It's Alan Pettit of Gargunnock, a wee village near Sterling.
He was your typical nameless Scot* with stacks of experience in the Alps and,
duh, Scotland. We did Slesse, the Grand Tour de Bugs, Cottonwood Cyn,
some place near Modesto, etc. Then his wife flew out and they hired a car
and drove to Death Valley, in August. Yeah, he knew it was stoopid.
So they're literally the only guests, save one, at the fancy lodge there
(it isn't open in the summer now) and having G&T's under a brolly by the
pool watching the other guest do bloody laps in the near boiling pool. After
X laps he gets out and walks up to them and in broad Scots intones,
"Well, if it isn't Alan Pettit of Garrrrgunnock!"
They'd been mates in the U of Glasgow Climbing Club and hadn't set eyes
for yonks!
Oh, yeah, the climb is some heap called Dream of White Horses. Don't let
the sun fool ya - it was nearly the middle of November! But it wasn't
pissing and we're Scots and Irish; it's all good! Yeah, the Ben hadn't
come in yet so it was off to Wales.
*As I recall his French name goes back to the load of frogs Mary brought
back from France.
Let us know!