by Dave Kime

It was the Club’s Easter Meet in Glenshee 1978. Base camp was established at our now traditional wild campsite by the Clunie Water on the Braemar side of the Cairnwell. Good Friday saw Harry, Charles, Anne, Jenny and myself crammed into the Maxi with packs and camping gear for four days. The car was left in the ski car park and a note containing, in accordance with official recommendations, details of party and destination was left at the ticket office - the official Mountain Rescue Centre. We struggled, with full packs, up the chair lift and off to Loch Vrotachan. Anne appeared somewhat nervous and apprehensive - she said it was because she hadn’t done much skiing, but in retrospect I suspect it was well justified apprehension at the thought of spending three nights with Harry and Charles.

The weather worsened as we skinned up to Carn a’Gheoidh, and by Loch nan Eun spindrift was hurtling across the frozen waters. Hardly a suitable campsite, but by dropping to the north we found enough shelter by a peat hag to sort gear and pitch camp. The peat was rock hard, so the tent was anchored only to pegs buried in snow and well trampled. Water was found at the bottom of an eight feet deep pot hole in the snow with rather delicate access. The two parties disappeared into their tents for the night and emerged only when driven by overwhelming natural necessity. Gales and snow swept around all night, occasionally punctuated by mysterious noises from the other tent. Even a cry of help would not get us out tonight! Meanwhile, unbeknown to us, back in civilization, police forces in five counties were mobilising.

Come morning, the tent had survived and so had Anne. A sunny start had us doing the Beinn Iutharns but we were soon back in clag and Charles was having problems with his new high-tech sticky skins which had taken a dislike to the cold weather. Gales rose again that night and rising above them were intermittent muffled screams. We pulled the hoods of our ducks over our heads and pretended not to hear.

The tent had shrunk by next morning to half its former size as the weight of snow pressed in. Charles and Harry assured us that Anne was alright she was less sure. Four of us skinned up to Carn an Righ followed by Charles towing his skinless skis - he’d make a good doggie-walker! A superb run in powder snow down to Gleann Mor made it all worthwhile. Back at camp, the bags were getting damp and by next morning only the tips of the tent poles were visible. With some difficulty, the pegs were unburied and with full packs we had a great ski down to the Baddoch Burn then after a last skin up to Loch Vrotachan, we joined the crowds on the Cairnwell run.

The car was still there, but Anne was convinced that someone had been through her handbag but not taken any money - three nights with Harry and Charles does take a little getting over! Mugs of coffee in the cafe where we heard that Sheffield had been cut off from the world, airports closed and the Glenshee Mountain Rescue called out. Well, it had been a bit wild. A little later I wandered over to the counter to report our safe return.

“Er, yes, er, just a, er, minute” said the lad and disappeared to return with the manager and Leader of the Mountain Rescue Team.

Over the next few weeks the story was pieced together. By nine at night the white Maxi stood in splendid isolation in the middle of the empty car park. The police were informed and the car number dispatched for the Swansea computer to work on. Meanwhile, back at base Kate and Al had arrived and were settling in for the night. Kate was rudely disturbed from a privy squat by powerful torches, Land Rovers and the full might of the Braemar police force. Somewhat shaken by this disturbance Kate was interrogated about the whereabouts of the Kime party. The officer did not react very kindly when told that these malingerers were camping in the hills. Meanwhile two mountain rescue teams had assembled and the ski tows were brought into operation to search for the “lost” skiers.

The Swansea computer had informed the Braemar and Sheffield constabularies of the identity of the owner of the Maxi.

At Hallamshire Close, Sheffield, the Kime house was empty so the neighbours were knocked up for questioning.

“Oh, they’re camping in Scotland somewhere.”

“Yes, we’ve just found their car - nothing in it but an old pair of wellington boots and a ladies handbag.” ,! Leaving our friends to the vision of their eccentric neighbours barefoot on the mountain, the officers departed. An hour later, our friends phoned West Bar police station in Sheffield when they remembered where Jenny’s father worked. Across the Pennines, the University night porter was awoken from his duties and questioned as to the whereabouts of the Professor of Engineering. Lancaster Constabulary found his house empty as well.

“He’s in Scotland” said the neighbours “at the cottage.”

No way were the Inverness Constabulary in Fort William going to drive two hours to that address at that time of night: a phone call to their local contact would have to suffice. Campbell Morrison was dragged from behind the bar at the Clan to drive three miles, wake up the Professor and bring him to the phone.

“They’re camping in the hills and they know what they’re doing. Call your rescue off!”

The message got back to Braemar and all teams were stood down. The Braemar police, on returning to base, stopped by to rouse Kate and Al again in order to tell them in no uncertain terms that Dr. Kime was to report to the police station IMMEDIATELY he got back.

Next morning the staff were back at work at the ski centre and as the ticket office opened, the lad put his hand in his pocket.

“Och, Hamish, a laddie left me this note yesterd…..” As Hamish said: “The lads dealt with him - he won’t forget again in a hurry.”

Back to base camp in the glen where we discovered that our tent had disappeared, then found the shreds neatly folded and packed in Charles’ tent. Kate and Al returned from a day of ticking and passed on the message. , - Down to Braemar.

“My name’s Kime, I believe you want to question me in connection with…”

“Och, that fiasco on Friday, come on in.”

Somewhere in all this there must be a moral about parked cars, about leaving notes to the police, and rescue teams being called out unnecessarily, and of training and certificates and of the freedom to roam the hills unhindered and to take responsibility for one’s own safety and actions?