Telling the Tales of the Dead
By Owen Clarke
As a climbing writer, I seem to write a lot about death. This isn’t because climbing is a dangerous sport (unless we’re talking about high-altitude mountaineering or alpinism). You’re probably more likely to injure yourself at a ski resort or a skatepark, perhaps even on a football or soccer field.
But like any outdoor sport, people do die. Sometimes they die on the wall. Sometimes they die standing below it. Sometimes they die walking to the crag, or—in the case of French phenom Patrick Edlinger—falling down the stairs at home.
I used to write about remote expeditions and first ascents and competition victories. Inspiring stuff. Sometimes I still do. But in recent years, I’ve transitioned out of the climbing niche and into a more general sphere of the outdoors and travel, and done less journalism in the process. I’ve grown less connected to the climbing world and pitched fewer stories to the editors I work with.
These days, when I do write about climbing, I often find myself writing about fatal accidents (and subsequent memorial pieces).
It’s not that I’m pitching these sorts of stories, running around asking to write them. They just seem to be the main type of article I’m contracted to write. Maybe that’s because I’m someone who can be relied on to do a solid job. Maybe it’s because these are the kinds of stories no one else really wants to write. Perhaps it’s a bit of both.
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Writing obituaries and memorial pieces and reports of fatal accidents is equal parts fulfilling and unpleasant.
Almost no one wants to hear from a journalist asking about their deceased climbing partner, friend, or family member. But almost everyone is happy, even proud, after the story of their beloved is published and shared with the world.
I’m regularly confronted with irritated, angry, and downright hostile people while trying to work on a memorial piece or accident report related to a death in the climbing world.
These encounters are tricky because, on one hand, I truly do not care whether or not I write about this story. I don’t know this person, nor do I know their loved one who died, and although I’ll make a couple hundred bucks off an article if it’s published, I could just as easily spend my day writing about something else, making money some other way.
I have no desire to go bother people and ask them for stories and photos of their dead friend or brother or mother or college roommate, certainly not if they don’t want me to.
But most of the time, the bereaved aren’t very clear. They sit somewhere between “Yes, I want to speak with you,” and “No, go fuck yourself.” They don’t not want to talk to me, because they want the story of their dead loved one shared with the world. But they are (understandably) extremely unhappy in a general sense.
Depressed. Angry. Volatile. Sensitive. Emotions are raw.
The bereaved are often extremely particular about certain choices of words, facts, quotes. You have to be careful what questions you ask. You have to bookend each phone interview, email, or other communication with meaningless condolences (“I’m so sorry for your loss”).
Even the finished articles are nitpicked as much as the interviews themselves. People deeply care about these stories and how they’re told. People who were close to the deceased care a lot, and even people who didn’t know them at all seem to care a decent bit. I imagine folks are sensitive because the dead aren’t there to speak for themself. Their loved ones have to act as their voice. Their guardian.
Sometimes I interview two people who have vastly differing opinions about the same loved one, or who request that one or another person not be allowed to contribute to the piece. An ex-wife and a daughter who hate each other but both want to be in the article. A brother who has only disparaging remarks about the departed. A mother who hates the sport of climbing because it took her son from her, and wants everyone to know it. So on.
But after the fact, these same people often reach out to me to tell me how meaningful it was to have their loved one’s story told, how they framed the article or shared it with all their family, how it was read at the dead person’s funeral, how it brought them to tears, and so on. Honestly, I think I get more positive feedback about memorial pieces than I do anything else I write. It’s a Catch-22.
It doesn’t happen always, but when it does I think, “Nice. Maybe there’s something special about this. Maybe I did a good deed.”
Because that’s about the only benefit to writing memorial pieces and obituaries—doing something good for others.
As I mentioned, they aren’t enjoyable. And they certainly aren’t a good way to make money. The time investment is quite large, and as a freelancer, I earn a fixed fee. Loved ones of dead people drone on and on when you interview them, and once they hear you’re writing a memorial of someone they knew, they pop up like weeds, contacting you and asking to be included. I often spend more time on a short memorial piece than I do on a feature-length magazine article or cornerstone piece for a brand journal.
Sometimes I wonder if I’d like to have some semblance of my life story condensed and edited and published in an online magazine. I’m not sure. On one hand, I think it would depend on the person who wrote it. On the other, I don’t think I’d care one way or another… because I’d be dead.
I do think those that loved me would care, though. That’s why I always accept these jobs.
It’s not for the dead. It’s for the living.
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There’s a sense of camaraderie among the climbing community when learning about the deaths of climbers. When we see a climber die while climbing, we see ourselves. We wonder if the same could happen to us one day. We all practice and love the same sport. We all accept the risk that comes with it.
But in a greater sense, there’s a sense of camaraderie among all living humans. Whether we die in a climbing accident or at home in bed or playing PlayStation, we will die. Memorial articles seem to comfort the living because they offer a sense of permanence. The person they love may have died—they might be rotting in the ground, food for worms, or ashes on the wind—but their story lives on, accessible via internet browser at suchandsuch.com, savable via PDF or printable using File > Print > Print Preview (or if time is short, the keyboard shortcut Ctrl+P).
These articles are special to people because they give a semblance of permanence. They provide comfort. They can also inspire.
I recently wrote about a woman who died under a block of falling ice after pushing a friend out of the way. Her story is evidence of a true and noble good that runs through the veins of some of us. That would cause us to, in our last moments, with the infinite bearing down upon us, move to save another, even if it meant the end of ourselves.
Ironically, although stories like this immortalize a human life, they also poke holes in the ideal of immortality by their very existence. Without impermanence, there could be no sacrifice.
Several times in recent months I’ve wondered if I’ll accept the next memorial piece or obituary assignment that comes my way. The work is almost always stressful and depressing. It’s often not worth the money.
But I’ve never said no. And I don’t think I ever will. These are the stories that give life meaning, precisely because they are stories of its end.
It’s an honor to tell them, no matter how difficult it may be.
Owen Clarke is a freelance journalist, motorcyclist, and mountaineer, and the founder of this publication. You can find his work on his website.
