Into an idyllic setting above a long, narrow cove we came, dirty, weary from days of traveling, shaking off the road. The landscape matches and shapes my mood; desolate, wind-swept, far reaching rocky vistas… the eye can wander so long. A rare, quiet sea. Vague, dim outlines of distant shores; more islands?
We were on an island. The largest of the Inner Hebrides, the Isle of Skye, off the NW coast of Scotland. After crossing from Mallaig, sometime the previous week, we had worked our way up the east coast, pausing for a delightful respite in Portree, then up past the stark figure of the Storr, further north to less inhabited outposts: Rigg, Breackrey, Valtos; Garrafad, Brogaig, Digg. Wonderful names, most sound nothing like they’re spelled. Flodigarry.The bleak, wonderfully exposed position of the castle ruins at Duntulm. Then south, along the west coast, of this part anyway, Kilmuir, Idrigil, Uig. Kenseleyre, Annishader, Borve. A complex, tough little land. Fine malts and Scotch whiskeys mark this portion, as well as a few attempts at fishing. Difficult to gain access to the coast, or lakes, or any water for that matter. Locals rightfully guarding their turf. Should’ve packed more chocolate.
Later, huge tree farms appear, their houses, barns, and outer structures well maintained, as we cross the very spine of the island to the vast, sweeping slopes of the SW, the rugged peaks of the Cuillin Hills providing a fine backdrop to the twisting coves and inlets there.
The campsite at Glenbrittle is spartan and cozy, but we’re used to this and set up camp immediately. Our campmates are friendly; by the time you get this far out the unruly ones are usually culled from the herd, and we converse, enjoying the different company. Food is one of my favorite daily distractions, and we begin preparations for a midday feed. After a hot meal, most of it right from the sea, we start planning out the next day or two, which was about as far as I cared to figure things out.
August 1st is Switzerland’s national day; think 4th of July. My partner in crime, Mattius Fisch, was very much Swiss, and, it being around the 1st of August (there existed a debate between us as to the exact date), was feeling rather compelled to do something about it. He wanted to use some fireworks he had purchased just for this occasion, and I naively suggested one of the local high points, just northeast of camp, as a platform. Another hour and we had it figured out. Going very light, we would hike in this evening to Sgurr Alasdair, at 3254’ the highest summit, set off our fireworks at midnight, overnight somewhere, and descend the next morning, the summer sun rising very early this far north in this season. This unruly plan was immediately set upon, although I must add, in our defense, the decision was probably made under the effects of some very fine local “color”. We throw a few essentials into a rucksack and decide to head out by 8 pm. The sun wouldn’t even set until midnight. This gave us an hour and change to the base, and 2+ hours to find our way to the summit.
The weather was “unsettled” as we left camp. I was beginning to detect a recurring theme, one that would seem to follow me my entire life; perhaps my timing is off? Our allotted hour gets us up past Loch an Fhir-bhallaich, a small lake on the high bench behind camp, and then a rising traverse into a rocky basin beyond. Now, the real climbing would begin. We burn one and eye the weather warily. The clouds were gathering, certainly somewhere near the peaks, blocked from sight above by terrain. Storms this close to the ocean are usually bitter, wet affairs. And it’s not slacking off. In fact, it seems to be getting worse. The sensible thing would be for us to turn back.
But some things are only apparent in retrospect. We were this far and had some excellent fireworks that could not go to waste. We were also young and reckless…
As we were deciding to go, I casually joked how I hoped the fireworks wouldn’t make someone think that we were stranded, hurt or something, signal flares being a common means of calling for help, especially in the mountains. Surely not, we decided, ours were simply too big to be mistaken for simple signal flares.
The route straight to the summit from this point disappeared into the clouds. The decision was made to go east to the crest of the south spur, still visible above, then to the top if the weather improved. The terrain was fairly steep and we picked a direct route, allowing us to gain elevation fast, something we needed to do if we wanted to accomplish anything tonight.
We gained the ridge crest around 11 pm in surreal conditions; immediately the wind set upon us, as if just realizing we were there. For now, the weather was staying a couple hundred feet above our heads; the effect was awesome as the setting sun dropped below the cloud ceiling far to the west and back-lit the islands, peninsulas, and sea, all in an almost 300 degree sweeping view from our position. The distant rays seemed to just reach our little mountain cirque, with still enough energy to set the place on fire with a soft, steely glow. We turned and headed in the direction of the summit, still obscured from view.
