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  Once Alan and I were winched down on steep scree below where Burke lay, we quickly climbed up and brought him to a point where the pilot managed to lower the winch wire. The rotors were literally a few feet from the cliff, but thank goodness it was a still day. Otherwise, as the pilot said later, he wouldn’t have been in there at all.

  That was the end of that particular incident, and unfortunately, the end of a remarkable man. John Burke was highly respected in financial circles throughout the country. The mountains and the freedom of the hills were to him a release from the pressures of big business. In solitude he could lose the responsibilities of his office. In so doing, he lost his life.

  After his body was taken away in the ambulance, John Grieve, Richard’s brother, recalled another local story about John Burke. A couple of years back he had been staying at the Onich Hotel while on a climbing holiday in the Glencoe region. At the end of his stay he asked the receptionist for his bill, and wrote a cheque for the amount. When she asked for his bank card, he had to confess that he had left it at home. She insisted that she couldn’t accept a cheque without the card. John Burke then took a ten-pound note from his wallet and, handing it to the girl, asked if she would kindly compare his signature on the cheque with that on the note.

  It never ceases to surprise me how coincidence, as well as fate, seems so much part and parcel of rescue work. Earlier that year, above Crianlarich, where Dr Manson went to raise the alarm for his fallen friend, two climbers had fallen and been killed. One of these, Alan Jessiman, was the Chairman of the Bank of Scotland, another eminent Scottish bank.

  Now we must go back to an unlucky 13 January in 1977. Four climbers from the Grampian Club of Dundee set off to climb a gully on Beinn an Dothaidh, a close neighbour of Ben Achaladair. The northerly aspect of this peak is known locally to Gaelic-speakers as the “clenched fist” from its tight formation of gullies and buttresses.

  When they failed to return I got a call from the Oban Police. It was bleak weather with soft snow above 1,500 feet and an icy south-easterly wind. There is little daylight in these high latitudes during January, and dusk had fallen when we left Achallader farm. It was the sort of evening we would have preferred to be sitting by our respective fires.

  The RAF Leuchars Mountain Rescue team had already searched in vain. Now it was our turn. We split into three groups, each taking a different area, but all three parties initially heading up the Allt Coire Achaladair to gain our respective search blocks to the south of Beinn Achaladair.

  Ian McCrae, a local gamekeeper who knows every nook and cranny in these mountains, was with us. We spread out with our headlamps on as we ascended from the valley floor forming a wide sweeping, overlapping line of light. Further up, it was even colder and windier. The blast cultivated spindrift, making it appear as if we were walking on a shallow white foaming sea. After four hours we had to call it a night and return to search at first light.

  At Achallader farm the following morning we found that the police had mustered reinforcements, with teams drawn from various parts of the Strathclyde Region as well as rescue dogs. The RAF Leuchars team were also back.

  A helicopter which had been promised for first light got diverted en route for a serious accident in the hills above Crianlarich, but it was hoped that it would come later in the day. Some of the police top brass had arrived and I suggested they request a Naval Sea King helicopter. These are based at Prestwick where they are normally used for anti-submarine patrol work in the North Atlantic.

  “We’ll be needing white sticks in that crap above, how’s a bloody chopper going to fly?” commented one of the lads as we struggled back up towards the cliffs of Beinn an Dothaidh.

  But fly it did, in horizontal driving snow and nil visibility.

  We spread out in line to sweep up the corrie, really a sloping shoulder with a depression in it, treading up left towards the summit. Ian Nicholson and Ed Grindley went off to the left to check the principal gully climb on the face and the plan was, by the time they had done this, we would hopefully have swung round to meet them on the summit. But they found the climbing too dangerous, due to the high avalanche risk.

  Our hunch of this corrie the previous evening paid off. We heard a call, which sounded unreal – but it was a call for help. It came from the gully and through a window in the cloud we saw a figure emerge from the snow at the last pitch. Then another, then a third.

  It was obvious that our best course of action was to tackle the problem from above, and after making radio contact with base, Ian McCrae as the fastest man on the hill this side of Tyndrum, volunteered to bring up the 500-foot rescue rope.

