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I was only slightly above the 1000-metre contour, yet I was puffing and wheezing as though I were four times as high. I should have been running up the final gentle slope to the summit. Instead, I was crawling, and having to sit down in the snow every twenty metres or so. Brian, having reached the summit several minutes earlier, came back down to see if I was all right. I assured him I was. But I seriously regretted my altruism of the previous day.

We had spent the New Year in Scotland, and though we had climbed a couple of peaks, the weather had been terrible: dull and cold, but not cold enough, with little snow underfoot and rain to accompany us down in the afternoons.

It was now mid-February, and conditions were ideal. Brian had a long weekend off work, so to salvage something from the winter, we had driven up to Glencoe on the Friday afternoon. The problem was that, as a regular blood donor, I had given up a pint of the red stuff on Friday morning. I naively thought that 24 hours, a couple of good meals and a relaxing drive would replace what I had lost. I had done something similar once before without suffering noticeably, but I was a good deal younger then.

On Saturday morning, we parked the car at the roadside in Glencoe, opposite the huge buttress of Gearr Aonach, and followed the track down to the river. From the bridge, we climbed steeply up the tree-covered gorge above Allt Coire Gabhail. This was so narrow as to be almost claustrophobic, an impression enhanced by the glowering grey of the sky and the mossy crags, which oozed moisture and hung over us in a brooding silence.

At the head of the gorge, chaotic boulders, piled up since the last Ice Age, blocked the exit. After picking our way around these, we descended for a short distance into Coire Gabhail.

This corrie was unlike any other I had seen in Scotland. Broad and pebble-strewn, its floor looked more like a coastal alluvial plain than a high hanging valley. Known as The Lost Valley, this is where the cattle-thieving clans of Glencoe used to hide the proceeds of their raids. It was also where the Macdonalds sought refuge following the massacre of 1692. Though the valley floor was pasture-like in its flatness, there was little grass that would sustain a herd of cattle on a winter’s day such as this. There were, however, several deer grazing on the higher slopes.

Our objective, Stob Coire Sgreamhach, was now clearly visible. The snow was thin along the valley and up the lower slopes beyond. Then it deepened on the headwall, where a broad gully led up to the col between our peak and Bidean Nam Bian.

Up to now, I had been moving well. It was only as we began to ascend toward the headwall that I found myself breathing more heavily than usual.

The track led us up to the base of a crag, where we put on our crampons before moving across into the gully. The snow was in reasonable condition, if a little soft, and the angle, while steep, was not excessive. The crags, pushing through the snow on either side made the mountain feel bigger and more serious than it really was. I should have been enjoying this. Instead, I was struggling.

Brian soon established a rhythm in step-kicking up the slope, and steadily opened a gap between me and him. A lone climber we had met on the approach to the gully took out two short-handled ice axes and motored up after him. I felt wobbly on my legs and had to pause for gasping breaths every ten or a dozen steps. My heart was thumping wildly.

Foreshortening of the upper slope made the distance to the col appear quite short, and the other two reached it fairly quickly. But when I looked up during each pause in my slow ascent, it did not seem to be getting any closer. Several times, rather than stand while regaining my breath, I cleared a patch of snow and sat down for about a minute.

The slope steepened toward the top, but eventually, I pushed myself through the gap the others had broken in the cornice, and crawled on all fours onto the flat, wind-swept col. I spent the next ten minutes drinking hot tea to restore some energy.

The final ridge to the summit was easy-angled, rising not much more than 120 metres in half-a-kilometre. But I found it hard. I plodded up slowly, giving myself plenty of opportunity to admire the view. The sky was heavy and threatened more snow, but most of the summits were clear. Sunlight broke through the clouds in places, and caught the hills in an eerie glow. Several parties were approaching the summit of Bidean nam Bian on the other side of the col.

At the summit, we sheltered from the arctic wind and ate some lunch before retracing our steps to the col. Had I been in better condition, we would probably have climbed Bidean. As it was, we slid off the col through the cornice and, digging our ice axes into the snow, glissaded quickly and safely to the bottom of the gully.

Lest I deter anyone who might be considering becoming a blood donor, I must add that the following day was completely different. After a good meal and a good sleep, I was fully restored.

We drove to the White Corries car park, and cheated a little by taking the ski lift up the lower slopes of Meall a’ Bhuiridh. We contoured around the back of the mountain and across hard-packed snow slopes between small rocky patches. Much of the climbing was steep enough to be precarious, but I felt good and in complete control. We climbed onto the broad plateau of Creise, across this to the summit, then back to take in the subsidiary top of Clach Leathad.

On the return, we spent much of our time dodging the hundreds of skiers who were intent on enjoying what, in recent years, have become somewhat rare conditions in Scotland. We were amazed at the number of small children who expertly descended the runs, many of them not even using ski poles.

As we floated back down on the ski lift, I reflected on what could have been a disastrous weekend. I had made an error that I would not repeat. But in retrospect, and despite my struggles, this had been one of the best weekends of the winter.

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