Finding Jim (27 page)

As we drive down the highway, I tug off my hiking clothes and shimmy into a bikini. We stop at a lake and dive from boulders into the clear warm water. Habby belly flops after me.

“We should skinny dip.” Scott grins.

“You think?”

“There's nobody around.” Scott fumbles beneath the water. We toss our suits onto the rocks and luxuriate in the caresses of the water. As the sun softens in the sky, I towel off and slide into a fitted sundress. We have reservations at a fancy seafood restaurant overlooking the ocean. After a satisfying dinner, my skin tingles from too much wine. I lean forward, hoping Scott will touch me, anywhere. I quiver at the thought. Over dessert, Scott checks his watch and asks for the cheque. We go Dutch.

We bumble to the car and race to the Lion's Gate Bridge. At the turnoff, a flashing sign warns: “Bridge closed 8 p.m. to 6 a.m. Use alternate route.”

“Shit. That's ridiculous.” Scott looks at his watch. “It's only 10 after eight.” He gears down, sets his teeth and guns the motor. “We're going for it.” He whoops and swerves around the barrier onto the deserted bridge. I lock onto the safety handle and feel the adrenaline mix with the heat of the alcohol. I am excited to be breaking the rules, and scared.

In downtown Vancouver, we park at the Odeon Theatre and boogie the night away listening to the Buena Vista Social Club. It's midnight by the time we head north on the highway back to Whistler. My limbs are heavy and my head lolls back onto the seat. I wish for my bed but Scott has other plans. He pulls into the climbers' parking lot in Squamish below the granite giant known as the Chief. He collapses the backseat, sets up sleeping pads and sleeping bags in the back of the truck and waves me in.

“Your quarters, my princess.” Scott checks the full moon before he snuggles in beside me. “It will be a couple of hours before the moon is high enough for us to see the route.” The plan is to rock climb a multi-pitch route called Dièdre, by the light of the full moon. It will take several hours. I close my eyes and wish for a snowstorm.

My eyelids flutter to the gentle chime of Scott's alarm. He is up and rummaging around before the chimes quit. It's 2 a.m.

“Okay. Looks good. The moon is high enough to see.” Scott is like a teenager sneaking out. I rub my eyes and prop myself up on one elbow.

“What's that?” I point in the direction of Dièdre.

“What? No way. I can't believe it. Those are headlamps. Someone poached our route.” Scott slumps.

I laugh from my belly. It seems ridiculous that we waited hours to climb in the middle of the night and someone beat us to it. Scott's face is drawn. What a determined guy he is, full of ideas and enthusiasm.

“Thank you, Scott. You planned a great day. I've never been on a date like that before.” Scott smiles shyly.

On the way home, he mutters several times about the dumb luck of being beaten to a night climb.

One afternoon, we bask beside a lake drinking beer and then bike back to my house for lunch. When it is time to go, I see him to the door. Halfway down the walkway, he quarter turns back to me, his head slightly bowed and gazes at me sideways with those big brown eyes, a shy grin … and he just keeps staring. I fidget.

What is that look? What does it mean? I look at the ground.

“I love you,” he mouths. The words stun me into a tense stillness, and my heart thumps. No, I plead silently, please don't love me. Our eyes lock, he slowly turns and walks away, giving no indication that he senses my terror.

I escape to Kilimanjaro to guide the Alzheimer climb and then go on safari. It buys me time.

When I return from East Africa, Scott is busy getting ready for Eco-Challenge in New Zealand. I meet with the Alpine Club of Canada and Jim's parents, brother and a few of his friends to discuss building a memorial hut in the Tantalus Mountains near Squamish. I envision a 20-person round hut made of stone with wood beams inside. I see a fireplace in the middle, a kitchen in the back and a sleeping loft. Jim will like whatever we do. Mom Haberl walks me to the door and I tell her, “I'm going to visit Scott in New Zealand.”

She raises her eyebrows and says, “Ooh, are you in love?”

“I don't know.” And I don't. My heart needs time. The buildup to departure day tenses my body; I don't want to leave Habby, my home, Jim. The night before I fly out, I bang my face into my pillow and yell, “I don't want to go. I don't want to go without you.”

