Alex Brett was descending Beinn Alligin, the jewelled mountain of Torridon. Across a plunging glen stood the mountain-castle of Liathach. Atop this awesome wave of Torridonian sandstone was a quartzite froth: a splintered ridge of shards and pinnacles. Liathach was Alex Brett’s destiny: he would soar with eagles; he would touch the sky.
Alex had been running for eight hours. Setting out from the magnificence of Glen Torridon, he had clambered into the dominion of the extraordinary: a theatre of nature. The most rugged of mountain loops was his objective, an extravagant oval linking seven forbidding summits. The majority had been accomplished: the twin peaks of Beinn Eighe, the zenith of Beinn Dearg, the Beinn Alligin crowns. Alex ran on, seeking more, compelled to close the coil. From the giddy heights of Beinn Alligin, the closest of Liathach’s two mountaintops was Mullach an Rathain, five miles and at least two hours away. The going would be rough and steep, as it had been all day: a U-shaped chaos of rock and heather, first plunging some 800 metres, then rising another 900. How Alex’s legs must have trembled.
In the glen at the nadir of the descent, he reached a footbridge, close to the tributary of two burns that drain into Upper Loch Torridon. It was a pivotal moment – Alex Brett’s metaphorical fork in the road. Had he taken an easy path to the right, his feet would have touched tarmac within fifteen minutes. Jogging along a twisting coastal lane, he could have been perched on a bar stool, ordering a pint at the Torridon Inn shortly after. A fellow patron – having heard that Alex had been running for nine hours – would have expressed astonishment and offered the exhausted runner a lift to his car. On the way, the driver might have looked sideways at his grey-haired passenger and asked his age. ‘I’m 65,’ Alex would have said. Sensing the black wave above, Alex might have craned his neck to look at the seemingly impenetrable terraces of Liathach and felt a surge of regret. ‘There’s my car,’ he would have said, gesturing to a lone parked vehicle in the dark of the glen. Limbs tired and cramping, he would have driven home to Dingwall. He would have lived to fight another day.
Alex crossed the footbridge, ignored the path and began the relentless climb of Liathach’s far western shoulder. It was 6pm. The sun, now behind the runner’s back, was beginning its descent to the horizon. By the time Alex reached Mullach an Rathain, it was dark. Peril lay ahead – and Alex knew it. Between Mullach an Rathain and Liathach’s second Munro, Spidean a’ Choire Lèith, is a precarious ridge line, climaxing in the Cuillin-esque Pinnacles of Am Fasarinen – or in its menacing anglicised parlance, The Teeth. A ribbon of a path ran beneath the ridge, but this path had become increasingly eroded and worn, and despite being safer than scrambling over the pinnacles, was agonisingly exposed. When the mountaineer and author Mike Cawthorne arrived on Spidean a’ Choire Lèith as part of a continuous winter journey linking the 135 Scottish mountains over 1,000 metres, he was transfixed by the western vista facing Alex: ‘From here the crest splinters into pinnacles, the notorious Am Fasarinen, and is flanked by plunging drops.’ Ominously, he added: ‘Certainly no place to be caught out in the dark.’
What was going through Alex Brett’s mind in those two hours between Beinn Alligin and Mullach an Rathain? He would not be human if he had not considered stopping, not considered turning right at the footbridge. Weariness alone will trigger such action, but ruminating on something does not mean you will do it, even if the notion becomes a fixation. As he climbed Mullach an Rathain, Alex had multiple escape routes. Torridon was scarcely a straight-line mile from the summit. Something drove him on, drove him into inescapable night, drove him into the glare of danger. Was it a version of summit fever? A compulsion to complete a round of the Torridon mountains – having failed in a previous attempt – had needled him for years. It was now or never, he may have thought. He was a pensioner, after all. Right now, he was as close as he had ever been. Maybe he would not get another chance? It was the end of September. Alex was unlikely to get a further opening that year. Could he wait until he was sixty-six or sixty-seven? Would his body allow it? Or perhaps it was pride? The concept of abandoning, of running along a road, not a ridge, might have been too much to bear. He might also have thought about his family and friends, what they would advise, but perhaps not dwelling, for he must have believed what we all believe: it will be okay; I will be okay. Alex had good reason to have faith. As a member of a mountain rescue team, he had helped take bodies off mountains. He and risk were old sparring partners. Nor were The Pinnacles strangers. A decision was made: I will be okay.
