‘Line and her friends have all died in a climbing accident. It is still not clear what happened but it seems they got caught in an avalanche while descending the Grosshorn.’

It rarely beeps. This was my first thought when the insistent beeping of my emergency satellite communicator woke me from an exhausted sleep. This must be important. Stomach rumbling as the aroma of red lentil dahl wafted from the kitchen tent, I loosened my sleeping bag and rummaged in my pack for the device. Then the message shattered my world.

Line? Line! My best friend?

I can’t breathe. My stomach churns, and in an instant my hunger is forgotten. Numbness spreads over my entire body. Everything around me is silent. It has been snowing and is well below freezing, but I can’t feel the crisp air or the cold. I do not feel the embracing sensation of being high in the mountains. I feel nothing but confusion and despair.

Only a few days before the message, I had been convinced that I was experiencing the lowest point of my expedition, climbing a new route on a 6,000m peak. For eight days I’d been bedridden in camp – maybe Covid or flu, struggling to breathe, body aching all over. I’d never felt so ill. At least I was where I most loved to be. At least I could look up from camp and feel enveloped by the majesty of the mountains.

They’re a good bunch, my climbing partners; some far more experienced than me, and we were becoming a solid team. After eight days, I started to feel better and ventured out from camp for the first time since being taken ill. Although conditions weren’t good enough to permit an attempt on our main objective, we did succeed in setting a new shorter route. All were excited by our success when we returned to camp in the teeth of an approaching snowstorm. While the others disappeared to prepare food or look at photos, I crashed in the camp bed that had been my home for the last eight days, utterly drained.

Then: Beep, beep, beep.

‘Line and her friends have all died…’

I was wrong. Being taken ill in one of the most beautiful places in the world was not the low point of my expedition. This is the low point. The lowest imaginable. I’m stuck in one of the most remote parts of Pakistan, receiving the soul-destroying news that I have lost my best friend and closest female climbing partner. What should I do? How the hell am I meant to feel?

‘…still not clear what happened but…’

It can’t be MY Line. It can’t be. Not Line van den Berg.

But I don’t know anyone else called Line. True grief isn’t something I have experienced before, and to make it even harder there is no mobile signal here. The snowstorm that rolled in after our return from the climb has raised the avalanche risk. It’s too dangerous to leave camp. The others are probably discussing when would be the best time to attempt the next route, but my head is clouded with horrific visions of Line’s death. With no details, my brain fills in the blanks.

‘…they got caught in an avalanche while descending…’

Why, as mountaineers, do we take these risks? Why do I take these risks?

‘You would have loved this,’ I whisper to Line as my mind wanders back to the route we have just climbed here in Pakistan. A perfect blend of rock and snow – mixed climbing, your favourite. I can see you now, squirming your way up the chimney I led. You’re a glutton for punishment, spurred on by beating the cold and the altitude. It challenges you. I watch you pull yourself over the final ledge, a goofy smile spread across your face with the total pleasure of doing what you love. And triumph at the summit. Exhilaration and elation. I imagine our joyous laughter, both of us excitedly taking selfies to post as soon as we get somewhere with signal. And to remember the moment.

‘Love you, sissy,’ we say to each other, dancing about. Mountain sisters. And then, here it comes – I can see the words forming on her lips, through that impish smile. ‘Dommage pas de fromage,’ Line says to me, as she so often did.

We should have been able to come here together, to enjoy this moment together. But this is just my imagination. You are gone, and the route we climbed is now only a memory from a time before I lost you. You would have loved this.

Dommage pas de fromage. Too bad. It will never be.

It is strange where the mind takes you at times like this. Line loved to sleep in the mountains, looking up at the stars, and visions of lying under the night sky with her flash through my mind, waking me from my restless sleep. It feels so real that I turn over expecting to see her next to me. She’s not there.

I had last seen her in February, just weeks before arriving in Pakistan. I wish she’d come with me. She’d still be here. And my mind wanders back to our last climbing trip together. ‘Scotland,’ I say to her. ‘The most frustrating yet meaningful trip we’ve done together.’

Lying there, I smile to myself – the first time I’ve smiled since beep, beep, beep. And a sudden memory comes: the cottage in Scotland, a wood fire roaring to dry wet clothes and keep us warm, the window looking out at a foggy, wet Ben Nevis. Guidebooks on the shelf tempting us with routes we cannot climb because of conditions. We came hoping for one good week to climb the most beautiful classic hard mixed routes, and make a movie about women climbing in Scotland, but instead we had a whole month of warm and wet. And as I lie there on my camp bed, lonely and grieving in Pakistan, our conversation from that day takes form – word for word – in my mind.

‘We’ve barely climbed at all,’ I complain to her.

