Decision

Decisions, decisions.

I am in the back seat sitting next to my son when the phone goes.  It is Pete Naylor on the other end, asking if I know anything about our friend Steve.  A rumour has started that he has been killed in a climbing accident; Pete Naylor wonders if he has been out with the club.

I phone around a few people, being cagey about what I say, just asking if he has been in an accident.  I am very conscious of my son, he is quiet.  It is the specific kind of quiet that means I-am-listening-but-I-don't-want-you-to-notice.

No one knows anything.

I get off the phone.  My son asks "What's happened to Steve, Dad."

"I don't know.  He might have been in an accident, but no one knows if he has.  He might not have been in an accident."  This is strictly speaking true.  But it is not a comprehensive truth, is it?

When I hear it, I think Steve probably has been killed.  In our climbing community, I've never heard a rumour like it.  We aren't constantly running round saying "Steve's been killed again", for him to turn up on Sunday and order a coffee.  But getting confirmation is difficult. 

Of course, I get on the internet.  

EXPERIENCED CLIMBER KILLED IN GLENCOE

DECEASED CLIMBER WAS MEMBER OF MOUNTAIN RESCUE TEAM

TWO MISSING ON BEN NEVIS

BODIES RECOVERED IN MOUNTAIN RESCUE SEARCH.

None of these are Steve.  But eventually, we get confirmation that the worst is true and Steve has been killed.

         *

End of a long but good day, Glenmore Lodge training a few years ago.  Photo thanks to Jono Bailey.

I don't tell my son.  In fact, it is a fortnight later when someone phones me, and I talk to them about it.  After I hang up, it is obvious that my son has heard every word.

"What's happened to Steve, Dad?" He asks.

"I'm afraid he was killed in an accident."  

My son cries.  "Next time someone has an accident I want you to tell me."

         *

I come back from a one day climbing trip, just to the Peak, no snow involved.  

"I was perfectly safe, I only did easy stuff."

"Just because its easy doesn't make it safe," he says.  "You told me most accidents happen to people climbing below their grade."

I had no idea he was listening so carefully.  Of course I have told him that: when he's worried that the climbs I am doing are hard.

"Well, anyway," I say "I didn't take any risks."

"Yes you did.  You drove there."

The drive to the crag is more dangerous than the climbing.  I can hear myself saying it.  

       *

"Are you still going to go on the winter trip then?" my partner asks.

"No.  Probably not.  It's not fair to him is it?" 

I've made my decision.  I cancel my place on the Highball Winter Trip.

       *

Ah, I think.  I prefer nice clean rock anyway.  I'll get on the slate, or the grit.  None of my best climbs were in the snow, I never got onto something I could lose myself in the difficulty of the movement.

I look at my instagram feed.  Scottish Winter has started and celebrity climbers are staring to post pictures of brightly clad spacemen iceaxeing up rime-plastered rock.  I feel a lurch every time I see one.  I try and remind myself of the anxiety I felt every trip, constantly looking for signs of avalanche, a week's worth of poor night's sleep.  I keep thinking of the laughs we've had though, on Curved Ridge, or routes on the Ben.  It's hard to think I won't be there this year.

I tell those who need to know that I'm not coming.  A few already know.  My friend Tim says he has the same fears.  I explain my decision to another friend who calls it "fair and sensible. Respect".    Everyone says "you'll be missed."

Making myself look better than I am, photo thanks to Tom Wilkinson.

You're fucking forty, I think.  Stop worrying about feeling left out.