Just another day on the hill

This account reflects my own story, thoughts and opinions, and only includes the parts that I am happy to share. I know that anyone else having a similar experience will have lived through their own thoughts and feelings as they try to process a significant loss.

In the January of 2016, a police car pulled up outside our house at 4.30am. I couldn't sleep. I was already in the kitchen, pouring a glass of milk, living my normal life. I watched as the police car parked outside my house. We live down a farm track and the car had already been into the yard to turn round; my body was beginning to panic. The police officer came to report that our eldest son Joe had died in a climbing accident. His words just kept stabbing me. Stob Coire Nam Beith, Raigmore hospital, recovered from the mountain. He's Dead. These were the firsts, of a multitude of things I couldn't understand or make sense of. One thing I knew, instantly was that I couldn’t help Joe, or fix this.

The most inane of things to flash through my mind, in those moments, was that he hadn't seen my message from the night before. I had sent him a picture, delighting in a millimetre of snow at home, in contrast he was winter climbing, in deep snow, in Glencoe, with his friend Simon. For me, this was the first quiver of understanding of the loss I was about to experience.

Looking back

When I look back, and think about that day, I always imagine it was a great day. The excitement and anticipation, Joe, and Simon, would have felt on a long walk in, planning which routes they were going to climb, chatting about whatever it is a couple of mates chat about when they're heading up the hill for some winter climbing. I have consoled myself often with these thoughts. Obviously, something went wrong at some point when they both fell from the top of a route. They were both experienced climbers, well equipped, Simon ran an outdoor business; Joe was in Glencoe Mountain Rescue. My mind reviews the scenario often, searching for understanding. I believe, on that day, a normal day, Joe and Simon would have made decisions based on their training, knowledge and understanding of the situation. Every decision they made was made in their best interests utilising their experience of many other climbs, some of which went well and some of which were more difficult, this is the way we all learn. It’s quite likely that a myriad of small choices led to this outcome, choices which could just as easily have led to a much happier outcome for all of us. This could have been, just another day on the hill, photos to upload to social media, memories to share, two mates having a grand day out, building a foundation for further adventures. I am devastated still by their loss, and I am comforted as I trust in the normality of their day. A day which they didn't know would end in their deaths.

Why write this?

I found myself writing this some years later as I tried to understand my grief. I have spent the last eight years confused by my experience of grief, feeling unable to cry for most of that time and believing that I wasn’t able to fully appreciate Joe’s loss because of that. It turns out my grief was just unique and personal to me.

Joe left home and moved to Kinlochleven with a plan to live and work in the outdoor industry, something he achieved whilst working a range of part time jobs. I deeply miss Joe’s stories of his adventures and him sharing his excitement telling me what he'd been up to. He spoke with enthusiasm about his life in the Highlands, and the people he met and worked with. He told stories of his climbing adventures, introduced us to his friends and was proud of his role in the rescue team. I love and miss in equal measure, the uniqueness of Joe, the stories only he could tell, in his special mixture of life experiences that made him Joe. I completely miss being a part of his life.

At the time of his accident, we received an overwhelming amount of love, care and support which helped us to survive. Yet, as a mum on the periphery of a young adult's life, I searched for connection to the life he had chosen. Joe’s death was sudden, a long way from home, difficult to comprehend, we knew so little about winter climbing and shocking in the unexpectedness of it. In grief, we search for understanding, I searched for information, to learn how to deal with the death of my son due to an accident, climbing in the mountains. It was difficult to find comparable stories of loss. I don’t know the reasons for this but perhaps there is a reluctance to talk about loss in adventure sports. I imagine it is spoken of within the outdoor community but I needed to see stories, written accounts to help me understand my loss. In the following years, I found myself drawn to and upset by other deaths in the mountains, wondering about their families and how they were coping, but again there was no connection.

