Descending Objects
The opening is an image of the author wearing a t-shirt when visting the Tinker’s Heart memorial in Argyll. No real connection with what follows, just included to show a t-shirt.
Now to our tale about things falling from the sky.
Author at Tinker’s Heart memorial, wearing a T shirt. Not connected to story.
As I walked into town a few days ago I met a friend, an old colleague. I was surprised to see he was wearing a red t-shirt, or should that be tee shirt? Actually, both versions work, so take your pick. I will add, in Scotland where I live, it is more likely to be called a t-shurt.
What surprised me was that he was wearing such a flimsy garment in the first place. It was just about ten degrees Celsius, fifty Fahrenheit. Not balmy weather.
An old Scottish phrase, uttered often by my mother in such weather, came to my mind, ne’er cast a clout till May’s oot.
Now I have lost my thread? Ah, got it, things that tumble from the heavens.
As he got near I saw that the floating mystical castle motif sported on the front of his garment was enhanced by a white dagger shape, cutting the floating castle in half.
I mentioned his daring attire, referencing the temperature followed by the striking motif on his ‘t-shurt’.
He agreed that his flimsy garment was indeed a tad daring. Regarding the white dagger, he laughed. That was no design feature, that was present from a passing seagull just before I saw you, maybe I should try the lottery.
The ‘offending’ seagull.
That brief encounter took my mind back a few years into the Scottish mountains and a never to be forgotten memory of things dropping from on high.
As I get older my memory tends to operate in that random fashion.
It was deep winter and I was with eight others, in a remote part of Lochaber in the Grampian Mountains, a bit south of the hamlet of Fersit. We were on a winter Mountain Rescue training exercise.
The exercise that day was to test our ice climbing skills on a remote southern outlier of mountain called Chno Dearg. I am unsure of how that translates to English from Scottish Gaelic. I know that Dearg means ‘red’. Chno, I am unsure about, perhaps ‘nut’. Do not quote me on that.
The outlier I refer to is Meall Garbh, not as high as its ‘parent’ peak but ‘boasting’ a glowering and precipitous rock buttress. Our playground for that day.
The last part of the approach involved a forty minute walk. It was a still, grey, overcast February early morning, several degrees below freezing. Just short of the buttress, in an area protected by high cliffs, we became aware of being showered, gently and so unobtrusively, by thousands of tiny ice crystals.
snow crystals — image from pixabay — photographer jill wellington
The real deal, the air was filled with fragile hexagonal crystals, nature’s delicate lacework. Gently, imperceptibly, as if not wishing to disturb our day, drifting out of the leaden sky, landing on our clothing, on our faces in our hair. They were everywhere. A myriad of small, white, perfectly shaped crystallites, gently drifting in the still air, almost suspended. The building bricks of snow.
Even the tough edged mountain rescue stalwarts, each having seen their fair share of the grisly and unpleasant, were like children, holding out their arms to catch the drifting crystals and showing them to each other and grinning at the wonder of the moment.
A wonderful, precious, never to be forgotten, few minutes.
A gift from nature.
A further wee reminiscence of things falling from the heavens involves another mountain day, again a deep winter and again in Scotland.
The mountains this time, the Fannichs, a mountain area in north west Scotland a few miles south of Ullapool.
The conditions that day were not pleasant, with gale force winds and blizzards. Our ascent commenced by the shores of Loch a’ Braoin, a lovely spot.
A few hours later, as we huddled by our final summit for the day Sgurr Breac (speckled peak) and consumed a late lunch, the gales eased a smidgeon and the sun rolled back the grey clouds.
As I was carefully stuffing litter into my rucksack a gust of wind snatched a Kit Kat wrapper and took on a journey of its own, over an outcrop and out of my sight. I did made a feeble attempt to retrieve it. Too slow and too late.
We were soon packed and off we went, descending a long snow filled gulley into the valley that would lead us back to Loch a’ Braoin.
After a mile or so, with the sun on our backs and lowering towards the west, we stopped to check the map. Just where the gulley widened and petered out into the valley. The ground was still white with deep snow.
It was then something amazing happened.
As I looked about to sort out my bearings I saw something fluttering out of the sun. I thought it was a bird, perhaps an eagle. We were in eagle country. I peered into the glaring sunlight, but could not make out the shape and size of the bird. But it kept on, still fluttering and getting nearer. What is that?
Then it became clear, it was not an eagle, in fact it was no bird I have ever seen. It was, my accidentally discarded Kit Kat wrapper. The same one I had last seen a few hundred feet higher and more than a mile from this spot. Mind you, the logistic rationalists among readers may well take issue with my reasoning. It may well have been a completely different Kit Kat wrapper. How could I tell?
Kit Kat wrapper - most likely lost and found by the author.
I stared as it fluttered toward me out of the sun and the blue sky, to land right at my feet. Then I bent over and picked up my piece of accidentally discarded litter. Or perhaps someone else’s??
My colleague remarked, that is a message to you from beyond, take heed.
My last ‘falling’ moment involved me being the descending object. I previously posted this story as a poem entitled Tumble. Anyway, I thought it fitted nicely into this ‘descending’ post, so here it is again.
A Wessex helicopter - same one I tumbled from.
Many years ago I was member of a mountain rescue team in Scotland.
I was also the Secretary and one of the training team.
At a ‘call out’, one fateful day, I was leading a small advance first aid and stretcher party as we ascended a mountain ridge to get to the casualty quickly. There were four of us.
The rest of the team were setting up to follow a short time later.
On the way, I received a call to say an RAF Wessex Helicopter was heading our way and would pick us up and get us to the casualty quicker.
Shortly after the call, the Wessex circled above before reducing height to get close to us. The terrain made it unsafe to land, so we were all ‘winched’ into the helicopter individually. Three team member went first, then the stretcher and last but not least, yours truly.
Because of the stretcher, there was not a seat for me, so I simply sat at the door, with my legs dangling outside, winch still attached. It was a very windy day, with strong gusts.
When we reached our ‘disembarking’ point, or as the US Airforce say, the ‘deplane’ point, the winch operator informed me that the weather conditions were dangerous and landing was out of the question, with the helicopter bouncing about. It was not just the weather, but also the rough terrain.
So, decision time; we could simply jump out from an uncertain and changing altitude, maybe eight to ten feet or, return down the hill and walk up. Losing a lot of time.
“My decision was to jump.”
Following is the poem I wrote some years later that describes, in poetic terms, my experience;
TUMBLE
The snow billowed high
as we rose to the sky
towards summit and cloud
their peaks in grey shroud
The wind pushed us about
introducing some doubt
to the pilot and crew
as to what they should do
Was landing a choice
the pilot did voice
the crew’s sceptical reply
meant we stayed in the sky
The discussion grew more
as I crouched by the door
then wind intervened with a lurch and a sway
ejecting me from where I was happy to stay
As I plummeted down
toward the snow covered ground
I mused, what an inglorious way to go
till destiny intervened with a deep bank of snow.
Conclusion; my three colleagues landed without any drama, as did the stretcher, which missed us.
Drinks in a cosy hostelry later that night were at my expense, as were the many jokes.
So there you have it, things that fall.