From Mullach an Rathain, he moved east to Am Fasarinen. On tired, stumbling legs, having climbed close to 4,000 metres and now edging through darkness, the going must have been terribly slow. He reached The Pinnacles, nonetheless, and began to pick his way along the path beneath the southern lip of the ridge. In the shroud, he might just have been able to glimpse the outline of Spidean a’ Choire Lèith, growing ever closer. At the summit, the ridge remains high, but danger reduces as exposure lessens. Alex just had to get there. Progressing carefully forward, toying with The Pinnacles’ final offering, he was perhaps five minutes from salvation.
Death could have been looking elsewhere, or have been distracted, or have yawned. But Death’s gaze was fixed on Scotland, on Liathach, on The Pinnacles.
Alex Brett stepped forward.
His foot reached for rock.
There was nothing.
Just air.
He fell.
Alex Brett would have reached Spidean a’ Choire Lèith. He would have staggered downhill, back to his car in the glen. He would have slumped into the driver’s seat, exhausted, relieved, exultant. He would have a story to tell for years. He would have finally finished the round. The memory of the risk he took would fade. A new objective would preoccupy him.
Alex was reported missing on Thursday. He had started running on Sunday. A passer-by noticed his car had not moved for several days and alerted the police. That Alex had not been in touch with family and friends was not unusual. His partner, Lynda Johnston, was on a business trip in South Africa at the time. She had been messaging Alex, but did not expect a response – he was not one for sending text messages. Nor had Alex called his daughter; he had missed a funeral; he had not got in touch with a friend for a regular run. But those who knew Alex would have thought what he too thought: It is Alex. He will be okay. But he was not. Appeals flooded the national news. His mountain rescue colleagues and clubmates from Highland Hill Runners took to the hills. They were joined by rescuers from the Torridon team and the RAF, along with search dogs and a coastguard helicopter. The police urged anyone who may have seen a runner ‘wearing trainers and carrying either a small rucksack or bum bag’ to contact them. On the third day of the search, a body was found. It was Alex. Above him were The Pinnacles of Liathach and the sky.
Russell McKechnie does not mention Alex as he gives his race organiser’s briefing to the runners in the Cioch Mhòr hill race – except to call the event by its new title: the Alex Brett Cioch Mhòr hill race. Six months have elapsed since his death. Russell speaks about risk without saying the word: the need to circle trig points to enable numbers to be taken; the safest place to cross a river; the barbed wire fences in the glen; the complications of Cioch Mhòr if mist descends. The runners are respectfully silent, giving the impression of intense concentration; they have heard it all before. It will be okay; I will be okay. Once the briefing is over, in single file they funnel through plastic tape, with some randomly selected for a kit check: map, compass, hat, gloves, waterproofs. Numbers are counted. It is a record turnout: 78 would start the senior race. In 2005, there had been just 12. Sam Hesling, Highland Hill Runners’ club captain, moves to the front row of starters. Blond-haired Tim Gomersall, who had traversed the Cuillin ridge in winter conditions in record time and completed a ski mountaineering tour of Tranter’s Round, both in partnership with Finlay Wild, in the preceding months, is close by. Is that Davy Duncan and Brian Brennan, the perennial racers of Scottish hill running? Of course it is. Where else would they be? Not far off, Alan Smith waits with his hands behind his back. ‘No interfering with the sheep,’ Russell warns as he calls the pack to attention, ‘especially Inverness Harriers’.
I watch the runners disappear up a track, feeling momentarily hollow and useless. A lingering cold prevents me from going with them. Once a junior contest has departed and parents scamper after their offspring, the start line is abandoned. While the juniors run around a mile to a grassy summit and turn around, the senior racers continue down the other side, descending to a river. The ascent to Cioch Mhòr begins immediately after, shallow and boggy at first, then steep and heathery. There is a moment of brief respite on the little summit plateau, albeit spent cowering in the wind, before the runners plunge down the conical slope they have just climbed, dodging those coming up, as rising and falling runners try to find a way that avoids the deepest heather. The race had not been named after Alex Brett as a nicety. This was his race, his course, his legacy.
