"...The Munros are Scotland's largest mountains and although they may not be the highest in the world they certainly have one of the greatest followings.
The Munros are mountains which exceed 3000ft in height and there are 283 in total throughout Scotland. They bring millions of walkers from all over in the world in a bid to "bag" them all .
They take their name from Sir Hugh Munro, 4th Baronet ( 1856 - 1919 ) who first produced the list all the way back in 1891..."
Of the two hundred and eighty-three Munro mountains that exist, only the twin peaks of Elspeth, remain to be conquered.
Two soft undulating mounds of uncharted territory fraught with difficulty.
A challenge that requires careful planning.
Tactics, risk assessments, the consequences of failure to be considered.
Others before have attempted to scale the insurmountable peaks and failed.
Some brag and boast, another Munro bagged they say, unwilling to lose face and admit failure.
Each one in turn takes his leave, punished.
The conditions weren't right for the assault they argue.
None, have ever returned.
The twin peaks of Elspeth, the greatest prize of all, remains unconquered.
I was in love with Elspeth Eleanor Munro.
I never admitted to her that I loved her, perhaps I should have.
I wasn't alone though, everyone loved her and lusted after her.
I would fall on every soft caring gentle word she shared with me.
I could stand and stare at her for hours on end mesmerised.
She was beautiful.
She reminded me of a wild but gentle red doe running through the sweeping glens towards the mountains.
Hunters in pursuit, eager to capture her and tame her.
She would turn and laugh at them, free in her chosen environment, at one with nature.
Then she left unexpectedly.
To America or Canada some said.
No one knew for sure.
I was distraught, filled with a grief and despair beyond comprehension.
The days slipped into weeks, then the months crept into years.
Two years passed before she returned.
Tired, worn looking, a fragility that seemed at odds with the free running bright spirit I once knew.
'Come to the hills with me' she whispered to me one day.
For an hour or so we walked in silence until we reached Stùc a' Chroin... the Peak of Danger.
On a ledge jutting out high above the glen she turned abruptly cursing me in Gaelic.
Her voice rose with the wind,piercing, probing.
The soft caring gentle words she shared with me years ago blown aside with the keen North wind.
New words, sharp, bitter Gaelic expletives mixed with English poured from her.
'Go on... what are you waiting for...take me...you have always wanted to... haven't you...haven't you...you are no different from the rest of them...you...!'
She leaned back exhausted and pulled open her shirt.
'Look !' she demanded.
'Look at me? Now...do you still want me...?
The two soft undulating mounds of uncharted territory, the soft twin peaks of Elspeth, her breasts had gone.
'No nipples for you to feast upon now...is there...is there...!'
She cried out.
Scarred craters like a NASA moon picture, the flesh I desired pock marked and pitted.
Deep fissures ziz-zaged across the remains of her chest.
The only hands to have ever caressed her breasts before cutting them free were that of the surgeon.
'I love you...I love you' I blurt out.
As I moved forward to hold her she let herself fall backwards into the black void of Stùc a' Chroin.