Giveen shivered violently. The silence that returned so quickly. The mists that quickly absorbed the blast of the shot. The stranger had groaned briefly, and then all sound ceased. Giveen allowed himself an internal smile of satisfaction. That settled that b******'s score. He'd taken pleasure in the man's quickening pace, the brief glance round. He'd decided at that moment that Greene was to be killed, although he had been wavering up until then. Anyway, it was Greene's own fault, just like these two idiots in that gully on Craig-yr-Ysfa*. Fools they were to be so overcome by the mountains.

He sat down on the damp grass, allowing himself to be enveloped in his fulfilment. Then pondering. There would be recriminations and no simple way to escape the justice system. His motivations were too publicly known in Oxford. Well, no matter. He'd proved his worth. He'd shown them. He thought back to his last great climb in far-off Skye. That was desperate stuff, but all in control. What a route, holdless from below, ropes swinging free, hands bulging in cracks, searching for tiny wrinkles. The other fellows hadn't been happy, but what of that. From the first upward movement, there was nowhere free of danger, but out on the edge, well that was in another sphere, birdlike in the air. Hard though the climb was, he had felt no fear because he knew he would get up. Breathing hard, waning strength, he'd made the ledge above the impending crack. He always made it …

Giveen lapsed into reverie …

... seventy-six years, on a windy mid-September morning, a father and son team appeared from the jaws of the corrie….

The pinnacles of Sgurr nan Gillean emanate a gloomy rather unfashionable shadowy atmosphere of dank lichen and perched boulders. Extensive gray broken cliffs scored with corners and decorated with overhangs. But at the foot of the west face of Knight's Peak, the penultimate tower, a dark monolithic wall, two hundred feet high, props up the steep face above. We approached the rocks.

The commonplace impossibility of reconciling the guide description with the rocks of reality. The start was unmistakable, a slanting groove, perhaps more of a slab. However, this fine feature took all of the allocated thirty meters and I looked in vain for “a ledge on the skyline” and a “nose”, (a guidebook feature that suffers from imprecise definition). The climbing was good with a vertical start that offered little for cold hands on the occasionally mossy grip (and please PLEASE some solid gear). As Giveen would have had nothing better, I gained a little understanding of his situation in 1927. This led to the slab proper that yielded to neat footwork on small precise holds in a fine position with (THANK YOU) a little gear.

The slab terminated over a ridge at a small stance and belay and an ancient peg. I abandoned attempts to follow any description precisely and aimed for a beckoning crack above, which had featured somewhere in the description. It was the obvious way, anyway, the alternative being bald and delicate slabs.

Some percentages: Andrew has 50% of my genes, knowledge that troubles him from time to time, 70% of my mass, about 0.01% of my experience. 102% of my height. 33% of my age and probably similar strength. He is possessed of enthusiasm for mountains, particularly those of Skye, long double jointed fingers and a lean body style which add to a graceful and nonchalant climbing style. He thus followed up the pitch with obvious enjoyment, grace and ease.

The interior of the crack was greasy, fed by an occasional drip from the impending walls above replenished with recent rainfall, but the exterior walls were dry. I made delicate progress as the ledge above approached. Here the exterior walls overbalanced, whilst I was forced onto a moss-garnished foothold. The usual dilemma; to retreat with difficulty or to go boldly for it, with the last friend more than ten feet below. The time to ponder the decision was, as it usually is, limited with strength draining and fear increasing. Deciding that a fully rational thought process would take too long, that good luck would prevail, I committed myself to the overhang. Actually I didn't really consider the problem in that way - I just went for it. My fingers closed round a tiny finger jug. Yes! A beauty! I pulled onto the ledge and a made a small sling belay.

After a short traverse a “magnificent slab” loomed above. Whilst not of Etive proportions, it gave a few moves of the best Skye quality. Fortunately, whilst looking grim from below, it lacked the horrors of the previous pitch, and fell to some beautiful stretchy moves, more in keeping with the carefree nature of the severe grade. The Direct was vanquished. We continued up for several moderate pitches onto the knife edge wedge of the summit of Knight's Peak, one of the most difficult of Munro tops. As well Sir Hugh was not required to fail on this one, as he did on the Pinnacle, as it is a recent addition to the tables. A cautious wander down to a col then some fine Difficult climbing on solid gabbro onto the summit of Sgurr nan Gillean. Several hundred feet of climbing with no easy escapes. We savoured the cloud blasted blackness of Blaven in a stiff wind, then descended, joy of a long and perfect mountain day in our hearts …

…. Giveen started. A distant bark. Some one curious, perhaps, at a missing loved one. Well, to decide. Maybe to change identity and start again elsewhere. He rose to go. But first to have the satisfaction of seeing Greene's twisted face. A light breeze had dispersed the mist and there was a full moon, casting chill shadows of himself and his still companion. He stood over the body and moved the head slightly with his shoe, so the face became visible.

Giveen started back and the hair on his neck prickled coldly. The man was not Greene. No characteristically prominent nose and chin, but a rounded face and small mouth. He turned away, eyes wide, trembling suddenly, heart hammering. Humiliation yet again, worse even than the occasion when he was blackballed by the Climber's Club. Damn them, they wouldn't have the satisfaction. Best done quickly. For Giveen, it had been an option for a long time. Don't think, do. He brought the shotgun round, closed his eyes and executed his final decision.

The search party came upon the stranger. Although wounded in the back, his clearheaded actions, or rather non-actions, had ensured his survival. Giveen's body lay close by.

I have no knowledge of the stranger, but Giveen's name survives in Raymond Greene's book, “Moments of Being”, of which the above account is an interpretation, embellished by my imagination; possibly in the Climber's Club archives; and in the Skye Guidebook for the climb of West Face Direct on Knight's Peak.

Notes
Thanks to Robin Campbell for drawing my attention to this account by Raymond Greene. Raymond was the brother of Graham and his book is well worth reading.

The climb seemed harder than Severe, even allowing for the cool weather conditions. As the climb is a fine outing, with a total of about a thousand feet of climbing and scrambling to reach the summit of Sgurr nan Gillean, further opinions regarding its difficulty would be welcome.

*Two novices who had died on the descent of the Welsh mountain after completing Great Gully in poor weather, almost certainly through Giveen's neglect and incompetence.