Following the route uphill, I wander through a field of cropped grass, cross a stile, and find myself on a steeper rise in a field dotted with trees. As the gradient sharpens, a tightness in my chest and a quickening of pulse comes as a relief. I had been right not to run. I walk on, revelling in this opportunity to go slowly. As I gain height, I turn to see layers of low cloud on the Black Isle, the land slipping into the still, grey waters of the Cromarty Firth. Down the firth, the oil rigs parked off Invergordon belong in a post-apocalyptic world. I look back up the hill to see the first junior, wearing a Barcelona football strip, hurrying towards me. He hurtles by, a picture of flailing concentration.
I walk back into the field of trees. Iain Macdonald is marshalling at the top. Iain and Alex had been friends for more than thirty years, having met in the embryonic years of Highland Hill Runners in the early 1980s. ‘I still expect to see him,’ Iain says. ‘I can’t believe he’s not here.’ Together, Alex and Iain ran and raced, but ultimately shared a passion for high and wild places.
Alex had already completed the Munros when, in his thirties, running up hills replaced walking up them. Statistics are no measure of a life, but they do reveal an astonishing commitment and longevity. Alex ran the Ben Nevis Race on 32 occasions, the Highland Cross – a post on their website after Alex’s death called him ‘a true Highland gentleman and committed outdoorsman’ – 28 times, and the Great Wilderness Challenge for twenty-seven years. As his legacy is symbolised by Cioch Mhòr, Alex’s example lives on in the races that hosted his extraordinary dedication: members of Highland Hill Runners who raced at Ben Nevis in 2016 wore tartan ribbons in his memory; the Alex Brett Memorial Shield is now presented to the first over-60 in the long race at the Great Wilderness Challenge.
Running and walking took Alex around the world: to Argentina, Chile and Canada, to the Alps, and to the Himalayas to race the Everest Marathon. His other passion was following the Scotland rugby team. On one rugby-inspired trip to Italy, Alex’s wallet was snatched from his sporran. In the melee that ensued, Alex was convinced he had identified the perpetrator, but had not seen the wallet being passed to an accomplice. Alex began furiously patting the pockets of the thief, demanding the return of his money. ‘I’m going to get the carbonara on you,’ Alex blurted out.
He slapped the perpetrator across the face. ‘Why did you slap him?’ Iain had asked incredulously.
‘I didn’t want to be arrested for assault,’ Alex explained.
Iain demonstrates the slap in midair: a forceful back of the hand whack to the face. ‘I reckon that’s still assault!’
A runner is coming over the horizon, angling towards us. It is Sam. He seemed to be cantering, not quite at full tilt. Without a watch, he was unaware how close he was to Finlay Wild’s course record until he was further down the slope. By then it was too late; the race was run.
There is a pause before the rest. ‘About twenty years ago, Alex told me, “if I die in the hills, I will be a happy man,”’ Iain says. ‘I don’t think he meant it to be the way it happened. He knew the risks. He was a very capable bloke.’
I jog downhill and cross back into the field where Ross Bannerman, a long-time running comrade of Alex, is standing. Ross knew a successful round of the Torridon peaks was high on Alex’s running priorities. He had intended to attempt it with another runner, but when they had pulled out, clubmates thought Alex might change his plans and climb mountains south of Glen Torridon. The location of his car added to the ambiguity. He could have gone either way. Ross’s hunch was the round – a determined solo effort. The police appeal garnered one witness. Alex was seen coming off Beinn Alligin at 5.30pm. He looked ‘knackered’ – or a word to that effect – according to the sighting. Ross was right. There was no doubt Alex was attempting the round. The search area could be significantly narrowed. It was a breakthrough, but one that must have been tinged with despair. The focus turned to Liathach; the rescue teams knew what that meant.
More than most, Ross recognised Alex had unfinished business in these mountains. The pair had set out on the round some years earlier, beginning where Alex had started his fateful run, but journeying clockwise, thereby crossing Liathach first when they were at their freshest. They continued over Beinn Alligin in searing heat, but faced with the awesome vision of Beinn Eighe, they relented, jogging down a glen to the start. Despite the sensitivities of the land and its owners – Beinn Eighe is a nature reserve; Beinn Alligin and Liathach are owned by the National Trust for Scotland – Ross was fixated on the idea of the route becoming a race. He reckoned the 22-mile course could be accomplished in around seven to eight hours by the fastest runners. The worst dangers were avoidable, Ross reckoned: the tricky Horns of Alligin could be bypassed and – crucially – Liathach would be crossed first in a clockwise fashion. Alex knew that. I had to ask the obvious question, knowing there was almost certainly no answer. Why did he leave Liathach until last? Ross shakes his head.
