My dad has always been a sun-kissed Scotsman. Whether golden or a tad pink round the edges, he maintains his flush year-round, while I might freckle a touch mid-way through July. His thoughts exist outdoors; in the coastal air; on the top of a hill; accelerating round a bend. Certain stories, told and retold, are so ingrained into your upbringing you can’t quite recall the first time your ears picked them up.
Cutting an undulating line through the horizon, the peak of Ben Vorlich marks the join between the clear mid-May sky and the heathered earth. This particular Munro is a trickster; as you stand, neck bent, next to Loch Earn, it appears in a state of complete indecision. It looms large, taller than any mountain I have scaled before. Yet the distinct curve of the summit is visible, and therefore do-able, from our starting point at its base. Four kilometres? I crack my knuckles in anticipation.
I can see him now. My dad in the hills. Clean shaven and striding across a burn, clad in his blue raincoat that, 20 years later, he should really get repaired. It’s vintage now. At first a solitary figure in the wilderness, my mum joined him in these adventures soon after they’d met. I imagine them offering each other a hand as the ascent grew steep. Embracing on arrival at the summit. Eating their sandwiches in a ditch somewhere. Actually, that last one did happen. Two became three, as life dictates, and when the time came I was strapped to my dad’s back and taken across the moors and over the peaks. A little joy-rider. I can’t remember, of course. Speech still evaded me and my greatest contribution to these expeditions was sneezing violently and unapologetically into the back of my dad’s hair. More memorable – and for me, lamentable – than the view from peak apparently. But it is part of the legend of my childhood.
Halfway there. Beneath my skin every cell has erupted. The muscle liquefies, hardens, then liquefies once more. Under my feet the grassland has tuned to stones. Unstable, much like my willpower. There are many lessons to be learned from being part of a running team – the motley crew of well-defined quads that surround me as the climb becomes harder. Not everything I’ve learned is glamorous. But I do understand that pain is temporary. The only challenges that still hurt are the ones I’ve dropped out of. My skin is glowing with sweat. It beads around my neck and drips from my forehead into my eyes. The sun sits proudly in the cloudless air, colouring my shoulders with peach tones. More than once the group halts to slather sun cream across one another’s exposed flesh, and finally I begin to understand why my dad is always bronze.
There are certain things parents must sacrifice after starting a family. Carrying one toddler into the hills might have been achievable. Fun, even. Yet when two little sisters arrived, my dad let go of the mountains. The blue raincoat, once blemished with bracken and soil, had face paint and tomato sauce washed off it instead. It was taken out to walk the dog, not walk a Munro. Sports day, rather than Stuc a’ Chroin.
Four hundred meters from the summit. I haven’t been able to hold a conversation for a few minutes. Just as well, as all but four of us have dropped off the end. I want to collapse. Melt into the side of the mountain and have my body turn to stone. Stop. STOP. But I don’t. Something is pulling me upwards.
My skin begins to prickle from the icy air. Muscles that moments ago burned a hellfire through my hips are beginning to chill. The elation, no – exhilaration, knocks me for a second as my body and my mind both catch up to the fact that I am here. The top. And all I can think is which pocket is my banana in? A smile finally sweeps my face as I look around. Not from the view, although it is undeniably beautiful. The land cascades outwards from my feet in all directions. I can see trees and grass, calm waters and winding roads, miles from where I stand but nothing just a few steps in front of me. I have to remind myself to breathe. No, these thoughts come later. I smile because I am looking at the people I just scaled this Munro with. Laughing, snapping photos, eating flapjacks. My friends.
Parents leave their children many things once they’ve grown. Money, cars, a strong political affiliation. I hear mine talk about their legacy, as if they have any choice in the matter. I was shaped from those first moments being carried through the countryside on my dad’s back, and as twee as it might sound I’d rather strive to match his Munro record than his yearly income. Four hundred meters from the top, it wasn’t determination, or fear of failure that helped me through. It wasn’t even the team around me.
Truthfully, I wanted to impress my mum and dad. Their legacy is me. And their legacy is the hills. So why not combine the two?
By Alice Orr | 15 June 2016