It took about a half an hour to figure out we weren’t making the top. The last few hundred feet of climbing had got us to a point just below the very distinct cloud ceiling, so distinct I could reach out and touch it. A few steps up the ridge put one’s head in a maelstrom, while your lower half stood in relative calm. It was as if we were suddenly in the presence of a very large and fearsome beast. You could quite literally step in and out of it.
Our adrenaline fueled brains somehow realized the effects of our fireworks would be greatly reduced if we were to continue. And they were the priority. Why else were we up here? In these conditions? It seemed our need to use the fireworks intensified at the same rate as the storm, and it became a race to see who would out do the other. Dropping back down the ridge to a level notch, we hunkered on the lee side of some rocks and waited for darkness.
A few minutes after midnight the entire southwestern portion of the island, our little cove and campsite far down below us in particular, was shocked awake by the first explosion. There’s simply no other way to describe it. The wind, by now raging at our backs, would send the mortars sailing when we launched them, so by the time they exploded they were, I swear, almost a quarter mile away, high out over our approach route from earlier that day.
My first thought was,’ that certainly woke someone up’. It was a very powerful detonation, impressive, even at that distance. This was not entry level stuff. Mattius had went all out. The entire cirque below is suddenly bathed in intense light, both from the explosion and the reflection off the cloud ceiling. Like farm boys playing with real dynamite, the cacophony of lights and sound momentarily stuns us. We stand transfixed in the returning darkness, perched on our airy position, staring at the flash of color imprinted on the back of our eyeballs.
Wow.
Then, grinning like thieves, we return to the fray.
I remember there being a total of six aerial displays. The number is significant because, unbeknown to us at the time, six is a recognized distress call in the mountains of the UK and the European Alps. And how many did we manage to purchase? Go figure. We howled at the wind as the rest took flight, each one stunningly different. Then there were some lesser fireworks, but they were unimpressive in the storm.
Quite suddenly we were done. We remained there for some time in the dark, spent, elated. And then I realized I wasn’t staying until daylight. About 45 minutes into our bivouac, we both determine the storm is getting so violent that it may soon become dangerous to stay. The ridge is too exposed. We go back and forth over this; the way down is unknown to us, and potentially dangerous in its own way. It comes down to the lesser of two evils. The decision is finally made to descend.
The next few moments I remember with startling clarity. I was about turn on my headlamp to check if I got everything before taking off, and I see this light, far down in the basin below us, at least a mile away, back by the lake. But it didn’t just shine and bounce around as someone heading back late to camp might do. No, this was a signal flash, an intentional aiming of a powerful beam up into the mountains above, attempting to coax a response from someone. I remember: flash, flash, flash. Turn ten degrees, flash, flash, flash. Turn ten degrees.
“Don’t turn on any lights!” I hissed, and we immediately began assessing this new development. It was obvious what had attracted them. In less than 5 minutes we came to a couple of important assumptions. 1. They were unsure of our exact location. 2. If we turn on our light, they will see us, and probably head towards us. 3. They will more than likely attempt to find us anyway, having probably already pinpointed our general location.
Now there were two or three lights at the same spot. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say a search and rescue operation is mounting. And I do know better. Suddenly, I felt very responsible. What now? We still had to get down, and ultimately, back to camp. Sneak around them? That didn’t seem right. Thinking we had caused enough trouble already, I had no desire to make things worse. We wanted to let them know we were okay, that nothing had happened. We felt sure they would continue to try and find us. We could not let them do this. We had to get to them and call the search off. All without alerting our would-be rescuers.
Now, this decision was not easily arrived at. There was over 2000’ of fairly rugged, unknown terrain to descend in less than favorable conditions. We decided to do this without lights to avoid further misdirecting the gathering tribe below us. I also remember thinking there were two couloirs off the ridge we would want to avoid as well.
I think my denial began to kick in here at some point. Either that or I was getting tired. I have dim memories of crab walking and Dire Straits. Would have been easier to just keep my eyes shut. The myriad of internal and external influences render my memories questionable at best.
