  They had escaped the labyrinth of featureless hills.  Their relief was euphoric.  They admitted to themselves now what they had suppressed from their thoughts all along: they had been dicing with death.

It turned out that the road they had discovered was a remote section of the Lang Whang about five miles West of the site of the Roman fortlet, Castle Greg, which in turn is about four miles North of West Calder, home.  This last section of the journey was not without its dangers as it transpired.  None of the few cars that passed stopped and Frank was gradually succumbing to the effects of hypothermia by the time they were passing Harburn Golf Club.  In the early morning light it appeared to him that Neil, some 100 yards ahead, was riding a unicycle.  Perhaps more worryingly, Frank accepted this without question as reality and plodded on towards the bridge crossing the railway.  While approaching the railway a train passed in the direction of Edinburgh, but immediately after passing under the bridge there was  loud explosion.  Frank didn't even pick up the pace to investigate, instead, when he eventually neared the bridge he could see the wreckage of the train at the side of the tracks.  Frank ambled over to the crown of the bridge, took a closer look, and realised that there was nothing there.  He still accepted without question there had been an explosion though.  Frank had then crossed the bridge, and passed cautiously past the telephone box, as an old man was standing in it bent over the telephone.  Frank looked closer, until he was almost next to the glass, and Neil walked out.

When the boys had finally arrived home, Neil had met his father making breakfast, who asked him why he was up so early.  Neil went along with this, had some cereal and fell asleep on top of his bed covers while trying to remove his boots.  Frank's sister, Zara, had beretted him (his mother was out in his father's car trying to find them, she had actually passed them but Frank's mind played one last trick, telling him it was someone else driving past, despite Neil arguing to the contrary), made him toast and hot chocolate then shouted at him to go to bed when he passed out whilst trying to relay his adventure to her.

Years later, Frank and Neil reunited to share a Christmas holiday drink at Livingston Village inn.  They talked with affection about their night hike across the Pentlands as if they had never talked about it since, instead of rarely a year going by without it being relived with the an undying enthusiasm and nostalgia.  They remarked how close they must have been to hypothermia, if not actually affected in a small part, as manifested by Frank's hallucinations in particular and collapse climbing that last hill.  They lamented the loss of the tip of Frank's toe and a more sizeable chunk of Neil's toe, which had blackened with frostbite and came off days after.

Frank had long since decided that the guardian angel he thought had deserted him that night to allow him to fall prey to a gentle burn, had instead materialised earlier as a ferocious storm of sleet that had woken them both from a sleep atop that hill that may have been one that would have made them easy victims to hypothermia.  Neil expressed his own mild curiosity about this.  Why did they both wake up that time at the cairn when they were both so exhausted?

Could it be we didn't?

The End