Mountain Rescue

Finally.

Out in the hills again. Running under the big open skies and feeling the cool spring air in my face.

Freedom.

...

A tough few months at work had left me longing for escape to the mountains and some space and peace and solitude. Running in the mountains, alone with the elements, had always been my refuge and my sanctuary, the place where I could recover my mind and my body and spend time without relying on or bothering others.

Grabbing an unexpected lull at work, I had booked myself a week in a small cottage perched on the edge of a village in the Scottish highlands.

I'd left early the previous morning, enjoying the drive out of the city, up the country and into the mountains. Arriving in the early afternoon, I had the spent rest of the day settling into my temporary new home, buying food (and whisky) and working out the heating and the fire. It was a snug, warm cottage, set on the slope of the hill above the village, with thick grey stone walls and a view down the glen. Perfect.

Me time. Quiet. Solitude. No internet or emails. Just me and nature and the mountains. And some good local whisky.

That morning I'd caught the early bus round to the next glen, and had spent the last hour walking and jogging up the valley, slowly climbing away from civilisation. I found myself involuntarily smiling as I gently loped up the long hill.

And now, here I was, clear of the roads, and ascending through the transition land, where the world goes from farms and farmyards and on up into fields and walls and fences and finally into open moorland and mountains. I was running an old track, bordered on one side by a ditch, burgeoning with late spring growth, and on the other by an ancient dry stone wall, with a straggly wire fence on top, hung from skinny posts, the view of the broad glen beyond. Ahead of me was a small pine wood that marked the start of the moorland proper, with just small paths and sheep and rocks and deer tracks beyond.

At 55 I was no spring chicken, and there were certainly faster and more capable mountain runners than me in the world. But I'd kept fit, and my enduring love of the mountains and uplands has taken me into this sort of terrain often enough to feel at home up here. The mountains had been my refuge in the long years of my wife's illness, a place of respite where I could get away and let my mind recuperate. When she had finally passed away they had become somewhere that I could escape the pressures and other people's well-meaning but intrusive concerns and questions. I liked to think I had recovered from the worst of those days, but had never established another deep relationship, throwing myself instead at work, with running and the mountains filling the gaps in between and keeping me sane.

I had never run that day's route before, but I knew this range well enough from previous visits and with a map, a compass and my GPS watch I would be fine, even if the fog and rain rolled in.

I had briefly hesitated that morning before setting out when I saw the weather forecast. I'd planned a longish day in the mountains, some eighteen miles, and the forecast was distinctly enigmatic! It was clear that the forecasters and their computers couldn't really fathom out what was going on in the mountains that day with any confidence, and their offering was a bit vague, allowing for every option from sunshine to fog and rain, and even the possibility of hail and sleet. I'd packed and dressed accordingly. While it was sunny as I came up to the woods, my small rucksack bouncing gently on my back contained everything I'd need for a chilly day out, and even for an unplanned night if an emergency hit. Spare tights and t-shirt, an extra fleece, waterproof jacket and trousers, small stove, gas and mug, lots of high energy snacks and bars and dried coffee and soup. As ever, tucked down in the bottom of my pack, I had my emergency kit, with a foil survival blanket, first aid kit and sugary Kendal Mint Cake (probably past its Best Before date, but full of energy if I ever needed it).

As I emerged from the woods, the full panoply of the mountains revealed itself. I grinned at the view and the freedom it held. I'd been away too long. Brown moorland sloping up to grey screes and cliffs. A few white patches of still frozen winter snow. Patches of wood on the sides of the valleys. Stonechats calling their stony call from the tops of gorse bushes. Streams singing as they cascaded down slopes and into the deep chasms they had cut into the rocks over millennia, gurgling their way down to the valleys and the sea. This was my sort of space: timeless and vast. Years of walking and running and climbing in these sorts of hills let me feel at home here, whatever the weather would throw at me.

