Inside a storm

You started by saying you’d found an empty glass on a table with red wine dregs, a portable gas stove still burning and a notebook and pen. Then you realised you needed to start the story at an earlier stage.

You were in a whiteout. The snow-filled cloud surrounded you, obliterating everything else. White without texture, without form.

The cold, bitter wind drove the snow-filled mist into your exposed skin. Bumps in the ground reared up and tried to trip you. Icicles grew on your eyebrows. You kept moving because stopping was not a good option. Somewhere ahead was the bothy, a rock-walled hut with a tin roof. Not comfort, but shelter, at least shelter.

Your back was half-warm because your rucksack offered extra insulation. Your front though was cold - slowly succumbing to the uncaring cruelty that was winter doing its worst. Despite your waterproofs, gloves and multiple layers of clothing the cold was creeping into you, slowly clawing through the layers. You checked your compass again. That bearing you established before the storm hit, when you could still see the valley and the distant bothy. You had held the bearing. It should be there somewhere.

A larger shape loomed just metres away. Then you made out the corrugated iron. You hunched over and walked the last few metres, touched the roof, shuffled round to the far side, past the bench where people lounged in summer, pushed up the door latch and stepped inside the low-roofed space, holding the door open as the wind tried to slam it against you. You let it bang shut then latched it, slipped the rucksack off and sighed with the grim pleasure of being out of the storm and into a shelter, however poorly-sealed, low and dim it might be.

There were stone benches on three sides with wood plank covers and a small central table taking up the remaining space. You had been there before, with friends, drinking wine you had carried in, sleeping on the benches. Packs, food and equipment taking up all the available space.

Now though there was just you…and whoever owned the empty glass, the still-burning stove, the notebook. On a side bench was a sleeping bag on an insulating mat, and a rucksack. You threw off your gloves and warmed your hands over the stove. Gave the gas container a shake to estimate how much gas was left. Maybe half. Strange. You flicked through the notebook. Entries up to a few days before, then nothing. They must be out in the storm.

You went outside and yelled. Voice lost in the howl of wind, in the whiteout that hid everything better than the black of the approaching night. You went back into the bothy and shut the door so the driving snow wouldn’t cover everything with its cold embrace. You unstrapped the climbing rope from your pack and pulled a few things out, looking for your whistle. Then you remembered you had tied it to your compass before this trip. The compass in your pocket. ‘I hope that’s not hypothermia making me forgetful,’ you wondered. ‘How cold am I?’

A person can blow a whistle far longer than they can yell. Outdoor survival lesson #1.

Gloves back on, you went outside again, shut the door. Blew the whistle over and over. Hoping if someone was out there that they would hear and find their way back. You were getting cold, but if anyone was stuck out there they would be far colder.

You went back inside and pulled out your cooking pot and a plastic bag, filled the pot with snow from a bank against the bothy wall. Filled the bag with more snow because melting snow massively reduces its volume. Back in, put the pot on the stove. Went outside and blew the whistle over and over. If they were close enough to hear the whistle, surely they would have come back. You had no idea what else you could do. There was no use heading out into the storm - you might never find the bothy again.

The rope! That would enable you to safely get out to 60 metres from the hut. That’s something at least. Better than just standing there blowing a whistle.

You grabbed the rope and unlooped it. Why do ropes always get tangled no matter how carefully you coil them? Tied one end round your waist. Tied the other end to a leg of the bench. Checked everything was connected. The wind screamed, rattled the roof in an extra strong gust. The white beast sucking the landscape into its maw.

You blew the whistle. Jerked the end of the rope tied to the bench to make sure it was solid. Walked down the hill. Within a few metres you couldn’t see the bothy. You paid the rope out, walking carefully, blowing the whistle. The rope came taut. You couldn’t walk at the rope’s extent in a circle around the hut because the rope would catch on the boulder-strewn ground. Back to the bothy, then out again a few metres to the left. Back then a few metres more, your arms already sore from coiling and uncoiling the rope as you moved. After covering the first quarter of the circle you looked inside the hut. The water was boiling. You dropped in some instant coffee, rammed more snow in, put the lid back on and headed out again. Covered the second quarter. Nothing there. The third quarter was more grassy so you swept it at the end of the rope, blowing the whistle, listening. Again. Again. Then you thought you heard a noise.