  By the time we got things organised on the top and had ascertained (by shouting) that the trapped climbers below were uninjured, Ian McCrae was spotted with the long rope toiling through snow-choked boulders.

  We had learned by now from the climbers that the leader had fallen 150 feet, but fortunately the rope snagged. This possibly saved them all from plunging to the valley below. The leader, though uninjured, didn’t relish the thought of retackling the final pitch of the gully, which was at a high angle, and capped with a formidable cornice. As descent was also dangerous, he had wisely chosen to stay with his less experienced companions. They found a suitable bivouac spot behind a snowed-up chockstone infinitely more snug than our windswept nocturnal venue.

  When the rope arrived I grabbed an end and, inching over to the cornice, cut a V in the snow. I then chucked some coils down, shouting to those below for one of them to tie on. After about five long cold minutes we heard a faint cry which we interpreted as “OK”. The team didn’t need any prompting; all were wanting to get to hell out of this wind-blasted place as it was bitterly cold. They started to pull in line, each grasping the non-stretch Terylene rope in ice-coated mitts like a snowman tug of war team.

  I stayed close to the edge, monitoring the lift, and gave my radio to one of the younger team members to relay the operation to base. He hadn’t used a radio in such a public way before and was obviously nervous with so many “high hed yins” at base.

  The haul rope bit into the snow edge as effectively as a cheese cutter. My shouts of “Hold it! Hold it, for God’s sake!” were snatched by the wind. Also the lads were finding it more expedient to run backwards with the rope, rather than pull it in from a static position; their crampons afforded excellent traction. After a few seconds I could barely see the closest snowman hauler through the swirling snow.

  But where I had failed by command, compression and friction on the rope in the root of the cornice succeeded in slowing up the rising man. Now the rope strained to a halt. I could see melt water from the ice exuding from it. It was obviously in considerable tension.

  Suddenly, just in front of my crampons, the snow surface exploded and a balaclava’d head shot out of the hole as if fired from a cannon on the floor of the corrie. The first man had been rescued!

  He was none the worse for his adventure, and like a patient who’d had an aching tooth extracted, seemed glad it was all over.

  The subsequent hauls, though perhaps not so dramatic, were certainly faster as there was no cornice left to hamper the team’s efforts. The last man, who was also the lightest, materialised on the plateau at speed, appropriately wearing snow goggles.

  While this was going on I had forgotten all about the young team member who was relaying our progress to base. It wasn’t until years later that I discovered that his commentary had caused great consternation in the upper echelons of the Strathclyde Police Department. Every few minutes or so, they had received a sombre message.

  “First fatality now up.”

  “Second fatality now up.” And so on, until four had been effectively dealt with. Only then did he realise his mistake, hurriedly adding, “I mean climber, not fatality.”

  Right on cue, we heard from base that a Sea King was approaching, and asking if it could be of assistance.

  “Yes please,” I replied. “The climbers we pulled up may be suffe
ring from hypothermia. We’ll take them to the west of the summit to see if visibility’s better. I’ll call you in fifteen minutes, over.”

  Some of the RAF Leuchars team had joined us by now and they could contact the chopper on their frequency.

  We helped the four stiff men across the plateau, hoping for a window which would allow the Sea King to approach.

  At the westerly side it was clearer, and we could see down the slope for about fifty yards or so, through a very small opening in the cloud. Below, the edge of Loch Tulla materialised. We could also discern the large brown and black camouflaged helicopter, outlined above the water. I hurriedly took a bearing on it and asked one of the RAF lads to relay the back bearing of this to the pilot so that he could approach. Just as this was done, the cloud socked in again, but we could hear the machine approach, though too far to our left. It wasn’t until later I realised that when I snatched the bearing I had been standing alongside Alan Thomson, a keen photographer, and his exposure meter must have affected the compass. Fortunately the Sea King is equipped with radar and it nosed its way along the ridge. Then the cloud cleared sufficiently for the pilot to spot us. It was a bold piece of flying.