I jogged on, keeping an easy pace on the narrow mountain path. The route got steeper and rockier, and I slowed to walking as I climbed, occasionally having to use my hands on the steeper sections, passing large boulders and crossing small streams. I stopped by a stream for a break and to top up with water. There wouldn't be much chance to get water for a while once I had gained the ridge. I didn't want to run short, and wanted enough to make a hot brew at the top. I'd been running in a t-shirt and long mountain running tights, but as I stood nibbling a flapjack and sipping the cold fresh water from the stream, a chilly breeze hit me and I pulled on my windproof top for some extra warmth.

Looking away to the south I could see dark clouds gathering where there had been blue sky when I had started. My hope that the worst elements of the forecast would turn out to be wrong looked to be a little over-optimistic, and I realised that I might well be needing the waterproofs and warm gear I'd packed. But I was happy with that. In fact, it was the challenges and changes in the mountains that I loved, and I always enjoyed the satisfaction of being prepared and experienced enough to make my way through whatever the mountains threw at me, and emerge on the other side, safe and maybe a little wiser.

Water bottles full and repacked, I pulled my rucksack back onto my back, adjusted the straps so it was snug against me to avoid bouncing and rubbing, and set off again up the track. The slope had eased now, and I resumed my usual easy run, eyes alert for rocks to trip over and for places to plant my feet as I ran.

Slowly, the distance to the first peak diminished as I climbed eastwards up the ridge. There were glorious views to the north and behind me, but ahead and to the south the sky was darker and gloomier. On the next range of hills to my right I could see the dark slant of rain falling from the grey clouds. A chilly easterly wind was blowing in my face. All in all, not great signs for a comfortable run.

Instinctively, I stopped and checked the map for alternative ways off the mountain in case it all got too hard or wet or dangerous. If the worst came to the worst, once I had passed the cliffs to my right I could pick my way down the steep slope, dodging between the small crags, and then follow the valley back down to my starting point. Not a great option in poor visibility, and it would leave me on the wrong side of the mountains and a long way from my cottage, but it was doable and was a route back to safety. There was even a mountain shelter marked on the map. I hadn't been there and didn't know how much shelter it would provide. Shelters in these hills could range from just being a few walls to get out of the wind to well-maintained bothies with a solid roof, a fireplace and somewhere to sleep. Hopefully I wouldn't need it, but it was good to know it was there.

I reached the peak just as the weather arrived. Coming over the final rise I could see the cairn and a sheepfold, just as the map showed, and I was hit by the full force of the strengthening wind. As I got to the summit cairn the wind was joined by a blast of icy rain, and I hurried to the shelter of ancient dry-stone walls of the sheepfold. I hunkered down out of the wind and quickly pulled my jacket from my pack and put it on. After a moment's though I grabbed my waterproof trousers and pulled them on too. The old walls were sheltering me, but I knew that as soon as I stood up and carried on I'd be running into teeth of the wind and cold rain. Not what I had planned at all, and my mind was already turning over alternative options and routes. I could carry on and hope the weather eased, return the way I'd come, or drop into the valley. Ever optimistic, I decided to carry on for a while, at least to a point where I was past the cliffs and I could choose to divert off the ridge. Maybe this was just a squall and it would all pass. Maybe.

It was too cold and windy to make a brew, so after another energy bar and some water I made sure all my spare clothes were safe and dry in their drybag, repacked my rucksack, pulled my buff up over my chin and my hood over my head, and stood up to resume my run.

The strength of the wind hit me as I rose from the shelter of the walls, and it felt like a little sleet was mixed in with the stinging rain. Nasty, but no worse than I had experienced a hundred times before, and I jogged on down the slope ahead of me, eyes slitted to see where I was going.

The path ran gently downhill for a mile or so to a wide col, where an old stone wall crossed from one side of the range to the other. I was just pondering on the amazing and almost inexplicable effort that farmers and landowners put into building these huge constructions, when I saw a splash of colour in the otherwise grey scene. Just beside the wall was a splodge of fluorescent green, looking very out of place in the natural hues and the dark clouds. As I got closer I started to realise it was a person, huddled down in the shelter of the wall. Maybe a runner like me just resting. Maybe something more serious.

