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On Stob Dubh of Buachaille Etive Beag

Mamores ridgeline, towards Na Gruagaichean

‘I know raven,’ said Alois: ‘Quoth the Raven, Nevermore.’ Edgar Allen Poe is big in Moravia.

On over the easy Munro of Stob Coire a’ Chairn; and now the white mountains against blue were being buzzed round by a little yellow helicopter. The ‘copter made figure eights, Scottish-dance style, round each of the summits. It seemed to be searching for someone whose route plan had been an unhelpful ‘Mamores’. We ignored it and looked at Am Bodach. Am Bodach is translated as ‘old man’. Actually it’s the particular sort of old man you scare your babies with, the old bloke that if they carry on like that will come down the chimney when they’re asleep and get them. The climb to Am Bodach is, in summer, steep and awkward scree. Now it was hard snow, still steep, among rocky outcrops. Even the confident crampons found it a little exposed on the way up.

Winter days are short and Stob Ban is far, so we headed down Bodach’s south ridge, and found streaks of snow right down to the path.