It all happened so quickly. One moment I was contemplating giving up cigarettes once again; the next moment we had a demonstration of our transitory passage through life, the universe and everything as Frank plunged headfirst down the gully in a tangle of snow, limbs, ropes, slings and screws.
The day had started well. I'd heard about the place seven or eight years previously while living in exile in Newcastle upon Tyne. It hadn't appeared in the guidebooks at that time and no one knew its name -"some iced up crag off Glen Orchy".
This was my first visit and I was going with the club who'd opened up Coire Daimh of Beinn Udlaidh.
We sorted out gear and partners at the foot of the Allt Daimh. Not having a guidebook meant that my son Davie and myself would have to catch up with Davy and Frank who'd set off first. Davy was known to have climbed here before and Frank was credited as a first ascentionist in the current SMC District Guide.
The initial chill wore off as we ploughed up the slope. Despite, or more likely, because of the recent freeze, the snow had not consolidated well. Keeping up with Davie was also a problem; beer, fags and a sedentary life being no match for a 14 year old keep-fit fanatic and HVS leader.Gradually the gap between ourselves and the first pair diminished - in the time honoured tradition of letting someone else break the trail.
The face looked tremendous, much more impressive than in the photographs which are generally taken upwards at a steep angle from the floor of the corrie. As we moved nearer, the massive monolith of ice revealed steep gullies separated by vertical buttresses vegetated with hanging gardens of blue and white ice.
Its intimidating appearance brought one thought to mind: "This is not for me."
However there are easier climbs and a long steep snow gully to the right (West Gully?) looked reasonable with a couple of short ice pitches. Moving left to right across the face Frank and Davy pointed out the routes. As we came round the foot of an arete the clank of metal and a shout gave notice that the leader of an early rising party had plummeted 40 feet to just inches above the ground, being stopped by a solitary ice screw. This was Grade 5 country and I had an uncontrollable desire to get out of it and see what lay beyond the next corner.
We worked our way round to the base of a gully with steep, but not altogether vertical, snow and ice. It looked attractive and compared to what we had just passed it looked positively inviting.
"It's probably called Ramshead Gully after the shape of that rock" said Frank pointing upwards. "It's about Grade 2 or 3; why not come up behind us?" Why not?
The first pitch was obliterated in an apex of soft snow, but sufficiently compressed to allow easy progress up to a comfortable platform where Davie and I got out the rope and tied on to a deadman. Frank led off, Davy easing out a double rope.
The following first real ice pitch was straightforward after an initial thrash up a narrow ice chute; exhilarating and severe but not desperate. Davy led through and being unable to better Frank's angle peg I swapped him for a Chouinard so as to use his belay. Davie of course floated up the tight chimney where I had laboured.
As soon as Frank cleared the next vertical ice step I followed through. It was a pitch you dream about. Although the ice in the centre sounded hollow it was good enough for crampons. But the ice at the side was superb; each pick placement was true and sure. Apart from avoiding chunks of debris brought down by Frank, the only problem was the difficulty in getting the pick back out.
Above the ice step was perfect material for a screw protecting the upper snow slope.
I took my time: the stance was small and belays looked scarce. As Frank left the belay for the last pitch I sauntered up. To my right was a massive ice curtain with a small gap behind it. I considered squeezing through the gap but decided against, fortunately as it turned out.
Up at the stance Davy offered to clip me into his sling. There didn't seem to be a lot of choice and a deadman was out of the question. Frank had moved right, crossing an ice boulder and up a steep rise, above which he placed a warthog. Beyond him the cornice was overhanging and had the appearance of recent manufacture. The ground leading to it was steep windslab, too deep to find hard snow for a deadman, or ice for a screw.
Frank, a careful soul, was clearly looking for a safe way up. The snow was falling lightly and I decided to warm up by banging a knife blade into the suggestion of a crack. The air was still and had a trace of that singular smell of steel being driven into stone.
"What are you doing; putting in a rawlplug?" Davy asked. "You know, I could always knock them in dead straight when I was working to my tools." Same here. After much hammering and an unconvincing ringing sound I clipped us both into the peg - as well as Davy's solid chock belay.
Frank meanwhile was trying a different way. Boredom set in.
"If it's bad up there would you mind chucking back one of your ropes for us?"
"Oh aye, nae bother. In fact last time I was in this corrie I could have done the same myself." Davy recounted his experiences on one of the horrors we'd past earlier.
My thoughts turned to having a fag.