My journal states; “It was very slow at first. We had to locate the exact south ridge line for a safe descent or risk dropping down into a couloir and into trouble. After a wrong start, we found it okay and headed down.” At one point it was frighteningly obvious we were off route; there was a big, steep face to our right and it felt as if we had descended to the very edge of a large drop, and I suddenly felt very exposed. We had to retrace our way back to the ridge. Remember; this is at night, with no light, in a storm. “An hour and a half saw us down to relatively safe ground. After another 15 minutes of stumbling over uneven ground, falling into holes and bashing into large rocks, we’d had enough and on came the light. Never was a light so bright or the darkness so broken. We were close enough now to what we were sure were rescuers to begin copying their frantic signals.” Their steadfast light had not ceased to signal the entire time. A slight rise in the land lay in between us and them. “It was another 15-20 minutes before we could physically see their light, another 15 minutes and we were talking with them.” Our story must have seemed incredible to them.
Another moment I recall with absolute clarity. It’s now past two in the morning. A dozen or so people had set up an improvised base camp of sorts, gathering in groups of 2 or 3. One rose directly in front of me and offered a hot drink. Suddenly, they were all around, peppering us with questions. “You guys okay?”, “Are there more in your group?”, “Anybody hurt?”. And then, “Where were you?”, and “What were you doing?” They were friendly enough, and quite relieved that no one was injured. We start down, and on the way, I learn that they are a volunteer organization, a group of climbers from England who, along with a number of other clubs, come up and stay for a couple weeks each season, to aid with rescues and searches. Our story and answers to the last two questions were met with sounds of incredible disbelief.
It was after 3 am when we finally reach camp, soaked, weary. We spoke briefly with the main leader of the group. He tells us we must go and talk to the local Constable, who was at the moment waiting, quite anxiously I’m sure, at the rescue base of operations, a few miles away. “Jump in, we’ll drive you over.” The car is like an old Buick or Pontiac. While we’re getting in, the one I spoke with on the way down began talking privately with the leader. At one point, he stiffens visibly and at another, turns to stare disbelievingly at us.
It’s quiet, awkward in the car as we start; I’m not quite sure how this will play out, or even what I’ll say… the truth? On the way, Pat, the younger assistant, said maybe it would be better if we didn’t tell the policeman the same story I had told him. He suggested we “sort of deviate from the original story somewhat”, and claim we were disoriented in the storm, and in need of some directional assistance. He finishes telling me all this right as we pull up to a conex box with ‘Skye Mountain Rescue Team Post’ stenciled on the side. The doors are open; I can see a woman seated inside, along with a man in uniform, standing. They look tired. In fact, we all look tired. My denial tried playing a song from side one of U2’s Joshua Tree, Bullet the Blue Sky, I think, and I so desperately wanted it to, but I had to deal with this one. This one was serious.
“It, it doesn’t sound right,” I begin, “...and, what about the Tokyo-sized signal flares?” “We’ll take care of it," he answers quietly. I didn’t care to ask how.
There’s an old joke; Q. “How can you tell when a lawyer is lying?” A.” His lips are moving.” Well, when I’m lying my lips are moving as well, it’s just that nothing’s coming out, besides stuttering and stammering. My mind just doesn’t work well without good, honest linear thought.
I had to think fast. Do I tell the truth and face unknown consequences? It was my default mode, something I was okay with. Or do I listen to my new adviser and lie, claiming we were in distress when, in fact, we were not! Somehow, this seemed to benefit everyone best, ourselves especially…
Briefly, I disengaged from my body and returned to the ridge. The wind had quieted down, sun was trying to come out, and things were growing, small plants, flowers. It seemed as if I was there for something, but couldn’t find it. I began searching frantically, running out of time. Here and there, between the rocks… suddenly, a flash of white; paper, heavy paper, folded a couple times, in a crevasse in the rock. I reach for it and it dislodges, falling deeper in the crack, just out of reach. I get on my belly and strain, finally pinching it with two fingers. Gingerly, I pull it up, clutching it to me as I roll over, careful not to drop it. I sit up and open it expectantly. There are words, written in giant black felt marker: SAVE YOURSELVES.
I knew what I was going to do.
Note: I attempted to acquire any official reports from this incident, but could find nothing. When it was all said and done, we managed to rouse over 75 people from their beds, 25-30 of which were directly involved in our “rescue”. A helicopter launched as well, though aborted due to inclement weather. I don't recommend trying this at home. Should’a brought more chocolate.
Scott A. Lewis
Aug. 2-3, 1991
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