You called out. A voice. Female. Something like a sob. There, towards where you knew there was a stream, beyond the rope’s extent. But why hadn’t she responded or come towards the whistle? Maybe an accident? You called again. The same noise. A sound of despair, snatched by the wind and torn away. If you untied from the rope though and put it down, the wind could catch it and blow it away so you can’t find it again. That’s death right there. No rocks there to tie it to. You went quickly back to the bothy and grabbed your pack. It only occurred to you afterwards that the cold didn’t seem to matter anymore. At the end of the rope you untied yourself and tied on the rucksack. The storm hurled itself at you. You called. That whimpering noise again. Animal-like. Fading. You stamped into the snow with every step you took towards the noise, making big footprints. She was hiding behind a rock, half-covered in snow. Scared, huddling away from the grey shape appearing from the storm. Then she saw it was you and a sort of relief seemed to come over her. One hand reached out. You tried to help her up but she couldn’t stand, couldn't move. There was a knife on the ground but you ignored that - not relevant to the situation. You found reserves of strength from the need for you both to survive. Luckily she was small. You lifted her in your arms and, hunched over so you could see the big footmarks you had made, stepped carefully, slowly, with the awkward load of an inert body, the wind trying to blow you over. You found the pack, then followed the rope to the bothy, struggled with the door, shuffled through the small entrance. Put her down carefully onto her insulated mat. Poured almost-hot coffee into your mug and presented it to her. She was shaking, unable to hold anything. You held it to her lips and she managed to swallow some. She sat there, unable to help herself. Her waterproof jacket has frozen, her beanie solid on her hair. You knew she would die if you didn’t get her warm soon. You wrapped her sleeping bag round her shoulders and said: “I have to get my pack.” She whimpered but you rushed out into the storm and followed the rope, untied the pack and returned. You could get the rope later.

When you opened the bothy door, she screamed, then saw it was you and relaxed.

What was that about?

You extracted your sleeping bag and down jacket from your pack. You had been looking forward to putting the jacket on and getting yourself warm. You unzipped her icy waterproof, though she weakly resisted, and pulled it off her. Her clothes were also icy but she’d need the layers. You manoeuvered her arms into your down jacket and zipped it up, pulled the down-filled hood over her frozen beanie and tied it under her chin. You left her snood on - you didn’t have a spare to keep her neck warm. Then took off her boots and socks. Her feet were freezing, possibly frozen. She might lose toes, but you couldn’t be bothered about that now. Pulled your dry spare socks onto her feet and then your down hut bootees, opened your sleeping bag, which was better than hers, and pulled it over her legs, then juggled her, wet and awkward, into the bag, got her sitting up against your rucksack and wrapped her own sleeping bag around her again. It was getting dark so you turned on your headlamp and hung it from a nail. You got the gas stove going again, got more snow, and kept on melting. Instant soup. Too much coffee wouldn’t help her because it would stimulate her circulation and take warmth from her heart and brain. She needed warmth in her core and to warm outwards from there. She still hadn’t talked. She sipped soup when you held it to her lips, stared into the distance. An attractive face, about your own age. Late 20s maybe.

Finally she stuttered. “My hands. So cold.”

“You’re all cold,” you said. “Did you get lost?”

She shook her head slightly, looked into the distance again.

“Is there…” she said.

“Yes?” you asked. She hadn’t finished the sentence.

“Is anyone else here?”

“No,” you said. “Just you and me. Why?”

She shook her head again. That little shake that said she had a lot more to say but maybe not yet. Trust had to be earned. Like you hadn’t earned it already.

You kept getting her to sip hot soup. You always have plenty of instant soup. It’s your assurance that you can quickly get something warm into you whenever you need it.

She needed it.

You were starting to really feel the cold though so you had soup too. By then you would usually have had your dry socks and your down jacket on and been snug inside your own sleeping bag. Maybe later. Definitely later. You weren’t about to swap a life for a life.

She managed to get her arms out of the sleeping bag and hold the soup cup herself, warming her hands on the mug. She put it down on the table’s bench seat and leaned back on the wall, and almost instantly fell asleep. You went over and sat beside her, gave her a little shake. She screamed.

“Jesus girl! Enough of the screaming!” you said - half in shock. “You have to stay awake until you are warm and fed. You can’t go to sleep yet!”

“Sorry,” she said meekly. “I was… It’s just…”

Another unfinished sentence.

“Just what?”

“You’re sure there’s no-one else here?” She had almost whispered. The wind howled outside, blowing snow through the gaps around the door. You shivered.

“Just us. Seriously. Just us.”

She nodded. Picked up the soup cup and held it. She looked at you. “What’s your name?”

You laughed. Oh yeah, introductions!

“Hector McKenzie, What's yours?”

“Janet Sinclair.”

“Guess we’re both Scots then.”

She had half-smiled. “English I’m afraid.”

“Can’t be helped,” you said, smiling back. “Why are you so worried about there just being us?”

“There’s someone else.”

You looked at her intently. Someone else? You looked around. There was no-one else.