Tragically, Alex – who was due to carry out work on a stone dyke at the home of Ross’s parents – had left a message on his friend’s mobile phone in the days prior to him travelling to Torridon. ‘I received Alex’s voice message a few hours before I was told he was missing,’ Ross says. ‘For some reason, it didn’t open for about a week until that day. I remember trying to call him back and thinking it was unusual for him not to answer. There’s a good chance I would have gone along with him if I’d taken his call in the first instance.’
Given the opportunity, Ross would have also offered some important advice: do not get benighted. Alex’s car had been caught on a roadside camera in Garve, around an hour from Glen Torridon, at 8am. It was safe to assume, therefore, that he had begun his ascent of Beinn Eighe at about 9.30am. Two daylight hours had been lost; there were just ten remaining. ‘I still listen to that message from time to time, and for a moment it feels like he’s here,’ Ross says.
As we walk to the finish, the blur of a club vest occasionally sweeping by, Ross stops to demonstrate the vulnerability of a runner on The Pinnacles. ‘You put your foot there,’ he says, placing his right boot on the ground, ‘and you’re fine. You put it there,’ he indicates, shifting his foot two or three inches to the right, ‘and there is nothing. Imagine that in the dark. You only have to stumble on a rock.’ Stumbling is what hill runners do; it is where you stumble that matters.
‘He was a man of experience,’ Ross says. ‘I remember camping with him on a summer’s night on the Forcan Ridge. I was taken aback by his knowledge. He seemed to know the name of every mountain. I was younger and looked up to him in that sense.’ Ross, with his clubmate Dave Wilby, ventured across Liathach in the week after the discovery of Alex’s body, ‘trying to make some sense of it all.’ From the glen, they climbed very steeply to Mullach an Rathain and proceeded east, the way Alex went. It was a picture postcard day: an indigo sky dotted with wisps of cloud. The view stretched forever, a bewildering procession of Highlands and islands. As they crossed The Pinnacles, Ross and Dave had their ‘backs to the walls’, quivering in the glare of their mortality. Knowing where Alex had been found, they could reasonably assume the point of his fall. ‘From where he fell to where he would have been safe was about 100 yards,’ Ross adds ruefully.
On the 600-metre contour, close to where Alex was located, Ross and Dave constructed a cairn memorial. Inside they placed a small deposit box containing photographs, a tartan Highland vest and whisky miniatures from the Ben Nevis Race. They said goodbye.
The Torridon round would be the race that never was. Any thoughts of sending people out to race in these mountains was abandoned. ‘I was spooked,’ Ross says. ‘I lost the will.’ The mountains no longer called. ‘I seem to have abandoned the hills,’ Ross told me a year later. ‘I’ve only been to Ben Wyvis for a walk since I was up Liathach with Dave.’
Dundonnell Mountain Rescue Team cover an area stretching the breadth of the north of Scotland, from east coast to west, some 2,600 square miles, from An Teallach to Ben Wyvis, Strathfarrar to Liathach. It is a daunting patch, with 35 members permanently on call. Although the team are not as busy as their counterparts further south, ‘when we do get callouts, they can be prolonged because of the type of terrain,’ Steve Worsley, one of the members explains – as three days in the Torridon mountains seeking one of their own would painfully highlight. ‘It was pretty upsetting. We wanted to do our best for Alex, but unfortunately . . .’ Silence. Words dissolve.
The irony of mountain rescue teams is their indelible connection to the people they serve. They are not doctors treating a toddler with a temperature. They are not paramedics wiping a drunk’s vomit from their uniform. They are walkers, climbers and runners who – in the worst of times and conditions – go looking for other walkers, climbers and runners. That is what drives these unpaid volunteers, for, more often than not, they are searching for people who share their ethos. While it is hard to make sense of Alex’s death, when his body was found, amid the grief and relief, their thoughts must have agonised with the notion: I know why he did what he did. I understand.