I quickened my pace to cover the remaining ground, and as I got closer I could see it was a woman, mid 30s maybe, in calf length running tights and a bright green top, short dark hair, slicked black by the rain. She was curled almost into a ball, trying to get the best of the meagre shelter from the old stones of the wall. No jacket and no rucksack, she just had a waist belt with a bottle. This wasn't the place to be in those clothes.

By the time she noticed me I was only a few feet away, the sound of my running overwhelmed by the roar of the wind. She turned her head to face me with a look of desperation and gratitude as I dropped down beside her into the lee of the wall.

"Hi. I'm Ian. Are you ok?" I asked, already knowing that the answer was "No". She was pale and cold, and pointed to her right ankle.

"I twisted it coming down the hill and couldn't run any further. Then the rain came in and I didn't know what to do. Thank God you came along."

"How long have you been here?"

"I'm not sure. About 30 minutes I guess."

"You must be freezing. Hang on, I'll see what I've got."

It was immediately clear that she needed warming up and getting off the mountain. I shrugged off my pack and delved into the bottom for the space blanket and my spare long sleeved running shirt. She pulled the shirt on over her own wet top, and wrapped the crinkly foil blanket round her shoulders. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

"Thank you. Thank you. I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't come along. I'm Sal, by the way."

"Lovely to meet you Sal. Though I'm sure we could have chosen a better place!" I grinned at her and a tentative smile broke through the grimace of her face. Relief that someone was there after her long wait. A friend in need.

She pulled the blanket tight round her.

"We need to get you warmer."

I took off my waterproof trousers. I had full length tights, and she would need the leg cover more than me. As she realised that I was going to give them to her she started to object, but the reality of the situation seemed to suddenly sink in, and with it the acceptance that this was now a team effort, and we'd need to share what clothes we had.

I pondered giving her my waterproof jacket too, but knew we'd be in even worse trouble if I got hypothermic too. Hunkered against the wall, I took off my jacket and wind shirt and replaced the jacket. I handed her the wind shirt, which would at least help keep the wind out and she put it on and wrapped the space blanket round her again. Surprisingly, she didn't seem too cold; not yet hypothermic, but we needed to get off the exposed mountain top.

I pulled out a snack bar, and passed it to Sal, along with my water bottle and some pain killers.

"Can I look at your ankle?"

She shifted, and moved her leg out from under her, wincing at the pain. I pushed the waterproof trousers up to her knee to give me space to work. Despite all the thoughts of first aid and getting to safety, my brain acknowledged that she had good looking legs, slim and strong in the tight lycra. A runner's legs. I was a little ashamed to be thinking such things in that situation. Too long without intimate touch. I shook my head and got on with the task literally in hand.

I removed her running shoe and sock. Her ankle was swollen, but as I gently turned and prodded and felt it, it didn't seem too painful.

"I don't think it's broken. I'll strap it up and we'll see if we can get out of here."

I found a bandage in my first aid kit, and again relished the sensation of touching her skin, half scolding myself for it. She winced again as I replaced the soaking wet sock and shoe, and I got her to do up the laces again, tight enough to keep the shoe on, but not too tight so they hurt her ankle.

As I'd been working on her ankle I'd been pondering our best options, and had decided we should drop down the south slope to the shelter I'd seen on the map. Whatever it was it should give us somewhere to get out of the wind and hopefully warm up.

"Here, have some of this." She smiled her pretty smile again as she accepted some Kendal mint cake. It was minty and sugary and full of energy.

"We need to get down off this mountain and find some shelter. Do you think you can walk?"

"I think so. I hobbled to get this far after I tripped, and with the bandage I should be able to put some weight on it."

I cut two slits in the space blanket that she could put her arms through. We put it back on her as an impromptu jacket. Her waist belt over the top held it in place, and I found some safety pins to keep it closed around her chest and neck. I used my buff to make her a hat. We were as ready as we could be for the descent.

Looking at the map, I had plotted a course in my head down the steep slope to the south, avoiding the cliffs dotted across the hillside, and down to the shelter that was marked on the map. It was about two miles of rough, steep descent and another mile down the valley, but it was our best bet, given the circumstances.

