Culra bothy
He pushed the door open. A hard morning at work; afternoon train to Dalwhinnie; the long walk in to the bothy as October sunset lit the way by Loch Ericht. The additional weight of the firewood strapped to his rucsac at the last trees well over a mile back. He was exhausted.
The place was cold and empty, but the last occupants had left it tidy. There was even some dry part-burnt sitka in the fireplace. He organised his gear, got the fire going, and stepped outside to piss, surveying the louring mass of hills to the west in rapidly-fading gloaming. There was a tiny flash of light up below Beallach Dubh. He'd have company tonight. He was equivocal about that: he'd come for solitude. But he'd never met an unpleasant person in the wilderness at this time of year, so knew it'd be OK, whoever it was.
Flurries of snow cooled his face. He turned inside. It'd take the stravaiger an hour or so to get here. He wasn't hungry yet. Settled on the bench with headtorch and novel. Sipped a can of Export.
He glanced up after a while. The flurries outside were driving snow now, in total blackness. Checked his watch, forty-five minutes since he'd seen the torchlight. Whoever was coming might miss the bridge to the bothy in the blizzard. He rolled a fag, poured a dram, took his torch and whistle, stepped outside.
At the door, in the lea of the wind, he was glad he wasn't out in this. Knew now that whistle and torch were useless against the blizzard, at anything more than a few yards.
He had no choice. Finished the fag, gulped the whisky, returned inside. Put more wood on the fire, donned his outerwear, strapped on crampons, headed out with the walking-axe. He noted the rock formation opposite the turnoff, snow-covered now, but the shape was distinctive enough. Headed south-west on the just-visible track, head-torch bobbing, driving snow in the beam. Step-counting with his beads: he needed to know exactly how far he'd gone, so he could look out for the rock formation on the return.
He saw the light through the blizzard after about thirty minutes, moving slowly. Increased his pace, and saw the approaching figure, staggering. Short, maybe stocky, hard to tell through goretex outerwear. The figure was sitting when he reached it.
He touched the waterlogged hood over the bowed head and a face moved into the beam of his head torch. Jesus, was it a woman? He crouched before her, thrusting his right gauntlet forward:
-Well met! I'm Sandy. There's a good fire in the bothy, just half-an-hour to go. How're you doing?
A soaked woollen mitt took his hand, and the face smiled at him, iced eyebrows:
-Jesus, so glad you're here Sandy. I'm wabbit, not sure I can manage another half-hour in this. – at least she managed a smile – I'm Marie.
-How far have you come today lass?
-Loch Ossian Hostel. Did Ben Alder on the way.
A quick calculation. A long hard day in October. Feisty woman.
-When did you last rest?
-Summit of the beallach was my last proper rest.
-Sorry, all I brought from the bothy is chocolate, and a wee bottle of water. Want some?
-I... think I have some soup left.
-Even better, something hot.
He stood and eased the rucsac from her back:
-Where's the soup?
-Side pocket, right one.
He found the flask, opened it, held it to her. She drained it. Colour slowly infused her pale face:
-Eat some chocolate, instant energy.
-Ta.
Presently Marie seemed a bit revived:
-You ready for the last slog lass?
At her nod he hefted the rucsac onto his back. Fuck, almost as heavy as his, over fifty pounds. But he was rested and he'd manage fine. He extended his hand, drew her up from the lea of the boulder, into the force of the driving snow:
-Would you please not talk to me as we walk Marie, I'm pace-counting. It's the only way we'll find the bothy in this.
It took forty-five minutes of stumbling through soft deepening snow, but they made it.
*****
In the light of candles and fire, for the first time he was able to see her properly as she stripped her soaking outerwear. Her clothing under the goretex was wet too. He heated soup, carefully tended the fire, dry wood first, damp on top. In minutes it was ablaze again, flames licking up. She looked down at the sodden clothing remaining on her:
-Um, Sandy – teeth chattering – I need to get out of these. D'you mind?
-Course you do. I'll stand outside whilst you change. Then we'll dry your clothes.
-Oh! No, you don't need to go outside, please. I... I don't mind you seeing me. I'm not ashamed of my body or anything. And if you hadn't found me, I don't like to think what might have happened. I was at the end of my endurance.
