Broken Spectre

Wild wind battering from all directions & the fear sets in the compulsion to lie flat on wet black Cumbrian slate you can barely see your own boots in the raincloud grey as T.V. static & a terrible howling thousands of feet above sea level clutching desperately at sodden British army camouflage jungle hat to prevent it flying off into the abyss then we're coming down into a spot that is so calm that it is strange & when two men in red cagoules walk past Micky is adamant that they are the Chuckle Brothers & me and Juggers in his fell running gear crack up laughing then we're at a wooden gate that has a sign for the summit & it's like Carry On Up the Khyber & I'm half expecting to see men in red uniforms and kilts lying around massacred with spears in their backs among the bleak tufts of grass it would be no surprise a peculiar circle of rainbow known as a broken spectre in the moving mist swirling up the precipice of a deep ravine filled with grey scree that's a rare sight in nature & throws our weird long-limbed shadows into the centre we could be in Colorado watching a bear with a coat like burnt honey swiping his broad paw into the frothing white water and snagging the wide silver side of a thick salmon but there ain't no bears in these hills son.

 

March or Die

Sturdy canvass hiking boots lift with a wet suck as they pull up out of the boggy trail that smells of peat & rotting wet bracken & wonderful dark earthy mud & you're scanning instinctively for a route up to the summit as you pass a roaring waterfall of melting snow through the bleak leafless skeletons of twisted grey trees thankful for the lined ski jacket & black wool cap with your face tingling from exertion & you're thinking It's not meant to be easy & pulling at the rough tops to drag yourself up the steep ravine as you receive sudden bursts of energy before lying enveloped in a soft bed of purple heather for a breather & throwing a handful of nuts & raisins down your throat that instantly reinvigorate your aching muscles & the isolation is wonderful & you're really testing yourself against nature grabbing handholds on grey lichen-covered limestone outcrops with thighs burning then you're at a little stone cairn with amazing views of the rounded desolate Scottish highland mountains just taking it all in with a sense of satisfaction & achievement as snow brews in the pale grey sky & a wind whips in so strong that you crouch low against the ground avoiding the edge of the precipice then finding a break & bouncing down off the top & washing your face in a fresh mountain burn that's so cold your hands & face burn & a startled grouse flusters into the air with a distress call then you start shuffling down a vertical slope through the denser woods on loose rock when you hear the barking of a deer & are amazed as a majestic red doe wanders cautiously nose sniffing the air by below you flattened on cold stone holding your breath tightly & you are just so pleased that you left behind the wooden chalets & steam rooms & wine bottles & luxury of modern living to get out into the wilderness & how you couldn't just sit on your ass while wearing a tan French Foreign Legion T-shirt of the 2EME R.E.P with skull & crossbones & the legend Le Diable Marche avec vous.