I pulled on my rucksack and helped Sal to her feet. Another wince as she put weight on her bandaged ankle, but after a couple of hobbling tentative steps she gritted her teeth and said "Let's go." It clearly wasn't great, but she knew we couldn't stay where we were, and needed to descend out of the cold and the rain, and back to safety.

A small path ran alongside the wall, a sheep or deer track, and we followed it down the hill. The low wall gave us a bit of shelter, but apart from that this was open moorland, with little to stop the biting easterly wind and the misty needling rain.

Where I could I walked alongside Sal, and she put an arm over my shoulder to take the weight off her injured ankle. I put my arm round her waist, again feeling the illicit and inappropriate thrill of the movement of her lithe body through the thin layers of clothes and rustling space blanket. I forced myself to focus on the path ahead and the route down.

As the slope steepened the path took us into a small wood, bringing a brief respite from the rain. I rooted around under the pine trees until I found a branch that Sal could use as a walking stick, and broke it to a suitable length. Untidy but workable; it would have to do.

We picked our way down the ever-steeper hillside, navigation around the small crags made more difficult by a rolling mist that had descended as the rain had cleared. The path soon faded, and Sal hobbled and hopped and slithered, using her new stick and with me helping her down any steep rock steps and across small streams, holding her weight as best I could with a hand on her arm or waist or leg, or occasionally her bum. She was clearly in pain, but smiled bravely when I asked if she was ok. I suggested a break for her, but she knew that we needed to press on, as we still had a good way to go before we were could consider ourselves safe. Right now we were still in the fog and wind, halfway down a steep rocky slope dotted with cliffs and other hazards. Not a place to linger.

The slope started to ease at last, and I took a bearing to where I thought the shelter should be, still hoping that it was more than a ruined sheepfold. Sal was looking pale and tired, and we needed to get out of the biting wind and get warmer. We set off again, the wind at our backs, following sheep tracks through the heather. Our spirits were lifted by a sudden break in the fog, and there, about half a mile in front of us, was a small stone building with a slate roof, surrounded by a low wall. Just as quickly, the mist rolled the curtain down again, and we were back in our little cloudy bubble, but we had seen our refuge and it looked complete and weather-worthy. Sal was still in a lot of pain, but we were both buoyed by the sight, and set off again with renewed optimism.

Some fifteen minutes later we hit a track and almost immediately the hut loomed out of the mist. We hurried forward and pushed open the small gate. I tried the door and we stumbled in, finally out of the biting wind.

It was a classic mountain bothy, used by walkers and climbers in these parts. There was fireplace, with a small stock of firewood and kindling, a large solid wooden table, a sleeping platform with room for four or five people and a couple of old but serviceable kitchen chairs. For us it was heaven and a godsend.

The place was out of the wind and rain but still cold, and I set about making a fire. As soon as the kindling was starting to catch and smoke was wafting up the chimney I turned to Sal, sitting on one of the chairs, and looking very cold.

"Time for more dry clothes." While Sal pulled off wet shoes and socks I got the drybag from my rucksack I found a dry fleece and some thin running tights, my emergency overnight gear. Sal extricated herself from her space blanket and my windshirt and top. She reached for the hem of her green running top and started to peel it off. I was expecting to see a damp sports bra underneath, but was stunned and embarrassed and delighted in equal measure when Sal revealed a naked chest, with perfect looking breasts, small but firm with nipples hard from the cold. I stared in surprise for a moment longer than I should have done, then turned my head away, realising too late that her running shirt had a built-in support bra.

"I'm so sorry, I wasn't expecting that." I stammered, and held out the fleece at arm's length towards her, my eyes fixed on the roof.

"No worries." said Sal, as I heard her sliding the fleece over her head.

Turning my eyes back, Sal was facing away from me, and was peeling down her wet tights. I knew I shouldn't be looking, but was rewarded with the view of a most gorgeous bum, firm and round from running. More surprise as I realised that Sal either wasn't wearing knickers, or had peeled them off with her tights. She bent to get the tights over her feet and I caught a glimpse of her lips, peeking from between her thighs, before I finally turned my head away.