Above the Snowline His Forgotten Anchor

The annual outdoor brand launch. On the big screen, a photo of Austin Delgado and Julie Donaldson standing together at the camp at 24,600 feet.

The line of text beneath it read: "The perfect team. Partners through life and death."

The host asked Austin who had been most indispensable in his climbing career.

He glanced at Julie and answered without hesitation. "Julie, of course. Every time it counted, she was the one who pulled me through."

I sat in the audience, still holding the speech I'd spent two nights rewriting for him.

Three years. Every climbing season, I'd taken leave and camped out at base camp.

I learned to read weather charts, learned altitude-sickness first aid, learned to wait at twenty below for him to say, "Made it down safe."

Last year, in the storm at Camp Two, I hauled two big emergency oxygen tanks up to him. On the way down, the altitude sickness made me cough up blood.

All he said over the radio was, "Good work. Don't push it next time."

In the documentary, every frame I was in had been cut.

After the launch, Austin slung an arm around my shoulders. "Don't read into it. It's a commercial thing. You don't care about that kind of empty credit anyway."

I looked down at his phone's lock screen. That photo from 24,600 feet.

I wasn't in it.

So he didn't need me waiting for his safe-arrival call anymore.

……

"This limited-edition co-branded shell jacket, the cut's really not for everyone. It kind of shortens you. Just let Julie wear it instead."

Austin's voice came from outside the backstage dressing room.

His tone was gentle, with a thread of taking it for granted.

I stood at the half-open door, looking at the women's shell jacket with my name on it.

The brand had given it to me to thank me for three years as logistics director, paired deliberately with Austin's men's version as a couples' set.

Only fifty sets in the world, with my and Austin's initials embroidered into the lining.

Julie stood in front of the full-length mirror, struggling to pull the zipper up.

She was half a head shorter than me, and the hem hung down over her thighs, making her look a little ridiculous.

She turned her head, eyes faintly red as she looked at Austin.

"Austin, am I being too selfish? Taking Bea's things."

"It was the sponsor's gift to begin with. Bea stays at base camp now. A pro-grade polar piece like this would be wasted on her anyway."

Austin stepped forward and fastened the windproof clasp at her collar for her.

"You're walking Everest's south face with me next month. The waterproof layer's more useful for you."

Then he turned to me, his gaze calm, as if he were handing out shared supplies.

"Bea, you're used to that old one anyway, right?"

I lowered my head and looked at my own fleece jacket, washed pale.

Austin had bought it for me three years ago, the first time he landed a small sponsorship.

The cuffs had frayed soft at the edges.

"Right." I nodded.

Austin smiled, satisfied, and ruffled my hair.

"I knew you were the most sensible. You never fuss over these vain little things."

Julie's fingers, careless or not, traced the initials in the lining that belonged to me.

"Thank you, Bea. Honestly, I didn't want to fight over it. It's just, Austin said partners should dress to match, or the press photos won't look good."

She smiled sweetly, and at the bottom of her eyes flickered a challenge only I could read.

I didn't answer. I turned and went to the corner of the room, gathering up the gear Austin had left scattered across the floor.

The chalk bag, the locking carabiner and quickdraw, and the speech I'd pulled two all-nighters to put together for him.

On the draft, it had originally read: "Thank you to the safety rope behind me, my fiancée, Beatrice Sullivan."

Now that page was crumpled into a ball, tossed on the rim of the trash can.