Mono

	Country	Contributions	Between	Climbers	Crags	Climbs	Ascents
1	United Kingdom	11146	22nd May 2025 – 12th September 2026	114	13	586	1083
2	France	3430	22nd May 2025 – 29th August 2026	32	13	172	326
3	USA	1770	30th July 2025 – 14th August 2026	26	56	167	88
4	Japan	1478	19th July 2025 – 14th August 2026	14	25	107	73
5	Spain	319	31st July 2025 – 14th August 2026	3	9	35	13
6	Switzerland	229	31st July 2025 – 9th August 2026	2	5	21	15
7	New Zealand	216	19th August 2025 – 14th August 2026	1	1	17	13
8	Canada	170	10th September 2025 – 14th August 2026	1	9	25	3
9	Italy	166	12th August 2025 – 16th August 2026	2	7	19	7
10	Germany	151	8th November 2025 – 6th August 2026	4	6	10	5

	Date	Time	User	Type	Name	Attribute
261	10th August 2026	12:50:29 UTC	Mono	ascent	Doug Scott's ascent of South-west face	ascent_dt_end
Before `None` After `1975-09-24`
262	10th August 2026	12:50:29 UTC	Mono	ascent	Doug Scott's ascent of South-west face	climb_id
Before `None` After `2772`
263	10th August 2026	12:50:29 UTC	Mono	ascent	Doug Scott's ascent of South-west face	ascent_style_id
Before `None` After `1`
264	10th August 2026	12:50:29 UTC	Mono	ascent	Doug Scott's ascent of South-west face	climber_id
Before `None` After `1361`
265	10th August 2026	12:50:29 UTC	Mono	ascent	Doug Scott's ascent of South-west face	ascent_type_id
Before `None` After `10`
266	10th August 2026	12:50:07 UTC	Mono	ascent	Dougal Haston's ascent of South-west face	Ascent #
Before `None` After `1`
267	10th August 2026	12:50:07 UTC	Mono	ascent	Dougal Haston's ascent of South-west face	ascent_dt_start
Before `None` After `1975-09-24`
268	10th August 2026	12:50:07 UTC	Mono	ascent	Dougal Haston's ascent of South-west face	ascent_type_id
Before `None` After `10`
269	10th August 2026	12:50:07 UTC	Mono	ascent	Dougal Haston's ascent of South-west face	ascent_style_id
Before `None` After `10`
270	10th August 2026	12:50:07 UTC	Mono	ascent	Dougal Haston's ascent of South-west face	climb_id
Before `None` After `2772`
271	10th August 2026	12:50:07 UTC	Mono	ascent	Dougal Haston's ascent of South-west face	ascent_dt_end
Before `None` After `1975-09-24`
272	10th August 2026	12:50:07 UTC	Mono	ascent	Dougal Haston's ascent of South-west face	climber_id
Before `None` After `710`
273	10th August 2026	12:46:39 UTC	Mono	climber	Dougal Haston	notes
Before Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975. Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [Calculated Risk](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip). ### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711) >>>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack. Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he? You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes. Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media). ### References [1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/) After Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975. Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [Calculated Risk](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip). ### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711) >So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. >Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? >At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack. >Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he? >You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. >Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes. Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media). ### References [1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/) Diff --- before +++ after @@ -6,17 +6,17 @@ by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711) ->>>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. +>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. -Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? +>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? -At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack. +>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack. -Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he? +>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he? -You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. +>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. -Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes. +>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes. Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).
274	10th August 2026	12:46:39 UTC	Mono	climber	Dougal Haston	notes_pretty
Before <p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p> <p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p> <h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3> <p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p> <blockquote> <blockquote> <blockquote> <p>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p> </blockquote> </blockquote> </blockquote> <p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p> <p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p> <p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p> <p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p> <p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.</p> <p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p> <h3>References</h3> <p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p> After <p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p> <p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p> <h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3> <p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p> <blockquote> <p>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p> <p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p> <p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p> <p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p> <p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p> <p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.</p> </blockquote> <p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p> <h3>References</h3> <p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p>
275	10th August 2026	12:46:16 UTC	Mono	climber	Dougal Haston	notes_pretty
Before <p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p> <p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p> <h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3> <p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p> <p>"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p> <p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p> <p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p> <p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p> <p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p> <p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."</p> <p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p> <h3>References</h3> <p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p> After <p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p> <p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p> <h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3> <p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p> <blockquote> <blockquote> <blockquote> <p>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p> </blockquote> </blockquote> </blockquote> <p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p> <p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p> <p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p> <p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p> <p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.</p> <p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p> <h3>References</h3> <p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p>
276	10th August 2026	12:46:16 UTC	Mono	climber	Dougal Haston	notes
Before Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975. Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [Calculated Risk](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip). ### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711) "So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack. Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he? You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes." Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media). ### References [1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/) After Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975. Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [Calculated Risk](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip). ### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711) >>>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack. Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he? You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes. Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media). ### References [1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/) Diff --- before +++ after @@ -6,7 +6,7 @@ by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711) -"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. +>>>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? @@ -16,7 +16,7 @@ You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. -Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes." +Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes. Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).
277	10th August 2026	12:44:44 UTC	Mono	media	https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/	url
Before `None` After `https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/`
278	10th August 2026	12:44:44 UTC	Mono	media	https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/	missing_right_to_reproduce
Before `None` After `false`
279	10th August 2026	12:44:44 UTC	Mono	climber	Dougal Haston	notes_pretty
Before <p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalaya.</p> <h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3> <p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p> <p>"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p> <p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p> <p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p> <p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p> <p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p> <p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."</p> <p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p> After <p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p> <p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p> <h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3> <p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p> <p>"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p> <p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p> <p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p> <p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p> <p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p> <p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."</p> <p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p> <h3>References</h3> <p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p>
280	10th August 2026	12:44:44 UTC	Mono	climber	Dougal Haston	notes
Before Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalaya. ### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711) "So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack. Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he? You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes." Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media). After Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975. Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [Calculated Risk](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip). ### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711) "So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad. Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after? At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack. Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he? You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes." Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media). ### References [1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/) Diff --- before +++ after @@ -1,4 +1,6 @@ -Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalaya. +Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975. + +Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [Calculated Risk](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip). ### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall @@ -14,7 +16,10 @@ You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after. -Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide -shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes." +Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes." -Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media). +Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media). + +### References + +[1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/)