‘The waiting game – the hardest part of mountaineering! When you are just so psyched and ready, you feel strong, but then you can’t climb. It has made me go a bit mad.’

‘You are mad!’

‘Ha! So are you! We always joke about how grim our days in the mountains are.’

‘Grim! You’re using my words now?’

‘I learnt it from you the first time we met.’

‘Harsh, difficult, challenging – that’s what grim means.’

‘Grim is more about connection, mindset, perception,’ Line reminds me. ‘We put ourselves out there and make the most of it, together. And as long as we can laugh about it, grim is something we share! So here we are, looking for the Scottish grim. But right now it is not being scared or wet. Now, “grim” is sitting around, waiting.’

‘You put it so well,’ I tell her. ‘We’re both pretty grim, then, aren’t we? You have to do a lot of wishful thinking in Scotland. But we can’t forget that we’ve got an all-female crew here with us – we’re here to shoot a documentary too.’

‘It’s great to be making a movie for women, about women. It sounded so simple and exciting when we planned it. It’s been so hard to find women who could come with us, but I’m glad we didn’t give up on our principles.’

‘If we, who are so outspoken and motivated about this topic, give up when it gets a bit hard, what message do we send to the world?’

Line nods. ‘So we just keep trying. Just like with our climbing goals. We stick to our vision, our dreams, our objectives.’

‘Not only can we win together but we can also lose together. We can still have fun just waiting. I think we must have laughed and smiled more than we ever have before. And that’s what makes this adventure so special. Together.’

My climbing team are caring and supportive. They have put up with me being unwell for days, and now they’re consoling me and trying to make me put Line’s death out of my mind and to think fondly of her. They mean well, but I am numb.

I’ve never needed to use the satellite phone before – it’s for emergencies. Today I borrow it to make two brief calls. The first is to my boyfriend. It’s very unemotional, not fair on him, but I have to find out more about what happened. I also make a call to Line’s parents. I’ve talked to them before, but hardly know them, so I want to be strong. Doubtless they’re suffering more than I am.

‘Line is not only my climbing partner, but my little sister and my best friend,’ I tell Trudy, Line’s mum. ‘Today we climbed a new route here in Pakistan. The team I’m with have given me so much support. We’ve decided to name the route after Line. We’re calling it Dommage Pas De Fromage.’ I know it is of little consolation, but I am doing the only thing I can from this far away.

‘How nice, Fay,’ Trudy says, and I hear a deeply emotional sincerity in these simple words. After a long pause, as if to rally herself, Trudy continues. ‘Line came up with that phrase herself. She wanted a French version of the Dutch phrase our family uses: helaas pindakaas. It’s perfect.’

Even as she explains, the little pun – typically Line – makes me smile. Helaas pindakaas means ‘too bad, peanut butter’. Dommage pas de fromage means ‘too bad, no cheese’. It’s funnier if you say them out loud.

***

We spent weeks talking online before we first met, trying to find a time and place for us to finally share a rope. After just one day of climbing with you, you made me feel loved and warm, as if I had known you for years. I felt a rush of emotion sweeping over me. I knew that I had met my partner for life – not my romantic partner, but my climbing partner. I knew that you felt it too, because you always said everything you were thinking out loud.

Our bond was instant. We went from being strangers to wanting to share all our days together. Although you lived in your van, you spent more time at my place with me. And we did more than climb together – in fact, the days in between felt even more special. You baked me carrot cake and we’d spend time looking at photos of our last outing together. We’d talk about everything, sharing all our ideas and dreams. You’d print out pictures for me to put on my wall, as you knew I would miss you when you went back home.

Before we met each other, we had only ever climbed with male partners. We changed that for each other. You motivated me to be better – to get out there, to explore. And I did the same for you.

Together we were confident. Together we were bold. Together we were brave. In everything we did together we were equal, confident, at ease. We knew we were going to inspire other women to follow in our footsteps. You motivated me to climb, and now I know why I took risks for you, and you for me.

Our final adventure was The Sorcerer (VII,8) on Ben Nevis. Leaving the house drenched in fog and swept away by strong winds, we laughed together nevertheless, joyful. At the base of the route the weather changed. Bright white snow plastered the rock; sun pierced the sky, sparkling on the ice. Torquing axes up thin ice-filled cracks with you, my best girlfriend, is something I will never forget. We were the only all-female team up there. And while we might have felt alone without one another, together we were so much stronger.

This is why we do it. Not just the climb, but the experience. Together.

Mountaineering comes with risks. Driving a car comes with risks; everything in life does. You are gone and I am deeply sad. But our shared experience has only grown my passion for the sport. I am now resolute to find more female climbing partners, to make new friendships, and inspire more female alpinists – all because of you.

First published in Sidetracked Volume 28