By Hamish Brown

THE BOTHY BREW

They had already become aware of the snow falling. The interior of the bothy had grown dim to the extent that they had had to stop reading their books. They lay, half inside their sleeping bags, chatting as climbers can from many shared intimacies.

"Your turn to make a brew" Gordon eventually commented. "It's getting right cold."

Reluctantly Ben swung his lanky legs over the bedshelf and wiggled his bare feet into the clammy depths of his plastic boots with their enveloping Yeti gaiters. He clattered over to the concrete table with its grime of soot and candle grease. The window that half-lit the table and the cell-like bothy was patterned with frost fronds. They, rather nostalgically, reminded Ben of the frieze of palm fronds he'd looked at when sleeping out in the Atlas Mountains a few weeks previously. He pressed a thumb against the glass and thawed out a spy hole. The snow raced past, from left to right, then from right to left, a maelstrom of malevolent power.

"Mm?" Gordon queried.

"Snowing hard. Nothing will be in condition the morn. Might as well eat everything the night and flog out in the morning."

"We've a lot of tins still. We can't eat all their weight the night. An the climbing gear weighs a ton. We could stay on."

"Humph" came Ben's unenthusiastic response.

"Maybe I should hae brought ma chanter only instead o the pipes. Saved weight."

"You're no practicing in here," Ben yelped in alarm. "I've been deefened by your pipes ower often. You could dee of over-exposure to bagpipes."

'You've enjoyed them often enough," Gordon retorted. "Get the brew on anyway.

'There's no enough water."

"Tough!"

Gordon grinned from the assured comfort of his pit. Ben muttered to himself as he pulled on his duvet. The burn was only twenty yards off but that was far enough in the conditions. He made a strange sight with his top half bulging in red duvet padding above his long, thin legs clad only in old woolly long Johns he'd rescued from his late father's possessions. The Yeti gaiters flapped about his lower legs as he stomped to the door in his unlaced boots. He tugged open the door. An icy draught swirled in a feathering of white from the horizontal flow. Gordon grinned again. Ben noticed and his inward scowl turned to outward banter.

'I may be gone for some time, Captain Scott,"

He slipped out, but the door remained open and the snow kept swirling in. Gordon called his partner a fairly rude name and reluctantly tiptoed over in stocking soles to slam the door. He stood on a wet patch and swore again. He stood irresolute on one foot. It was too early for supper. There was not enough wood to justify an early fire. The gloom of dusk was rapidly darkening the gloom of the storm. He picked a dry route back to the bedshelf and lay on top of his bag. At least he wasn't out there fetching the water. He opened the case with his pipes. Maybe he'd give Ben a welcome back. What about the reel You're A LongTime Awa? or Weary With Waiting?

They'd been lucky to get their new route in that day. The ribbon of ice which periodically formed down the middle of the great slabs of The Ashet was a desirable "plum".

"Like The Curtain' only bigger," Ben had described it. They'd been happily back in the bothy before the gathering blackness had eventually broken into heavy snowfall. Ben had vetoed Gordon playing a celebratory tune on the pipes inside the bothy. He'd rather pointedly suggested calling the new route "Drone". The storm bullied Ben to the burn. He had quite a job to stop on its banks and his hands began to freeze at once as he pushed the awkward top of the squashy water carrier under the surface. The stones sticking up above water level had already donned a polar-bear furring of white. Even with his back to the snow his specs became slobbery wet and the blast was icily attaching flake after flake to his woolly bottom.

By the time the gallon container was half-full he'd had enough. He rose, turned, and a blast caught him just as his foot was skiting on the bank. He sprawled, landing hard on one knee and dropping the water carrier. He grabbed it before it had given more than a couple of gurgles. He jammed his glasses in a pocket and staggered off for the cosy bothy in a fairly disgruntled mood.

"What some people will do for a cup of tea"' he thought. 'Gordon can dae what he likes. I'm having a dram first. Bloody bothy."

A few seconds later he repeated the last comment aloud, then yelled "Where is the bloody bothy?"

He stopped. In the grey gloom of dusk he could see nothing beyond the speckled swirl of snowflakes, greyer dots that danced out of nowhere in their thousands like bees swarming from an upset hive. They fluttered into his face, an irritating, cobwebby touch, they flew into his gasping mouth, they tickled into his eyes so he stood blinking myopically.

"Must hae passed it"' he muttered.

He turned back, just able to make out his tracks which were filling with drift. He took a dozen steps then stopped again, peering and blinking about him. He shaded his eyes with a cold hand. There was no sign of the bothy.

Ben didn't panic. He'd survived epics enough to accept problems as climbers had to. Every situation of panic, accident or disaster had its best solution, its natural procedure under the circumstance. It was something that he and Gordon, regular climbing partners over twenty years, had talked about often enough. It led them to scorn, rightly, the simplistic teachings of 'rules'.

To be continued next month!

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You can reach Hamish by snail mail at 26 Birkcaldy Road, Burntisland, Fife KY3 9HQ.

You can find more articles in the archive under The Bothy.