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Before

Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975.

Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [*Calculated Risk*](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip).

### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall

by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711)

>>>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.

Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?

You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.

Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

### References

[1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/)

After

Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975.

Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [*Calculated Risk*](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip).

### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall

by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711)

>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.

>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?

>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.

Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

### References

[1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/)

Diff

--- before

+++ after

@@ -6,17 +6,17 @@

 

 by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711)

 

->>>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

+>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

 

-Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

+>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

 

-At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.

+>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.

 

-Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?

+>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?

 

-You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

+>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

 

-Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.

+>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.

 

 Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

Before

<p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p>
<p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p>
<h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3>
<p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p>
<p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p>
<p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p>
<p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p>
<p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.</p>
<p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p>

After

<p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p>
<p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p>
<h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3>
<p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p>
<blockquote>
<p>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p>
<p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p>
<p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p>
<p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p>
<p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p>
<p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.</p>
</blockquote>
<p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p>

Before

<p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p>
<p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p>
<h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3>
<p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p>
<p>"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p>
<p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p>
<p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p>
<p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p>
<p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p>
<p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."</p>
<p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p>

After

<p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p>
<p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p>
<h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3>
<p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<blockquote>
<p>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
</blockquote>
<p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p>
<p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p>
<p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p>
<p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p>
<p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.</p>
<p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p>

Before

Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975.

Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [*Calculated Risk*](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip).

### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall

by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711)

"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.

Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?

You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."

Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

### References

[1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/)

After

Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975.

Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [*Calculated Risk*](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip).

### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall

by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711)

>>>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.

Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?

You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.

Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

### References

[1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/)

Diff

--- before

+++ after

@@ -6,7 +6,7 @@

 

 by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711)

 

-"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

+>>>So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

 

 Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

 

@@ -16,7 +16,7 @@

 

 You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

 

-Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."

+Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes.

 

 Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

Before

None

After

https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/

Before

None

After

false

Before

<p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalaya.</p>
<h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3>
<p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p>
<p>"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p>
<p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p>
<p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p>
<p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p>
<p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p>
<p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide
shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."</p>
<p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p>

After

<p>Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of <a href="/summit/1/mt.-everest" rel="noopener noreferrer">Mt. Everest</a>, with <a href="/climber/1361/doug-scott" rel="noopener noreferrer">Doug Scott</a> in 1975.</p>
<p>Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel <a href="https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip" rel="noopener noreferrer"><em>Calculated Risk</em></a>.</p>
<h3>Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall</h3>
<p>by <a href="/climber/711" rel="noopener noreferrer">Robin Campbell</a></p>
<p>"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.</p>
<p>Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?</p>
<p>At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.</p>
<p>Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?</p>
<p>You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.</p>
<p>Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."</p>
<p>Reproduced from <a href="https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media" rel="noopener noreferrer">SMC journal #168, page 209</a>.</p>
<h3>References</h3>
<p>[1] Portrait by <a href="/climber/1138/peter-biven" rel="noopener noreferrer">Peter Biven</a>: <a href="https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/" rel="noopener noreferrer">https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/</a></p>

Before

Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalaya.

### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall

by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711)

"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.

Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?

You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide
shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."

Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

After

Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975.

Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [*Calculated Risk*](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip).

### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall

by [Robin Campbell](/climber/711)

"So, mighty Haston, the painter of Lagangarbh, has gone now, too: killed in some meaningless skiing accident. It's worst when they die abroad.

Remember the aching disbelief when Smith went, the dreams from which you couldn't bear to wake, the feeling that you'd turn a corner, somewhere near the High Street, and there he would be – tatty raincoat, grinning suedes, wicked schoolboy smile – and the feeling that came after?

At least they found Haston’s body and somebody, Moriarty, saw him buried. You thought it didn't matter about Haston – he'd none of the innocence of Smith, he'd been away from the High Street too long, he’d spent too much time with the worshippers of money and fame - but then you saw the newsreel of Moriarty carrying the coffin through the town and then it mattered. The indomitable giant, his great head bowed, shuffling up through the drifts with the front end of the stretcher and the black coffin swaying past the camera made you crack.

Now you wish you'd gone, don't you? You wish you'd mortgaged your meaningless house a bit more and gone. Well, it's too late. Sometime soon you'll be walking in the City and there he'll be – loping along in his big boots, long hands slotted in pockets, ahoulders hunched, the big wolf grin and the North Wall eyes, ready for anything. But he won't really, will he?

You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."

Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

### References

[1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/)

Diff

--- before

+++ after

@@ -1,4 +1,6 @@

-Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalaya.

+Scottish mountaineer, famed for his exploits in the UK, the Alps and the Himalayas, notably the first ascent of the Southwest Face of [Mt. Everest](/summit/1/mt.-everest), with [Doug Scott](/climber/1361/doug-scott) in 1975.

+

+Haston died in a skiing accident, trying to outrun an avalanche – a fate foretold in his novel [*Calculated Risk*](https://www.adventurebooks.com/products/calculated-risk?srsltid=AfmBOopCEl4wuo0wh8k_7g2eKBU-J-i-ANBvwTgUSwjxhHYcEeltH6Ip).

 

 ### Dougal Haston - Cumha Dughall

 

@@ -14,7 +16,10 @@

 

 You remember that time when you both hitched to the Ben, you got there first and he had the key? You kipped in the shithouse, threw the Elsan outside and cursed him. Four o'clock in the morning, a big blue shiny morning, the door burst open and there he was, stripped to the waist cracking that huge grin and waving the key in front of you. Or that other time when you stood all the way from Paris in a train to Chamonix, stumbled out of the station and didn't know a soul? You turned a corner and he was coming towards you like a golden greyhound, sunglassed and sandalled, just back from the Eiger and who could mistake that smile ?! Or the time you tried that horrible route of his on the Tannery Bridge, 'grade six sustained' he said, and you quivering on the final miserable fingerhold while he grinned down the parapet and held out a merciful hand? Well these times are all gone now, for you and for him, and won't be again. Except, once in a while you'll get that kick in the guts that tells you it's a dream and you're going to wake up and whenever you go moping about the old wynds and closes there'll be the feeling at corners and the feeling that comes after.

 

-Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide

-shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."

+Remember Scott, sitting in some dreary single-end of a studio staring at the camera like a poleaxed bull while the blathering B.B.C. imbecile asked if he ever really knew him? What does knowing matter, (you felt like screaming)! He's gone and, with him, a long loping stride, narrow hips, wide shoulders, a lipless grin and bright blue bivouacked eyes."

 

-Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).
+Reproduced from [SMC journal #168, page 209](https://firebasestorage.googleapis.com/v0/b/the-smc-journals.appspot.com/o/journals%2FNumber%20168%20-%20Vol%2031%20-%201977.pdf?alt=media).

+

+### References

+

+[1] Portrait by [Peter Biven](/climber/1138/peter-biven): [https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/](https://www.instagram.com/p/Db26gdWpEiL/)

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