Processing grief

Early grief, for me, was all about following my instincts. Initially, it felt right to trust my instincts as there was a clear plan in my head. My three children, who had just lost their brother, had so much more of their lives left and I wanted the very best for them. I wanted them to still be able to have a good life. I wanted all of us to still have a good life, not be overcome by grief. It felt important to start as soon as possible being the love and support they would need for their futures, a foundation they could rely on, which would give them a safe space to grieve and do what they needed. In the beginning, we all needed physical closeness and this manifested, on the first evening, as dragging their mattresses into one room so that they could be together. As the days progressed, we would sit together on the stairs, five of us could sit in the closest possible formation to talk, cry, or laugh together. We all needed each other, and we all needed blankets to wrap ourselves in and feel safe. The chaos and confusion in those first few days meant that we wrote notes, appointments, and shopping lists on the fridge as remembering details was impossible. These were some of the strategies we needed, just to be able to function in the tasks of life in those early days.

During those early years I felt like I was searching for him in all the places in and around Kinlochleven. I could feel his presence at the local Co-Op, where he once left his farm overalls on the rail outside. He stubbornly refused to accept they were his, yet he was probably the only ex-farmer with a pair of tractor branded overalls in the area! Most of all in Kinlochleven, I visited the tailrace regularly. There is a pub called the Tailrace, but It was the actual tailrace where the water roars out of a channel, into the river that seemed to bring about the strongest experience. For me this was an auditory memory of our first visit to see Joe in his new life in Scotland. It feels good to take myself back, with this cue to when he was alive and full of life.

More recently I have come close to the feeling of understanding a part of Joe’s life, and beginning to feel like I could cry. I caught a TV program about mountain rescue in Eryri, (Snowdonia). For me, there is something about the show that highlights the relational connection and the authenticity between members of the rescue team as they work in a multitude of rescue situations. This program gives me a little of those old feelings, and it lets me connect with a side of him that is missing in my life, stories I might have heard about being a part of the rescue team. As I watched the first episode, a voice in my head was calmly saying “How did I not know I needed this?” ‘This’ being stories of rescues, a tangible connection to Joe’s life, much like I enjoyed when he was here. Also, I can’t overlook the bond with Glencoe Mountain Rescue, when I watch that program. I am deeply in awe, both of the work they do and how they cared for and supported us and Joe and Simon on what must have been the most painful of days.

Walking in Joe's memory

I can see now that I spent a great deal of time in the Highlands grieving for Joe by following in his shadow, learning to love the mountains and the outdoors. I found myself visiting places he had been and walking the paths I knew he had walked. He had worked as an outdoor guide so I walked the West Highland Way and later the Cape Wrath Trail, a long distance trek Joe had been due to work later that year. I had a strong desire to walk to Cape Wrath for him and experience something he was no longer be able to do. We also visited Kinlochleven and his home, many, many times in subsequent years, walking the paths and remembering him. I sense his essence in the hills and it’s comforting, it feels safe and reassuring to be there, where he was. Kinlochleven, is a respite where I can get as close as possible to him and breathe in that which he loved. He was at his happiest in the place where he was creating a life for himself, a place where his confidence grew, and he knew himself. In those two years in Scotland, he discovered who he wanted to be and matured into a confident, outgoing, happy young man who would have continued having adventures and making life work for himself.

I wrote this piece because death is such a shocking part of climbing and adventure sports, something I don't think we anticipated, yet it has had such a profound impact and is hardly spoken about publicly beyond the news that it has happened. I remember searching climbing related websites at the time (2016), looking for somewhere to connect with other people who shared similar experiences. Looking for support for our grief. In a sport where the risks are very high and tragedy does occur, it wasn’t easy to find stories online specific to traumatic loss in the outdoors community.

This being said, if you read this and have lost a loved one to climbing, mountaineering or related outdoor activities. I would be interested to hear from you and to connect with you.

The grief related to losing Joe has been confusing and shocking and an ongoing search for meaning and understanding, yet in all of my walking, talking and remembering him I feel I have found my grief.

If you have been affected by any of the issues in this story:

The Compassionate Friends support bereaved parents and their families. Their helpline is 0345 123 2304 or visit their website. You can also call the Samaritans any time, day or night on 116 123.