Snow, schnee, neige, the recent blizzard of Dabbler snow related stuff has me putting on the remembering head. The recent unfortunate but probably avoidable tragedy above the Lost Valley on Bidean brought back memories of a January day some years ago. The Herdsman (Buachaille Etive Mor) that’s the sticky up bit on the left as you approach the glen, is one of a number Scottish car park peaks, easily accessible, park, dress, 30 mins, here we are at the base, no matter that the prevailing conditions demand experience and that certain bombproof quality so essential, if you intend going home in the same vehicle you arrived in. And therein lies the problem, they have organised the ‘climbing’ weekend months before, battled up the road, boot full of pretty kit as worn by those BBC people, spent the night in the Clachaig among actual climbers who say, when they are asked, “come back when you’re eyes are the same size as the belly.” They never listen, makes good headlines though.

Back to the Herdsman, we were in training so the worse the weather was the better, up we went, minor climb but now, because of the conditions, more absorbing. It was dark on the summit so we decided to walk along the ridge and descend on the Loch Etive side, the snow was drifting, about one metre in places and snow shoes were useless so plough on, young Lochinvar. The wind was by now howling, at a guess probably 70 mph, the spindrift was at head hight and had us two chickens roped up and belaying each other on a reasonably level ridge, unheard of normally. We had managed to scrounge a Magellan, the original global positioning device belonging to a bloke who wore disruptive pattern material and could track our position fairly accurately so when Dave said “here’s the gully” we were fairly certain it was our exit route, a 70 degree gully, so caution in the current conditions was the byword. The depth of snow in the gully was about two metres, half of it fresh and avalanche prone , as we pondered the possibilities Dave looked at his watch and said “closing time in three hours,” that was it, minds made up, a master plan was hatched, unique in the annals of winter larks, we started an avalanche. Belaying my long-time and fearless partner, he jumped into the gully with enough rope for about ten meters of slide, it worked, sort of, the gully was about 400 metres long, we descended glissade style, bums on the snow, using axes as a brake, the descent took 20 minutes and was accompanied by our own, personal avalanches, one of the most exhilarating, snowy dashes to the boozer I have ever had.

That bombproof stuff is, at times, a godsend when swift halves call.

Growing up in Yorkshire I seem to remember our best snows being in late January or February. And the thing I recall best, the magical sign that snow had come in the night was that muffed hush that blanketted a waking childs world.

If it does come today I’m pissing off home early. Not to avoid it but to get out in it with the camera. Its been a lean year so far for photography at Banished’s bugs