THE MAGIC of it all can be so seductive – the anticipation, the bite of your crampons on icy snow, your breath frosting in the light of your head torch. Early starts, moonlit walk-ins, the pink glow of first light on the snowy summit above. When the winter in the Highlands is good, it is really good. I first plunged my ice axe into Scottish snow in 2007. I bit off more than I could chew, narrowly avoiding a call to mountain rescue. I got home exhausted, a little scared, and with a mild case of frostnip in my right hand. On paper it should have been enough to put me off for life. But over 15 years later, I am still head over heels in love with the unique, often elusive moments of pure perfection that the Scottish winter can deliver.
NOT A DRILL
“Mate, I haven’t got all day…” barked an unimpressed voice from behind me. It made me jump, and I mumbled a sheepish apology as I returned to reality at the supermarket till. It was the greyest, dampest
