Salmon Curry

Salmon Curry.

Mike and Serge sat down at the hostel table in front of me.  I looked at them frosty, my skin tight after a day in the wind.  I was still waiting for my dinner, Steve was over in the kitchen behind us, cooking.

“Alright, Pete,” said Mike, deadpan.  He was holding a plate piled up with glistening pasta, a creamy, cheesy sauce over the top.   As he put it down on the table, he did a little drumroll with his knife and fork.

Steve Gaines on the summit of Beinn a'Chaorainn

“Alright, Pete,” said Serge, who stuck his tongue out of the side of his mouth and grinned.  As he went to put his plate down on the table, he casually swirled it underneath my nose, so the steam and the smell rose up.  The sauce was shop-bought, out of a jar, with cheddar roughly grated over the top.

“You are a pair of bastards,” I said and they both cracked up laughing   Serge, while he was laughing picked up a forkful of pasta and put it in his mouth, but couldn’t chew it through the giggles.

“Ah, Pete.  I know what he is cooking is amazing, but wouldn’t you rather just have a load of shit and be eating it now?”

“Fuck. Off.” I said.  “Anyway, I knew it would be like this.  It’ll be worth it.”

Behind us, Steve was cooking away: the kitchen opened onto the dining area.  Steve was the only climber I knew who brought his own pestle and mortar with him. He was using hobs on two of the three cookers, squeezing the foreign backpackers into a corner, as they panicked and made simple food to get out of his way.  His pans were mounting up.  Now and then I would get up and wash some, just to keep on top of it, clear away another set of chopping boards.

Steve’s voice was quiet, a very soft Edinburgh accent, delivered low, and sometimes hard to hear.  I saw him turn at the waist and wave.  You would never mistake Steve, the way he moved.  His posture was so stiff, all the bones in his neck were fused, it slowed him down but never stopped him.  He beckoned and raised his eyebrows, and I went to pick up the dinner.

It was amazing.  Steaming jasmine rice, with anise and cardamom.  Soft floury naan.  Then a wok full of curry, the sauce a deep orange yellow colour, chunks of pink salmon.

Serge and Mike weren’t laughing any more as the rich smell hit them.  I caught their eyes and grinned nastily at them while I spooned on the rice, making a little volcano shape, then ladled in the sauce.  The smell rose up, not just curry powder, but a complex layered scent with the smell of every spice in it.  Maybe like music, where you hear the whole thing, but if you focus on it, you could pick out a cymbal or the intricate chords of a guitar.

Steve sat across from me, and popped open a beer.

“I hope you enjoy it,” he said, very quietly, and I laughed.  I would have replied but I already had a mouthful of rice.

            

Steve and I on what we thought was Western Rib, Aonach Mor, but may well have been Duke's.  Photo by Pete Naylor.

It was like this every trip with Steve.

I’m happy to cook if anyone else wants to chip in

Yes! :)

Yes Please from Sam and Charlotte.

my mouth is watering already, i am in

The food was always late and always great.  That salmon curry.  Haggis, neaps and tatties.  Sweet potato chips, cooked in an oven and dusted with a light chilli, flecks of sea-salt and rosemary on roasted potatoes.  Classic pasta sauces cooked from scratch.  There was always plenty but never any left.

              *

A few days after the salmon curry, two of our mates didn’t come back on time, we got a text from Charlotte saying they were ‘stuck but safe’, Mountain Rescue had been called. 

“Shit,” said Serge.  “Why don’t we get a couple of pizzas and some beers in for when they get back.  They’ll be hanging out, they’ve been up there in the cold for long enough.”

There is always a buzz when people are late back, out in the Scottish hills in the dark.  The young backpackers in the hostel picked up on it and were hanging around, waiting for a story to tell their mates back home.  We played up to it a bit.  

We saw the helicopter coming in, lights on and touch-down at the landing pad near the school: “Here’s the bird,” we said, and I heard a Swiss girl say ‘here’s the bird’ under her breath.

Steve put the pizzas on, they were a couple of shop bought margheritas.  He couldn’t leave them alone though, started added toppings, three types of smoked sausage, achovies, olives, peppers.  He tore up leaves of basil and chopped oregano with scissors.  Where had this stuff come from?  He just had it.

The Mountain Rescue Four-Wheel-Drive came up the hill.  Sam and Charlotte got out and walked through the door.   They both looked battered, dark circles under their eyes, we picked up their rucksacks.  The driver waved cheerily and drove off without a word, no need to add to Sam and Charlotte’s embarrassment at being rescued.  It would be routine for him, a ‘Good Shout’ with no lives lost, competent well-equipped climbers rescued rather than tourists in flip-flops.

The pizzas whisked through the door, we popped the top off beers, and Sam and Charlotte ate while we sat around them, pleased our friends were home.

              *

Mountain Rescue got Steve back off the hill at the end of November.   

“At least he died doing something he loved,” someone said to me, the old cliché.  I'd been waiting for it.

I don’t know, man.  I think you’d rather not have slipped and instead walked down the hill to some tasty food you took two hours to cook, with a bottle of wine.  I wish I’d got that recipe for salmon curry off you, but anyway.  It wouldn’t be the same.

In loving and respectful memory of our mate and climbing partner Steve Gaines.

Pete Naylor, Me and Steve Gaines (right) on Aonach Mor summit.  It's all about squinting into the sun for the selfies.
Photo thanks to Pete Naylor.