The Winter Climbing Andrew Greig It is late January and at last the snow. I lie back dreaming about Glencoe as fluent, hungry, dressed in red, you climb up and over me. That passion claimed the darkest, useless months for risk and play. You rise up on me, I rise through you ... The shadowed face of Aonach Dubh where Mal first took me climbing and as we clanked exhausted, happy, downwards through the dark, I asked “What route was that?” “Call it what you want – it’s new.” You reach the top and exit out; from way above, your cry comes down. The rope pulls tight. What shall we call this new thing we’re about? These days we live in taking care and chances. Why name it? My heart is in my mouth as I shout Climbing ...

The Winter Climbing Andrew Greig It is late January and at last the snow. I lie back dreaming about Glencoe as fluent, hungry, dressed in red, you climb up and over me. That passion claimed the darkest, useless months for risk and play. You rise up on me, I rise through you ... The shadowed face of Aonach Dubh where Mal first took me climbing and as we clanked exhausted, happy, downwards through the dark, I asked “What route was that?” “Call it what you want – it’s new.” You reach the top and exit out; from way above, your cry comes down. The rope pulls tight. What shall we call this new thing we’re about? These days we live in taking care and chances. Why name it? My heart is in my mouth as I shout Climbing ...