I remember the moment they declared him dead. The thud of the coastguard helicopter coming down the valley. I have a VHF licence and understood the communication between ground and air. I knew that was it.
I remember the sound I made as they told me he was dead, even though I knew, deep down, that he already was. It was a primitive sound, a wail-come-scream from the depths of my soul. The lady doctor held on to me as the sound came out, they wrapped me up in huge coats in case I went into shock.
I remember three people escorting me down the hill and thinking that we hadn't taken this little cut through path on the way up. They put me in the Landrover and they gave me tea from the Old Dungeon Ghyll. When I finished the tea, we drove slowly to Ambleside. As we approached the MR post, only then did they tell me that the police were waiting.
The lady from the MRT was lovely, they found me food (biscuits) and even some decaf tea. I cried and I cried and I cried some more. I didn't really understand what this terrible situation was. The two police officers asked me questions, I answered and I cried. They came and went a few times and I was left with tears, tea and biscuits.
The policeman came in with our rucksacks. Everything inside was mixed up. As things came out, I had to point to mine and to his, it was so finite and so false; in life it didn't really matter whose gear was whose.
The policeman came in with our rucksacks. Everything inside was mixed up. As things came out, I had to point to mine and to his, it was so finite and so false; in life it didn't really matter whose gear was whose.
The MRT lady got me to phone my dad, and my friend Andrea. She conspired with Andrea to come and get me the next day. It must have been quite late, I'm surprised my dad answered the phone. The police kept asking questions and confirming information, I remember doing some kind of digital hunt for his sister's address.
They let me see his body again. I remember that black and yellow buff. The one that matched his running shoes.
After litres of tea and hundreds of biscuits, the Police asked me where I was going for the night. It was gone 11 by then. I said I would go back to the hut. I didn't know what else to do.
The people in the hut were so relieved when I came in and somehow, through more tears, I managed to communicate that I was the only one who was coming back. The policeman took all his things away, even the car. I was left stranded in Langdale, with the dog to take care of.
I remember being slumped in a chair near the fire in the hut, drinking whatever was handed to me. I remember still crying, bouncing between happy anecdotes and tears. By 4am I trundled up to bed. Even in a full dorm, I cried myself to sleep.
I can't remember where the dog slept and I think a combination of alcohol and medication gave me a few hours peace. But it was like hitting a wall when I woke up. The realisation of all that had happened crushing me like a ton of bricks, a few moments after I opened my eyes. I burst into tears when I came downstairs in the hut. A complete stranger comforted me as I cried once again.
It is those hours, between being escorted off the hill and being handed over to Andrea the next day, that haunt me the most. Not detained by the Police, but not free to leave. Trying to make sense of the awful thing that had happened, feeling so alone in the midst of chaos. I remember telling my dad on the phone that there was no point in living anymore, when everyone I loved had already gone.
That evening I had lost the person who understood me the best, and who I cared for the most. For all I wrestle with overcoming my grief each day, I have been heartbroken ever since.