  At that time we didn’t have much experience with large helicopters and the downwash took us by surprise, blowing several of us over. Luckily, the plateau was wide and there was no danger. The four frigid climbers were bundled aboard and, as there was plenty of room, several of us joined them. In minutes we were back at base.

  It was a good rescue, no one was hurt, and I for one wouldn’t have missed the sight of the first climber’s head breaking through that cornice for anything.

  Next we go back just over a decade to a crisp January night in 1966. In those days we couldn’t rely on much being done for us by the paraffin budgie, as helicopters were known to the rescue teams. It made for a tremendous team spirit however when everything on a call-out was down to us.

  I had just finished dinner after seven hard hours on the hill, and decided to pick up an Agatha Christie novel, The Labours of Hercules. The title seemed most appropriate, for that day I had hauled four climbing-course members up a new route in Glencoe’s Lost Valley.

  In Glencoe, we get two distinct types of conditions for accidents. The first is heavy snow cover with bad weather conditions, when people either get caught in storms or are avalanched, or both. The avalanche is probably the most dangerous rescue situation we face. The other accident condition involves hard frozen snow and exposed boulders, the one promoting rapid acceleration, the other ensuring a sudden and dangerous stop. These were the conditions that starry night with just a flurry of snow, teased by a fresh westerly wind, but above 1,500 feet it was as hard as roughcast.

  The telephone shattered my armchair detecting. I knew before I picked up the receiver that it most probably meant trouble.

  It was an operator on the line.

  “Meester MacInnes” – she had a lilting West Highland accent – “will you accept a reverse charge call from Bridge of Orchy? I think it’s an emergency.”

  “Yes,” I sighed with resignation. It could just be some friend who had run out of petrol.

  “Is that Hamish MacInnes?” I didn’t recognise the voice.

  “Yes, what can I do for you?”

  “There have been two accidents on Beinn Achaladair. One to my friend, Kenneth Dunn, who’s fallen and is still up on the west face. Another chap, I don’t know his name, is injured in the corrie to the south.”

  “Are they badly hurt?”

  “I don’t know, I ran down for help. The third member of my party stayed with Kenneth.”

  This was a common enough situation for us. Often the survivor of a mountain mishap rushes down for help before first establishing the seriousness of the victim’s injuries or even if help is required. Neither do they stop to work out exactly where their companion is lying. This, especially at night, can be time-consuming for rescuers.

  “We’ll be over as quickly as we can,” I told him. “Stay at the farm and I’ll get more information from you when we arrive.”

  In those days our call-out procedure wasn’t so sophisticated as it is now. I phoned the Clachaig Inn, where the owner, Rory MacDonald, was a team member, as were John Gray and Alec Morrison, two of his employees. On dozens of rescues, customers had been abandoned to serve themselves as Rory and his staff took off on their roles as good Samaritans.

  This time, it was John Gray who answered the phone. I told him what I knew and asked him to contact the Elliot brothers while I let the police know.

  Making fast time across the long straights of the Moor of Rannoch, as the road was clear of snow, we turned off to bounce up the dirt road leading to Achallader farm. The stocky figure of Duncan Smith, the farmer, was framed in the open door of the farmhouse. As we got out of the car, I could see beyond through the snow flurries the stark outline of the Fortress of Achallader. It was within these now crumbling walls that in 1691 the first Earl of Breadalbane conferred with the Highland chiefs on the pacification of the clans, then in arms for King James. Before the Massacre of Glencoe, a Campbell party spent a night here. Luckily, there were no Campbells in our rescue party that night, because even today, Campbells are still frowned on in this area. That’s a long time to hold a grudge, as the Massacre of Glencoe occurred in 1692.

  I left the car headlights on as we unloaded our rescue gear. A few minutes later I was speaking to Duncan Smith and Graeme, the climber who had telephoned, when we saw a blood-covered figure staggering through the farmyard gate, a macabre sight, like something out of a horror movie. This was the victim of the other accident, who had got himself down. Despite his gory appearance he had no serious injuries, only multiple lacerations and bruising.

