Lafaille

The news of Jean-Christophe Lafaille's death arrived the way most bad news does these days—via email.

One message came from a journalist asking for a quote; the other was from my wife, upset by the news and wanting to talk. Away in New Zealand, I typed Jean-Christophe's name into Google and searched for more details.

The words Makalu, winter, solo, and missing told me everything I needed to know.

People don't stagger down from 8,000-metre peaks in winter a week overdue—not even Lafaille.

Sitting in a house by the sea—still summer on this side of the world—I tried to order my thoughts. I read what people were saying about his life and death, about what a tragedy it was. A harder part of me thought, What the fuck did he think he was doing? It was a suicide mission. I remembered how the Poles had failed on that route in winter and how impossible the objective was: a first winter ascent, solo. Lafaille was kidding himself, the way most hard climbers do, believing he could walk that razor line and that technology, training, and experience would carry him through.

Yet if anyone could have pulled off the impossible, it was Lafaille.

I'd met him only once, after attempting his route on the West Face of the Dru. When you spend fifteen days following another man's footsteps, you feel you own something of his—and he owns something of you. When we finally got down, he wanted to meet us before we left. So after packing the car, we joined him for coffee at the Office bar in Argentière. We talked about the things climbers always talk about. Jean-Christophe told us about the house he was building; we compared the ages of our kids and swapped future plans. Eventually, it was time to go. We stood awkwardly outside in the morning winter fog while someone took our picture. I had my camera with me but never used it—I felt the small bond we had would break if I took his.

I'd read something he wrote in Alpinist magazine just the week before. Between the lines, you could sense he was ready to wind down, to do something else. No doubt he watched his kids growing day by day and wondered, like every mountaineering parent, whether he'd live to see them fully grown. I finished the article, hoping he would make it.

I emailed the journalist first and told him what I thought of the man, but it felt strange to offer my opinion as a footnote to the best climber on the planet.

Then I sat and thought—as Lafaille must have done many times—about how they would tell his children.

Then I rang home.