A sudden flurry above: "He's off!" Shit. Instinctively my axe went deeper into the porridge and I braced myself for the impact - forgetting that Frank was actually attached to Davy.
Frank flew past, head first and backwards, with such force that he seemed to have been catapulted. He hit the ice bollard, bounced and fell in a mass of windslab, boulders and gear.
The snow tumbled on down into the narrow ice chute but somehow Frank was about 30 feet below us - his warthog had miraculously held after a fall of 50 to 60 feet. No one moved; not Davy, not me, and not Frank. Was he dead or alive? The rope hadn't worked around his neck and his ice tools didn't appear to have punctured him. Would he pull himself up and shake off the snow?
I started to unclip as Frank flinched and moaned. At least he was still alive. Climbing down is not my forte, and neither am I keen on moving down down with only a screw runner eighty feet below. Using the free rope at Davy's waist I clipped into a descender and started down as Frank said "For God's sake get a move on and give us a hand".
His right arm was obviously broken and his back hurt. Frank wanted to get lowered straight away. But should we? Moving someone with a back injury could be the worst thing possible. On the other hand it was now about 2.30pm and no one else knew of the accident. Would we be able to get help?
With his mountain rescue experience, Davy took over and, seeing that Frank could at least move, decided that it would be best for us all if we lowered him. Gradually we eased Frank down to the ice screw runner where a platform was quickly dug out. He lay there as I took off his climbing gear and rucsac - difficult with someone who's got a broken arm and God knows what else wrong with him.
Young Davie, still pegged on to the rock, felt the avalanche of snow blocks whiz past and realised we were in trouble; at that point we were still alone in the gully. I lowered Frank's rucsac on the spare rope but too fast for Davie to catch, unable to unclip from the belay quickly enough. The rope ran out fast as the sac tumbled down the gully, only coming to rest when it hit something pliable in the vertical ice chimney: "Jeeezuz, some bampot's just knocked us aff wi' a fuckin' sac!"
I knew it wasn't Davie, his words rounded with a soft Bristol intonation. We had company! The company quickly assessed the situation and retreated, one of them running non stop, occasionally pitching headfirst into the deep drifts, all the way to the farm at the foot of the Allt Daimh.
We never found out who raised the alarm but we owe him our thanks and this bampot's apologies.
We slowly lowered Frank through the narrow gap, his body being racked by pain with every slight jolt of the rope. Each inch meant greater discomfort as he was squeezed down the tube like a lump of toothpaste. At the bottom of the pitch young Davie had dug out a bed where we managed to get a cup of tea into Frank as Davy abseiled down to join us, first off his chock and then off the ice screw.
Although at the very limit of pain, Frank did not have the good sense or grace to pass out, proceeding to make to make "useful" suggestions about belays and rope work. It struck us then how crabby people get after a bad fall. Our priority was to get him down without further damage to himself or us, and his helpful advice was countered with the suggestion that some people are prepared to go to any lengths to avoid putting their hands in their pockets for apres climb refreshments. Meanwhile Davy was muttering darkly about now having to miss the CIC meet because of Frank.
For the last ice pitch, Davy and young Davie lowered him on two ropes to the top of the banked up slope where by this time a crowd of helpers had gathered. I simply unclipped and watched, relieved that we were all down, more or less in one piece.
A final abseil off and we ran down the slope as the Leuchars helicopter appeared.
The first manaouvre brought a crew member with stretcher and an RAF doctor complete with black case. She didn't seem unduly put out when Frank refused the morphine shot; maybe it was his first trip in a helicopter. He was strapped into the stretcher and then the winch hook had to be fitted. Davy was saying something about static to whoever was supposed to catch the hook. But it swung towards my head and by grabbing the hook, and not the wire, got a big enough wallop to keep my head torch charged for life.
The most disconcerting thing about the chopper wasn't the noise but the Arctic blizzard blown up by the downdraught - enough to sting and numb any exposed part of the body. Slivers of ice flew everywhere but Frank was oblivious to it all, only being concerned that someone should wipe his glasses clean. That he still had them at all was to be marvelled at. Then he was off, back to Stirling - the quick way.
A few sandwiches, a swill of tea and a couple of pints later, we were back on the road. And then the car broke down in Strathyre.
Later on someone said we were lucky to have broken down outside the Inn though I couldn't drink as I was driving. One or two folk thought that Frank was lucky too!
I was only happy that we hadn't had any bad luck.
Donald MacDonald
Being the events of Sunday 9th February 1986. Names have not been changed to protect the innocent.
Copyright Donald MacDonald 1996