And so, twenty five years after Cairn Ban descended on (ascended to?) Steall Hut, George organised another visit. We gathered at Morrison’s car park in Fort William, last-minute provisions were procured (‘a bottle of whisky and a pint of milk, please’), bags were packed and re-packed, and carbohydrate taken on board (the fish’n’chip shop or Wetherspoons). The weather forecast was on-off all week, but finally MWIS gave an unprecedented ‘almost certain’ chance of cloud-free Munros for the weekend, so anticipation was high as we drove up Glen Nevis in the dark. At the top car park bags were packed and re-packed (again), and we set off along the gorge path (noting the ‘Danger of Death’ sign) by the light of head torches.

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Not many of us had crossed the wire bridge in darkness before, and one or two had never crossed it at all, so this was a new experience for several of the assembled company. It was a calm evening though, mild for the time of year, and everyone made it across with a few wibble-wobbles, but no mishaps.

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Saturday morning dawned, and although Steall Hut is permanently in shadow, we could see that there were indeed no clouds in the sky. Alex and Stuart had already left for Tower Ridge, Paul V. set out for Cairn Mor Dearg via Coire Guibhsachan, Campbell and George opted for the Ring of Steall widdershins, and the rest headed across the foot of Steall Falls to do the Ring of Steall the ‘right’ way round.

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The sun was bright, but the air was still chilly in the shadow of the mountains and there was plenty of deep snow especially in the gullies. We finally hit the ridge between An Gearanach and An Garbhanach, where the snow was two feet deep and more: Davy Gray broke the trail and we happily followed in his footsteps (literally). The air was clear and the views were simply stunning, but having to stay focussed on the trail didn’t allow for much gazing around, so we stopped frequently for short picnics and opportunities to look around. Finally, John McG and Iain left us to it and set off at a pace to get round the Ring. The rest of us (Davy, Diane, John McB, Catherine and me) were simply enjoying being out, pottered on to Stob Coire a’ Chairn, turned round, down to the bealach and back up to the ridge, to head back to base.

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Back at Steall Hut, I announced my 60th birthday and cracked open the whisky. I hadn’t said anything about this beforehand, and I was met with enthusiastic, if polite, felicitations. The other groups came in and showed the same reactions. I only twigged that something was up when I was ushered out to watch the sunset (in the eastern sky!) and found Campbell (our Presidente), 25 years after celebrating his 30th birthday at Steall, waiting to present me with a birthday card signed by the assembled company!

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Back inside, the Hut was decorated with bunting, more whisky came out, wine was poured (all over the table, in McGill’s case, when he tried to fill his glass and missed completely!), and a birthday cake appeared at some stage of the evening, complete with a (single) Roman candle. Campbell quite improbably produced a bottle of Advocaat, which was surely a first for a CB event!

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Alex and Stuart finally returned after a 17-hour outing to the Ben. On their heroic climb up Tower Ridge, Stuart’s constant refrain was ‘Paul wouldn’t like this…!’ Well, Stuart, judging by the colour of your trousers, we’re not sure that you liked it that much either! But you’re back to tell the tale, and so the fellowship was reunited.

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Gradually the banter descended into drivel, the drivel into incoherent grunts, and the singing into inharmonious moans. One by one the company drifted off to their sleeping bags, to wake up to a Sunday morning much the same as the day before. Only Davy Gray had any energy to venture into the hills; the rest of us took to our cars and headed home, some via a breakfast stop at the café in Ballachulish. We marvelled at the unbelievable weather and the snow-covered mountains in the bright sunshine, and as we passed the queues of traffic coming out of Glasgow to spend the afternoon squashed into car parks on the banks of Loch Lomond, Catherine turned to me and said:

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‘What a glorious day!’

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I had run out of superlatives, and simply answered:

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‘Yes!’