Cairn Toul: An Arctic Climb 



stood at 20 degrees Fahrenheit, or twelve degrees of frost — 

 the time being just three o'clock in the lafternoon. 



Not a breath of air stirred — no roaring of stags in the 

 corries beneath nor ptarmigan's croak disturbed the great 

 silence of the high tops fast in the grip of winter. 



Gradually the light faded, but the moon was at the full, 

 and we knew there could be no darkness to-night. 



In the grey light a covey of ptarmigan flew swiftly past 

 us, hurrying south. Closely following them there sped a 

 darker bird — perhaps a peregrine — in hot pursuit, but in the 

 twilight it was difficult to see clearly. 



We had not long left the summit when gradually thin 

 grey mists spread over the hills, but away eastwards the 

 setting sun shone on the level top of Beinn a' Bhuird 

 (3,900 feet) though the glen beside the hill was filled with 

 cloud. 



The dark pines in Glen Quoich — where pines grow at 

 a greater altitude than anywhere else in Scotland — relieved 

 the expanse of snow in that glen, until they, too, were hidden 

 in the advancing mists. 



The full moon was rising behind Carn a' Mhaim ere we 

 descended to the Lairig once more. Westward, the remnants 

 of the sunset still lingered in the sky, lighting up the clouds 

 on the horizon a dull red hue. 



From Cairn Toul, from Braeriach, from Ben MacDhui, 

 the mists had once more lifted, save where they slipped, 

 ghost-like and in silence, down the ridge of Ben MacDhui 

 and into that fine corrie known as Coire Mhor na Lairige. 



On the shoulder of Cairn Toul the moon shone brilliantly, 

 lighting up the snows as though with diffused sunlight, 

 the hill-top itself, though wonderfully clear, being in 

 shadow. 



On the dark pools of the River 'Dee a thin layer of black 

 ice was stealthily creeping out over the waters — ^for even in 

 the Lairig the frost was intense. 



From the slopes of Carn a' Mhaim, clear in the moon- 



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