OT, but related - from The Cubby Columne:
As one of a group of outstanding young Edinburgh climbers who called themselves The Squirrels, Dave Bathgate and fellow member, Bugs McKeith inspired what was to become one of the most powerful Scottish climbing partnerships during the 60s. Like many Scots before him however, Bugs emigrated to Canada. It was here, having adapted his Scottish winter experiences, that he pioneered a new approach to ice climbing. The results were impressive and many cutting edge frozen waterfalls were climbed, such as Pilsner Pillar, Ice Nine and Takakaw Falls. Bugs also left his mark on the big alpine faces of the Rockies but tragically, it was here that he and his wife met their fate, killed while attempting a new route on Mount Assinaboyne.
The younger generation of Scottish climbers are often accused of taking their climbing and themselves just too seriously. An opinion that has to some extent filtered down from an ageing generation. But, I would have to say that my own personal experiences back in the 70s were not of a light hearted confrontation that you might expect, quite the contrary in fact. And dare I say, Dave Bathgate was just one of many hurdles I had to cross.
It was Hogmanay 1976 and somehow or another we, "we" being Hamilton, Alan Taylor - the Chimp, Rab Anderson and myself, found ourselves at Big Ian Nicholson's in Glencoe. Ian had a reputation as one of Scotland's most outstanding climbers during the late 60s and early 70s and within minutes we were engaged in conversation. I sensed it was leading somewhere and then, despite having consumed large quantities of alcohol, his whole manner and tone of voice altered. "What do you think of the Creag Dubh?"
Talk about being put on the spot, I was 18 years old, weaned on tradition and climbing folklore, not to mention a deep respect for the Creag Dubh but unfortunately for me the few members that I had met appeared to be suffering from what some might describe as a mid-life crisis!
At the time I had just come across Norrie Muir for the very first time on a trip to the Clachaig. Despite Norrie's credentials as a brilliant mountaineer (some of his Scottish exploits include, Minus I Buttress, Left Hand Route and Psychedelic Wall on Ben Nevis and Silver Tear in the North West), I had great difficulty in discriminating between them and the specimen I had just met at the Clachaig. To young upstarts like myself what would you think - unshaven and with long, black, straight greasy hair, parted in the middle, Norrie looked like something out of a Clint Eastwood western.
From the bar he approached me slowly, bending his knees slightly and shifting his weight from one foot to the other and chanting. In one hand he was only just holding on to a pint of heavy, in the other a quarter whisky bottle shaped can which, beneath a layer of oily grime, the word "Nitromores" could be read. Now whether or not it was done for effect, I don't know but I tell you it worked! "You're the wee w*!?ker from Edinburgh," said Norrie in a squeaky Glaswegian accent, barely able to see through slit, mole-like eyes and a grin that exposed the odd missing tooth and just as many black decaying ones. He still chanted towards me, pouring the contents of the Nitromores can into his pint, which bubbled and fizzed! I was speechless.
http://www.scottishoutdoors.co.uk/outdoors/columista.cfm@feature_cat_id=12&selectedfeature_id=1860.htm
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