In high places, the thread between life and death is as delicate as gossamer. ‘In climbing mountains,’ Geoffrey Winthrop Young explained in his 1920 book Mountain Craft, ‘danger is a constant element, not remote as in other sports: it is always behind the veil of pleasant circumstances, and it can be upon us before we are aware.’ Terrain, latitude and remoteness make the mountains of Scotland hazardous even without the complications of weather, navigation and – if they conspire – hypothermia. Running is convoluted further by the requirement to travel light. If not, you may as well just walk.
‘The risk is the fact that you’re often running on your own and a long way from any help, and you tend to go lightweight, which goes against what I would recommend as a mountain rescue team member,’ Steve says, trying to encapsulate an irreconcilable clash of identities. ‘Since I’ve been in the team I’m certainly more aware of what could go wrong. I’m more careful than I used to be.’ He elaborates on how he might ‘hold back’ when running. ‘Possibly on a tricky descent where I’m more likely to go over on an ankle. Most accidents in the hills happen to competent people who just have a bit of bad luck or a simple fall. The question is, should the worst happen, can I get myself out of it? I always carry a phone. I always carry spare kit. But is that enough?’
It was not enough for Peter Brooks. A runner, climber, cyclist and sailor, Peter was at ease in the outdoors, especially among mountains: he notably devised the original running routes over the heights of Mull, Jura and Arran for the inaugural Scottish Islands Peaks Race in 1983. Peter was marking his 60th birthday by running the Scottish 4,000s over several day stages in January 1998, when, having covered some 80 miles, just Ben Nevis was left. The remaining distance was akin to a 400-metre lap of a running track at the end of a marathon. He sent a message to his wife, Miriam, in Edinburgh, saying he had only his ‘old friend, the Ben’ to climb.
The area above the now-eroded tourist path on the Ben is very different from that of the 1990s. For ascending walkers, once past Lochan Meall an t-Suidhe, it was common practice to follow a zig-zag path until it gave way to the rubbly, rough and pathless terrain of the mountain’s western approach. Leaving the summit, Peter would have instinctively kept away from the Ben’s corniced north-east rim, before pausing to take a bearing from an iron pole above Gardyloo Gully. He was aiming for the reassuring fold at the top of the winding path, close to the 950-metre contour and perilously near the cliffs of Five Finger Gully.
He descended safely on the bearing, not needing crampons, for the ground was free of snow. His grippy boots were made for this terrain: a straight descent on rock. The bend, however, was choked with drifting snow, best avoided by either passing on the inside or outside. Peter, presumably, opted for the latter, bringing him closer to the top of the gully. He would have known only too well from the previous 80 miles of running that the same ridged soles that carried him off the Ben tended to slide sideways when contouring or traversing. No-one, of course, knows what happened next, but somewhere on or near the turn, the runner’s feet left the ground. Uncontrollably sliding towards, then into, Five Finger Gully, he simply could not stop.
The Fellrunner reported Peter’s death, the words carefully crafted, a stoic defence of a sport emerging between the lines. ‘There was no doubt that he was properly equipped and clothed, and his death was a tragic accident,’ the editorial began. ‘He was a highly experienced fell runner and had even taken the precautions of informing the police of his proposed route and ringing in on a regular basis on his mobile phone.’ It was not surprising Peter went to what might seem excessive lengths. He was known affectionately as a ‘faffer’, a man who spent hours agonising about what to put in his rucksack before a day in the mountains. Peter simply wanted to be as prepared as possible.
‘Because of the existence of areas of poor mobile phone reception and the fact that on Tuesday Peter had phoned from a call box,’ the editorial continued, ‘the police were not unduly perturbed when he did not call in on the Wednesday. However, when there was still no word by first light on Thursday, a search was launched involving Kinloss and Lochaber mountain rescue teams, a search and rescue helicopter from RAF Lossiemouth and nine tracker dogs. He was spotted from the helicopter lying at the foot of Five Finger Gully.’
Nor was it enough for Martin Hulme. Like Alex Brett and Peter Brooks, here was another man of the mountains: he had completed three rounds of Munros, as well as the Corbetts and Grahams; he was an active rock and winter climber, with at least 250 ascents recorded in his logbook, including the Matterhorn and the Old Man of Hoy; he had raced more than 100 times in the Scottish hills and was a national champion in his over-60 age category.
