Below Lochnagar at night after the long walk in. It is Winter. Snow is in the air. It is cold. Crouching under a sheltering rock we hurriedly try to have a brew before bivvying. We have four matches to light the stove. They are a bit damp. We are thirsty. The first match snaps. Three left. The next match lights. A gust of wind navigates the gaps in sheltering fingers and snuffs it out. Panic begins to set in..... Two matches left. The penultimate match lights. It is carefully transferred to the waiting burner. Hands protect it in every direction. Just at the point of ignition a drip from the protecting rock lands precisely on the match head. The flame disappears with a fizz. One match left.....
I can't go into the invectives, expletives and recriminatory glances that ensue. It is too painful a memory. The final match is struck. It lights. The stove is lit. It purrs happily. We purr happily. All is forgiven. I reach for the pan full of water sitting on the snow ready to be transferred to the stove. I put it on the stove......the snow sticking to the bottom of the pan extinguishes the cooker flame.