  Vehicles started to pour into the yard. John Gray and Alec Morrison arrived, followed by Hugh McColl, a Glencoe farmer and a special constable. Just behind, Denis Barclay, Will Thomson and John Hardie emerged from their vehicles and our local police sergeant, Douglas McCorquodale, drove up in his Land Rover with a full complement. Out jumped Constable George Cormack, Rory MacDonald of the Clachaig Inn, the two Elliot brothers and Ian Clough, my partner on the winter climbing courses. The rest of the police team were on their way from Oban.

  Duncan Smith who knew the hill like the back of his hand, had been piecing together the climber Graeme’s description of his fallen friend’s position.

  “He’ll be just about the same place where that man died way back in 1925,” Duncan informed me confidently. “You won’t remember that, but my father found the body. It’s across on the middle of the face, on the long scree slopes.” He pointed a finger into the dusk to the right of the castle ruin. “The snow line’s quite high just now, so you shouldn’t have too much trouble getting there.”

  “Thanks, Duncan. Have you got the searchlight, Willie?”

  “Aye, and it’s fully charged.”

  “Good, we’ll probably need it.”

  Duncan Smith went on helpfully, “There are long streaks of scree where the chap’ll be lying, Hamish. You should be able to make your way up those between the snow without crampons.”

  “I hope we don’t need any gear.” It was Alec Morrison who spoke. “I’ve bugger-all with me. I didn’t think that there would be any snow over here.” Some time before Alec had been a member of the RAF Rescue Team at Leuchars and came to live in Glencoe when he finished his service.

  We did a rising traverse from above the railway line and were soon on to large sheets of ice. As Duncan Smith had mentioned, there were scree ribbons fingering down through the ice sheets and edging the shallow gullies. We took to one of these, but after fifty minutes’ hard going, realised we were too high. We were going to have to traverse.

  Alec Morrison wasn’t the only member of the team without crampons who had thought that the rescue was going to be a piece of cake. They were soon in trouble. Those of us who had crampons put them on. With Will Thomson, who helped on our courses, I started to cut steps, Ian Clough
taking up the rear, in case anyone got into difficulties.

  I heard Willie Elliot’s voice somewhere along that crocodile of light.

  “This searchlight’s a hell of a weight, would anybody like to take a turn?”

  “Well, if you’re feeling past it, Willie, I’ll have a go.” It was Alec Morrison.

  Later, Willie told me that instead of getting a lighter burden he found that Alec’s rucksack was almost double the weight of the searchlight. Rory MacDonald was carrying the folding stretcher and for once was not sporting the kilt, his normal attire for pub and rescue.

  I now realised how high we had climbed, as the face here was riven with narrow icy runnels which proved difficult to cross. The steps which Will and I were cutting had to be well formed for, had someone fallen, it would be akin to descending the Cresta Run without a bob, with the added hazard of a multitude of lethal boulders below. Not a pleasant thought.

  John Gray, who regained his balance after a stumble, dropped a large hand torch, which bounded down the face. We gazed at it in silence like astronomers observing a new comet.

  “That’s one way to snuff it,” Denis Barclay observed dryly. Thereafter we progressed even more carefully.

  Alec Morrison put the searchlight on. Previously we had been conserving the battery and now the vivid white beam picked out the injured man, Kenneth Dunn, with his companion Bill Jack, on an island of rock. Kenneth had his rucksack propped up in front of him. I shouted, “We’ll be with you soon.” But it took us about twenty minutes. Kenneth was desperately cold, having been lying out for hours.

  With the help of the searchlight we found that he had back and hip injuries and extensive bruising. He was in considerable pain. Carefully lifting him on to the stretcher which Walter Elliot had carried over the last part of the traverse, we secured him inside the casualty bag. Bill Jack told us that Kenneth had fallen at 2,400 feet and, after shooting down ice, had smashed into a boulder sixty feet down, which, though stopping him, had caused the damage.