The sixty-seven-year-old was descending the mist-cloaked Crianlarich peak of Cruach Ardrain, dropping north on a steep path. Alan Renville, a long-time member of Edinburgh Mountaineering Club, was running ahead. The unpredictability of the hills, even as winter drew near, did not daunt them: they had spent their lives among them. Besides, they were thoroughly primed, carrying food, warm clothes, gloves and hats, and an emergency bivvy bag. Some things cannot be legislated. ‘I didn’t see what happened to cause him to initially slip,’ Alan said. ‘As he went past me, he was on his back and quickly gaining speed and was out of control. It was a mixture of grass and rock, and he disappeared from my view into the mist. I ran down the path shouting and trying to find him, and after a few minutes of frantically searching saw his body below me. When I reached him there was no sign of life.’
Alan alerted mountain rescue, knowing the devastating truth: there was nothing they or he could do for Martin now. His friend had fallen around 100 metres. ‘Looking at the terrain above where I found him, my guess is he went over a crag, probably only a few metres high but the impact on landing at that speed would have been enough to cause fatal injuries.’
I am running a round of Borders hills above Glen Sax when Alan tells me this. It is the winter solstice; two months have gone by since Martin’s death. The weather is dreich: windy, wet and claggy. After running on drove roads and following fence lines, the path disintegrates. Alan pauses to change his gloves. I jog on, then turn after two minutes, retracing my steps. Where is he? Alan remains where I left him, hunched over his bag, trying to pull a new pair of gloves over numb, unresponsive fingers. I silently curse him. I am cold. He, I think, is colder. We do not verbalise our fears. At least we are running again. Alan takes a bearing and we trudge across peat hags. I am moving faster. I look back, wait a few seconds, then run on, fearing if I go too far the mist will divide us. Finally, I see a pillar in the pall and know we are on the summit of Dun Rig. We pause. Alan tries to take a bearing to our next summit, Glenrath Heights, but his freezing hands cannot shift the housing. The gale blows furiously. We see only barren, wind-scoured moorland, ending abruptly in a grey wall. There is no path, no obvious way to go. Suddenly, I feel unfathomably cold. I cannot recall who said the words, but one of us thankfully spoke: ‘We need to descend.’ Alan points. We sweep downhill, cautiously at first, then gambolling with relief, before slicing through the mist. The wind, the rain, the clag – gone. We pause gratefully in the glen, looking up at swaddled hills. We are the lucky ones.
Tim Gomersall is sitting on a bench in the sports hall of Dingwall Leisure Centre. The soon-to-be qualified doctor is already changed, having finished second behind Sam Hesling. He is in good form. Six weeks earlier, on Valentine’s Day, he and Finlay Wild had traversed the Cuillin ridge in 6 hours and 14 minutes, shattering the previous winter record by around three hours. The pair had only known each other for a month, having met at a ski mountaineering race that January. Tim and Finlay had not even climbed together when they stepped onto the path to Sgùrr nan Gillean – winter traverses are traditionally attempted north to south – to gain the start of the ridge. Fortune favoured them: the weather was ideal, others had cut trail, and snow conditions were as good as they could be for ‘running’. Embracing cautious minimalism, they carried two ice axes each, a 38-metre rope and a 26-metre cord, along with slings and abseiling paraphernalia. Between them, they had two litres of water. They would survive on gels and jelly babies.
‘I’m inherently more likely to take risk, but I do think I have a balanced approach,’ he says. Words emerge from Tim’s lips with methodical eloquence. I can see the sort of doctor he would become. ‘There are certainly things I did during the Cuillin record – because we were trying to go quickly – that I wouldn’t necessarily do on a training run. Sometimes the objective is worth the risk. There’s a ceiling of risk you’re prepared to accept before you start.’
‘Had you and Finlay discussed that?’ I ask.
‘No.’ He hesitates, deliberately again. ‘But we did make a comment shortly after starting that we would push when it wasn’t too technical, and when it became more technical or risky, we would go slower, consciously go slower.’
But everyone makes mistakes. Tim and Finlay were abseiling King’s Chimney on Sgùrr Mhic Choinnich – a rock climb graded ‘Difficult’ – when they realised their lifeline was too short. ‘We should have tied the rope and cord together, and abseiled on both, but we only used the rope because we didn’t think the abseil would be that long. We ended up on a snowy ledge, having run out of rope. We down-climbed a corner, and if I went back, I wouldn’t choose to take that risk again, but in the situation, that was what we did.’