“There was someone else,” she said. “You didn’t see anyone?”

“No, the bothy was empty except for your stuff when I got here.”

She looked into the distance again.

“Something happened?” you said.

She did that little nod thing again.

“Did they hurt you?”

She pulled her snood up off her neck. Livid thumb marks.

“Bloody hell. Is that why you screamed before?”

She nodded.

“Is that why you were…out there?”

She nodded.

“Bloody hell.”

You considered the situation.

“I need to get snow in to get us through the night. Are you OK if I go out again and get some more snow? Blow my whistle if anything happens, but we need that snow. Then I can barricade the door. OK?”

She nodded, sipped the soup.

You went out with a couple of plastic bags, rammed them full of snow and put them inside the bothy door. Hauled in the rope and tossed it into the hut, looked around outside, then you shoved the table against the door. A side bench plank was loose, so you jerked that free and jammed it between the table and the back wall. That door was never going to open unless it was done from the inside.

“I hope there’s no other good guys out there who need shelter,” you said. “I don't see us opening that door for anyone.”

She nodded, grateful.

You remembered you had an old alcohol thermometer in your small medicine kit. You put it in her mouth. 30 degrees C. Bloody hell. More soup. Should be 37.

Below 28 you're basically going to die. She must have been close.

She warmed up slowly. The storm went on and on outside. When the roof rattled, you both jumped. After one of these you looked at each other apologetically. She smiled.

“Bloody hell,” you said. “Might not get a lot of sleep tonight.”

She nodded.

When her temperature was 34 you got her to huddle down into your sleeping bag. You put your cooking billy near her. “In case you need a pee in the night. Tell me to turn to the wall.”

She nodded. You took off your boots and slid into her bag.

“What about you?” she said

“I have a pee bottle. I don't have to get out of the bag.”

“Men have it so easy.”

“Did you know him?”

She shook her head.

“What happened?”

“I went a few yards off for a wee and when I came back he was standing outside the door, still had his pack on. He wouldn't let me in like he was playing a silly game. Then he grabbed me and went to drag me into the hut. I managed to get free and ran off into the whiteout. Thank god I was still dressed for the conditions so I was OK for a while but then I realised it was a case of go back or stay there and die.”

“You chose…?”

She nodded.

“That’s quite a decision. Where did he go?”

“He followed me out into the snow but I hid behind a boulder and when I risked a peek he was heading back in this direction.”

“Towards the bothy?”

She nodded.

“That was the last I saw of him. I assumed he was here, waiting for me to come back. That it was him blowing the whistle.”

You both slept uneasily. The storm blew itself out during the night. Maybe you both slept a little then. You were the first up and you checked her breathing which was slow and even. You sighed and looked at her face. In other circumstances you might have tried chatting, getting to know her.

You pulled the jammed board away, shifted the table back and looked outside. Blue sky, brilliant white snow. Black and white cliffs on the nearby mountainsides. She stirred. You were glad she had made it through the night. Then you got your stove going and made porridge and coffee. You ate in silence.

“Are you OK to walk out?” you finally asked.

She nodded.

Conversation wasn’t her best attribute, but she had suffered a trauma, you figured, so anything was excused. After breakfast you packed your rucksacks and put them on the bench outside. She found it hard to stand steady. Her toes weren’t black so she didn’t have frostbite but the nerves seemed to have been damaged. You gave her your walking poles. You checked the bothy was empty and clean, then put on sunglasses and shouldered your packs.

“Are you OK?” you asked her.

She nodded.

“Let me know if it’s a struggle and I can take some of your load,” you said.

“Thanks.”

‘Well there you go,’ you thought. ‘Almost a conversation.’

But you just nodded.

You let her set the pace down the snow-covered track, slow but steady, a bit awkward, leaning on the poles.

The light was sharp and clear. Glorious. The mountains at their winter best, caring nothing for the human mites crawling over their flanks.

You stopped to re-tie a bootlace. She walked ahead. Then she screamed. A proper, terrified scream.

You dropped your pack and ran down to where she had stopped. A few metres below the trail was the clearly dead body of a large, bearded man you didn’t know. Not a local. His pack still strapped to his back, sitting against a boulder. Light blue salopettes with a frozen dark red patch on his inner thigh.

‘Femoral artery,’ you wondered.

She stared at the body. Frozen.

“Is that him?” you said.

She nodded.

“What happened?”

“I didn't think I had hurt him.”

“You did that?”

She looked at you, looked at the body, and nodded.

‘Maybe.’

You remembered the knife beside her in the snow.

We were chatting at the local pub about when we had met our wives. Our stories seemed pretty tame after that so we decided to talk about something else.