Scott picks me up at the Queenstown Airport and I relax into his arms. It takes some time to settle into the car, as our bodies crave touch. As soon as we arrive at his little apartment, we make love. We walk hand in hand through the quiet streets, stop for Thai food and walk back in the dark along the water. Scott stops suddenly, pulls me to him and kisses me deeply on the mouth. So romantic. So charming. I am speechless.

The next day, Scott leaves for work. He is the designer and safety manager of the 500-kilometre Eco-Challenge adventure race that starts in just over a week. I hike up Ben Lomond, through the forest and into the alpine, where it snows. After a few hours of laboured breathing, a lump forms in my throat and my chest aches. My heart strains to contain its shy thoughts and fears. Finally, the tears explode. I miss you, Jim. I feel alone. Why did you leave me?

And I am scared because I have come all this way to see Scott. This is a huge acknowledgement of my feelings for him and of the truth that Jim is dead. I feel exposed, naked and vulnerable. I try to go beyond my fear, to feel my heart, and I feel nothing, which is even scarier. Am I in love with Scott? The more time I spend with him, the more I trust him. Every day he tells me he loves me; our lovemaking is passionate and his eyes look right into my soul. I take a deep breath and try to let him in.

When he gets home from work I tell him I'm struggling. He holds my hand and I feel the heat of his body beside me.

“I'm feeling very exposed,” I stutter.

“Oh, Sue, I thought it would be okay. I invited you here because I thought it was the right thing.”

“It's not your fault. I just need you to know that I feel vulnerable.”

He relaxes and holds me while I cry.

That evening the Canadian guides arrive and Scott hosts a welcoming party. I think back to being with Jim in Morocco. Now I'm with Scott. It feels strange. Three times I head up the stairs to the party and three times I retreat to the safety of our bedroom. These people are friends who want the best for me. I coach myself. Please, Jim, give me strength and courage. When I finally surface shyly, friends hug me, bring me into the circle. One of Scott's best friends says he is so happy we are together. I heave a sigh.

It is November and in a week I will leave on another adventure.

I fly from New Zealand to Nepal, where I guide an Ascent for Alzheimer's team up 5350-metre Gokyo-Ri, in the valley adjacent to Mount Everest.

My feet move and my heart searches.

The Twin Otter feels like a crowded delivery truck. As the pilot throttles the plane to life, I could reach out and touch his crisp white sleeve. There are 13 passengers, eight of whom are my clients, who will climb Gokyo-Ri to raise money to fight Alzheimer's disease.

It is fitting that I struggle to preserve my memories of my life with Jim as I support the Alzheimer Society's struggle to find a cure for memory loss. Dad once told me of a lovely old woman who developed Alzheimer's and eventually went into a care facility because her husband could not manage. Almost immediately, the wife fell in love with another Alzheimer's patient in the facility. Her husband visited daily but was devastated. The one who is left behind suffers. I do not want to be left behind.

The engine revs and vibrates our seats. I clutch the armrest. The pilot lurches with the plane as it fights gravity. Bump, bump, bump, smooth. Airborne. He loosens his grip on the steering wheel, so I let out my breath and ease back into my seat. Kathmandu shrinks behind us. The mountains peekaboo out of the cloud.

I press my knapsack into my lap and whisper to the team doctor, “This is going to be great.” He nods, smiles and turns to look out the tiny convex window. Yes, it is. I already feel Jim. I want my high.

The co-pilot twists in his seat.

“We should have a great view of Mount Everest.”

The crowd murmurs.

“Do you have your camera?”

“I hope I don't get sick.”

We climb up the Khumbu Valley toward the Himalayan giants. The wings teeter-totter, and I sit forward to see if the pilot is scared too. But he lazily flicks switches and lets his body roll with the movement of the plane, which is like a boat bobbing on the ocean. We shout to be heard above the drone of the engine and the wind thumping against the plane.

“Is that it?” one of my clients gestures and asks.

“No. Not high enough,” I shout back.

Twenty minutes into the flight, the pilot points, “There it is. That's Everest.” We strain against our seat belts. It is a faraway hulk. We fly at about 4000 metres, and Everest towers at 8848 metres. A cloud moves across it like a curtain. We look at one another open-mouthed as we weave up the valley between the world's most spectacular peaks. The plane banks hard left, and I turn my attention to the cockpit.