‘What were the consequences of you falling when you were down-climbing?’ I want Tim to spell out the risk. ‘You’re going to fall a long way?’
‘Absolutely fatal. We would have ended up in the bottom of Coire Làgan in a not very good state. But we accepted that in order to fulfil the day. I felt it was acceptable for me to take that risk. For other people, it would be very different. Breaking the record wasn’t at the forefront of our minds; it was to go as quickly as possible and see what came out.’ By the time Tim and Finlay had escaped King’s Chimney, they were two-thirds of the way along the ridge, but faced a fresh threat. ‘You get more tired and that limits the risks you’re willing to take. The mistake is to rush into decisions late in the day. That’s the riskiest thing.’ Silently, I cannot help but make a parallel to Alex.
Would ambition have overruled common sense? ‘I’m at a position in life where I don’t have a partner or kids, so I’m obviously more likely to accept a higher level of risk.’ I thought of Alex again. I wondered what Tim, today aged twenty-three, would be like when he was sixty-five, when he might be long-married with children older than he is now.
I expected Tim – or any person who accomplishes winter records for undertakings of the stature of the Cuillin ridge and Tranter’s Round, notably within a fortnight – to be gung-ho, reckless even. Tim was not. He was perfectly rational, as rational as any hill runner or climber I have met – a young man who simply matched perceived risk to ability. Learned talent would get him out of trouble, not luck. ‘I think it’s the freedom that makes it worthwhile,’ he adds. ‘The pleasure comes from having the skillset to manage the risk. It becomes a confidence challenge.’
The race prize-giving begins with thirty seconds of celebratory applause for Alex, but it could not lift the sombre atmosphere. His family – Lynda, his sister, his brother-in-law – had come to watch the proceedings. The community was wedded in grief and for the first time I felt ashamed for intruding on the Highland gathering.
Like Steve Worsley, Ray Wilby, who is Dave’s father and another member of Dundonnell Mountain Rescue Team, was looking for his ‘best mate’ in the Torridon mountains. It was Ray’s stories of mountain rescue duty that had persuaded Alex to join. ‘While the search was on, it wasn’t too bad in a way because you were sort of focused on looking for him. I mean, you knew it wasn’t good. Right from the word go, I was convinced he had come to grief. When he was found, the initial feeling was relief, then it just hit you – this sadness.
‘One of my first feelings was anger. That’s why it took me a long time to come to terms with it . . . well, I haven’t really come to terms with it.’ Ray looks into the distance. There were questions he wanted to ask his friend. ‘Even now, you go out for a run and you just can’t not think about him. It’s there all the time. There’s a Land Rover that goes around Dingwall that looks like his. Every time you see it, for a split second you think it’s Alex. It’s hit us all bad.’
Now in his seventies, Ray finished 56th. His best running years are behind him – in his fifties he was five-times runner-up in the Scottish hill racing championship for his age group – but he will continue for as long as he can. Not even the death of his contemporary will stop him going to the hills. ‘No,’ he snaps back when I suggest Alex’s death might have deterred him. ‘It’s one of those things, isn’t it? We’ll never know precisely what happened.’ As for risk? ‘You don’t even think about it, not at all. In fact, you’re probably less at risk than going for a drive in a car. We just take that for granted. You don’t think about it. If you did, you wouldn’t go.’
Geoffrey Winthrop Young regarded the countenance of true peril: the mountaineer lost a leg at Monte San Gabriele in the First World War but continued to climb on a metal peg leg. Even he added a proviso to his death-behind-a-veil warning in Mountain Craft: ‘It can rarely be worthwhile to hazard life on the uncertain issue of a game. If the adventure is good enough, however, it may seem well worthwhile to take a good many chances.’
In remembering Martin Hulme, the Skye-based mountain guide Martin Moran echoed a similar sentiment: ‘A trip, a slide, a tumble – how slender is our attachment to life, but how precious its gift when we are in the mountains.’
The adventure was ‘good enough’; life in the mountains for Alex Brett was fantastically precious. He took his chance, as we all do.
The hall is emptying. Seats are being stacked, uneaten cakes and sandwiches stashed in boxes. Alex had been honoured in the best way they knew: by running and racing, and by living. Russell McKechnie would remark later: ‘There was a wry smile from above, right enough.’