Munro bagging with my dad

Karen Murray

1979

My dad is fanatical about Scotland, about mountains and about encouraging others to enjoy Scottish mountains. He has therefore dragged my brothers and I up many a hill, Corbett and Munro in our time with cries of 'just over this hill' to try and goad us on. There are many stories to tell, but the most memorable is that of our trip up Ben Nevis. It had to be done - we just had to climb Scotland's biggest mountain, bagging the tallest of the Munros, didn't we?

To set the scene, it was summer 1979; I was 14, my brothers were 12 and 5 and we lived in Shropshire at the time. My mum was visiting my sick grandfather in Shetland and we were to collect her from Aberdeen airport so my dad decided a trip up Ben Nevis could be fitted in en route. We drove for what seemed like forever, arriving at a campsite at the bottom of the mountain at dusk. We set up camp in a very small and cramped tent and needless to say, in the pouring rain. My dad insisted on cooking up some form of disaster he called dinner on a small stove and then it was bed, ready for an early start in the morning as dad assured us it would be a hot day the next day and we would want to avoid climbing in the real heat of the day.

I did not believe him, the lashing, horizontal Scottish rain convincing me otherwise. A fitful night had including the negotiating of a trip to the loo in the dead of night across a mud-filled field! However, when we were shaken from our sleep at 4am the rain had stopped, although sunrise was some way off. Dad was organised as ever with all the emergency kit, my 5-year old brother very excited, the older one accepting and myself begrudging - well, I was a hormonal teenager after all with far better things to be doing with my time.

We trudged (and I mean trudged) out of the sodden - but drying up nicely - campsite and headed up the tourist trail (luckily dad decided to take us up the easy route). I don't remember a huge amount about the climb up apart from hitting bits of scree causing some slipping, sliding and cursing; a drouth satiated by frequent creeks we crossed and the fact that my little brother fairly bounded up as I was flagging. However, what I do remember is the fact that we were the only people on the summit, it still being relatively early, and there was snow! A make-shift sledge was soon produced by my ever resourceful father and much fun had by all, including the recalcitrant teenager.

A picnic breakfast was enjoyed as the heat of the sun warmed up the summit nicely and we were all wowed by the fantastic view. Reluctantly, I had to admit to dad that it was totally worth the early rise and the climb up.

A snowball fight later and we were heading back down. Swathes of scree made for some fun scree-running and then back to the trail down, where dad's prediction of a hot day was coming true and we were glad to be going downhill. I clearly remember smiling smugly at all the folk heading uphill on a hot summer's day with several more hours climbing ahead of them and I also recall the sheer amazement I felt when dad pointed out the various garments and footwear being worn by some - anything from court shoes to mini skirts seemed to be deemed suitable wear for scaling the UK's highest mountain! More smugness surged up within me as I wriggled my toes comfortably in my sturdy walking boots.

We were down before lunch, tent packed up and on our way to meet mum before most of the tourist crowd were anywhere near the summit. This is a day I recall with more fondness as I get older and my kids near the ages my brothers and I were that day. I wanted nothing to do with climbing that mountain at the time but at the summit, I felt such an enormous sense of fulfilment and gratitude to my father for making me do it and as the years go by, I am more and more delighted to have the story to tell. Hopefully I will repeat the experience for my children and maybe my dad will come too. He still enjoys bagging a Munro and is still fitter than me! Thanks for that memory dad.