With Ian on the Lochnagle

With Ian on the Lochnagle
By Rock Jacques LaRock
(to be read with a Scottish brogue)

I remember well me first night on the Ochnar of the Lochnagle. The kinda place the cold’ll creep right up an put yer eye out.
After some pints with the laddies at the Hound and Tooth, I shouldered me pack an set oot fer the Rose and Thorn to meet me mate, Ian McDingus , fer our climb of the north face o the Ochnar. Ian was known to tip a few before, during an after a climb. It was destiny that we were to become mates. Only the divine intervention of the heavenly father could have matched such an even pair as Ian an meself.
I entered the Rose and Thorn, but couldn’t find Ian, so I went to the bar to talk to the owner, Clive, who was also a climber. Clive had designs on being the first to bag the north face o the Ochnar, and he was a bit put oot that we hadn’t invited him to go along.
“Have ya seen Ian aboot Clive?” I asked.
“Halloo thar Jacques, Ian said he had to goo make a deposit aboot an hour agoo.
Bullocks, I’ll bet he has passed oot on the bloody thunder mug.”
“Thanks Clive. A pint o Guinness. I’ll go check on me mate.”
Sure enough, thar was ol’ Ian, snoring away, perched on his throne. I tossed me Guinness in his face to rouse the bastard. He awoke, licking his lips.
“We’ve got a climb to do lad. Best you be waking from yer slumber.”
“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be, now that I’ve made me donation to the national trust” slurred Ian.
After procuring a fifth of single malt from the proprietor, I steered Ian towards the door.
He was well primed fer our objective, the summit of The Ochnar. Now The Ochnar was no climb fer punters. Hammish had failed twice. Dougal said he’d sooner get back on The Ogre before trying The Ochnar again.
“Do ya have the necessary essentials?” inquired Ian.
“The scotch is in me pack” I replied.
Clive, angry as hell that we were off to the Ochnar withoot him, yelled, “I hope you don’t make it, ‘cause I’ll never hear the end of it. Ian will be blow’in his horn to the world” as we walked out the door.
Two hours of post-holing brought us to the base, where spindrift was pouring over us.
We roped up and swapped leads, with each pitch getting steeper and more difficult than the last. Soon we were below the final headwall. It looked impossible
“I’ll take the next lead” said Ian, “but I’ll need a pull off the single
malt first, to get me blood flow’in.”
I passed the bottle to Ian. I saw him swallow three times, then attempt to pull the bottle away from his mouth, but it was frozen to his lips.
“Mmmmmghf rrrrgh hmmm mmmmghf” said Ian, as he grabbed the rack and headed upward. We had climbed together for years and we had learned to communicate belay signals by tugging on the rope. This method of climb-speak would come in handy today, as Ian was rendered mute by the horn of plenty glued to his mouth.
The rope fed oot at an even pace as the stoic Ian forged his way upward. Soon I felt three tugs, which meant that Ian was off belay. The slack was pulled up until the cord was tight and I gave the rope two tugs, signaling that I was ready to climb. Seconding the pitch, I was impressed with Ian’s lead. Snow covered verglass. Verglass covered loose rock. Dead vertical. I knew Ian was in his element.
I scraped and grunted upward. The climbing was harder than anything I’d ever done before. The rope began to accumulate too much slack. I gave it two tugs, signaling Ian to take up the slack, but the rope sagged in a loop that hung way below my feet. Two more tugs. Nothing. I took a deep breath and screamed, “Ian, pull up the damned slack!”
Barely audible above the roar of the wind, I thought I heard a faint, “mmmmmghf.”
I was getting desperate. I wedged a hip into a fissure to free my hands and started yarding on the rope. I pulled in more and more slack until the rope came taught. I began to hand over hand up the line in a last ditch effort to make it to Ian. As I approached the summit belay, I could just make out the vague form of Ian through the blinding squall.
He wasn’t moving. Something was terribly wrong. At last I stood next to Ian on the flat summit. It appeared that Ian must have looked up to inspect the incoming weather. When he did this, he had tipped the bottle of scotch that was still adhered to his face and gravity dispensed the liquid into his belly. He froze dead in that pose. Ian is still up there today. Blowing his horn to the world.