"See you in Glen Nevis tomorrow night" said the brusque little note on my door: which is why, having found the usual camp site deserted, Ian (henceforth referred to as 'Mouse' to distinguish him from myself), and I were driving back down the glen somewhat annoyed. Suddenly Andrew and Steve appeared around a corner; we careered to inches of each other and while Andrew and I hurled abuse, Steve collapsed with laughter and was heard to mutter, "I told you!"

Hostilities were adjourned the next morning as we emerged at the unusual hour of 6am, (only certain hard climbers in the club have previously been known to do this!), and in due course clanked off up the path with a few grams of ironmongry and string. We reached the CIC hut about 11am to enjoy a friendly SMC welcome from a sole distinguished member sitting inside the hut with the door locked.

The heat was uncomfortably warm (as heat sometimes is), as we surveyed the impressive snow covered cliffs of thaw. Somewhat doubtfully we decided to press ahead with our plans for Gardyloo Gully (II/III, 600 feet), noting in justification that it of all climbs had some chance of still being in condition.

We waded up Observatory Gully with our bejant snowplough proving his worth on the laborious route up an appealing (did I mean appalling?) line of avalanche debris. At the foot of the gully proper, the mist slowly closed in leaving only a narrow and ever steepening snowslope, flanked by intimidating walls dangerously decorated with dripping snow.

"The classic great chockstone", say the guides, "can be passed in two ways: either walk beneath it and climb a steep ice pitch at the back, or in an exceptional winter, walk over the top". Unfortunately I was now confronted with my own passion for compromise in the shape of a blocked passage beneath, but insufficient snow to go over the top. This seemed a good time for lunch!

Steve belayed from some pot-holer's paradise complete with running water (albeit down his neck, and cold only) while Andrew set off to attempt the summer rock route. We heard very little from him bar the occasional arrangement for solo peg and hammer, (which I suppose should have warned us that things were hard), until an urgent appeal for more rope sent the subterranean Steve slithering to the foot of the rock. There then followed a strained conversation with a totally unknown voice - which at first suggested that things were indeed exceeding hard, but later proved to be two helpful Edinburgh climbers. They, peacefully wandering around on the plateau, were suddenly confronted by Andrew, three feet from safety with no more rope and faintly puzzled about what best to do. Their proffered dead man and communications assistance proved of great value.

Meanwhile back at the chockstone, Steve was muttering rude things about absurdly impossible Stevenson moss and rock pitches, while I was visibly wilting at the thought of having to lead what he was so graphically describing. Mouse was happily freezing on his secluded ledge to a rhythmic accompaniment of thudding snowfalls from the face above and whistling spindrift.

Eventually I judged Steve to be well clear and set off to see what had been causing the problems. There was a large smooth slab leaning at a ridiculous angle and offering a good hold about face level. Not fully appreciating the McDither Friction Approach, I cleared away vast quantities of wet slush to uncover two imaginary ledges which sufficed to climb up and jam in a wet airy chimney. A mist clearance showed the coire a long way below. Strenuous and inelegant moves led up the chimney, around an exposed corner and so on to the top of the chockstone and an easy snow slope littered with deadmen (actually only one - thoughtfully left for my use as a runner). At the top of a restfully easy cornice I was met by Andrew, munching biscuits and gleefully explaining the belay arrangements. By the time I had fully recovered my breath, Mouse had arrived complete with the peg about which he had been heard to inquire, "how do I get it out without dropping it?"

A quick visit was paid to the summit; we argued about which was the way down; and we had a fine glissade / slide / roll... down the Red Burn. And to complete a magnificent day in memorable style, as Steve and Mouse sped down the path, Andrew and I enjoyed a reflective see-saw balanced on a large beam in the gathering gloom.