The pilot talks into his mouthpiece and nods at his co-pilot. They sit up, scan the instruments and peer over the nose of the plane, pointing down at layers of cloud. They navigate by sight, which worries me, given how much cloud there is. The pilot works the throttle, and the plane whines and shudders. Flaps clunk down. The plane dives at the side of a mountain. I hook my fingertips on the rim of the window and press my cheek to the glass. Through clouds a patchwork quilt becomes terraced hillsides. Large grey boulders turn into buildings. A postage stamp stretches into a small landing strip headed into the mountainside. I finger my bottom lip and look around to see if anyone else has noticed. How will we land on that? How will we stop before crashing into the side of the mountain?

The pilot grips a stirrup hanging from the ceiling, and I wonder if it triggers his parachute. But he seems attentive and calm, even as the ground gets closer. The postage stamp gets a bit bigger, but not much, and stops abruptly where the terraced earth rears up. The landing strip is 20 metres wide and 450 metres long. It is situated at a staggering 12 per cent incline to help the plane slow down. Moderately.

I sit on my hands and squeeze the edge of the seat. My internal dialogue attempts to soothe my fears. These pilots land here several times a day. And anyway, the situation is out of my control. Either we make it or we don't.

At the same time, I scan the interior for emergency exits and parachutes. I don't want to die. This is good. It wasn't so long ago that I was neutral about the whole idea.

Just before the wheels hit, the pilot throws the propellers into hard reverse, and I close my eyes. He works the flaps against the wind to stop the plane. I open my eyes as we careen past blurred figures of people, yaks and luggage.

Our surroundings come into focus, the plane jolts to a stop and we clap furiously like old windshield wipers. We have made it to the mountain village of Lukla at 2800 metres, the jumping-off point to Mount Everest Base Camp and our objective, Gokyo-Ri: 2500 metres to climb.

As we collect our duffle bags and backpacks, hopeful sherpas move down the hillside. Yaks tear at the short grass. Our sirdar, the head of our Nepalese support team, directs us to a nearby lodge for tea while Sherpas and porters load our gear onto yaks. I give the massive, curved-horned, long-haired beasts a wide berth. A steady stream of trekkers going to Everest Base Camp shares our route for the first few days. Buildings become scarce as we roller-coaster our way up the valley. After a brief stretch of pine forest, the trail dives to the river Thado Khola, where a humungous suspension bridge stretches to the other side. We wobble across it single file, flattening like pancakes to let yaks pass.

In the bustling town of Namche, construction is everywhere and baked goods abound. Several businesses offer Internet here at 3500 metres. Most people experience some sort of altitude sickness above 3000 metres: headaches, nausea, loss of appetite, shortness of breath. I wait for the feeling of malaise, like an experienced warrior. We spend two days here to acclimate and climb a few hundred metres up out of town to view the big mountains: Everest, Ama Dablam, Lhotse. The clients move slowly but enthusiastically, some with headaches and lethargy. A few of them are not sleeping well.

The Nepalese greet us by putting their hands together in front of their hearts, closing their eyes, bowing and saying “Namaste.” My
Lonely Planet
guide offers several definitions of the salutation, and I cobble together my own meaning. The light inside me sees the light inside you and I honour the spirit in you that is also in me. There is a divine spark within each of us that is located in the heart chakra so you bring the hands together at the heart to increase the flow of divine love. Bowing the head and closing the eyes helps the mind surrender to the divine in the heart.

The next day, we climb up the other side of the village to a Tibetan monastery. I hear the tinkle of prayer wheels as we get closer. A serene-looking monk dressed in brown robes motions for us to enter the two-room sacred building. Yak butter burns in front of Tibetan statues. I pull at my long skirt and long-sleeved shirt and crouch to go through the wooden doorway. The scriptures are more than a thousand years old. I try not to breathe on them. The monk stills and looks like he is in a trance. I wonder if he is praying.

Tibetan Buddhists believe that saying the mantra 
om mani padme hum
out loud or silently to oneself invokes the powerful benevolent attention and blessings of Chenrezig, the embodiment of compassion. The prayer can be translated as “Hail the jewel in the lotus.”
Om
symbolizes one's impure body, speech and mind and also the pure noble body, speech and mind of the Buddha. The good and the bad.
Mani
, the jewel, symbolizes compassion and love and the altruistic intention to become enlightened.
Padme
means lotus and symbolizes the wisdom that keeps you out of contradiction.
Hum
means inseparability and can be achieved through compassion and wisdom.