Finding Jim (9 page)

The rain eased, and for nine days we crossed swollen glacier-fed streams, wandered over crushed black rock, and crunched on snow to the summit of Mount Edziza. We did not see another person. At our first water crossing, Jim crouched momentarily before leaping a metre over rushing water, fully loaded under a 27-kilogram pack. I edged forward on the wet, slanted, launching spot, knees bent, one arm ready to swing, puffing madly, gaze alternating between the muddy landing on the opposite bank and the bubbling water below. Breathe, bend the knees, swing the arms and jump! But my feet stayed firmly planted. What if I fall? Get wet? Twist my ankle? Come on! Get it together! Breathe, bend the knees, swing the arms and jump! But the more I thought about it, the more I couldn't move. What if? My heart sped up with the ever-increasing list of things that could go wrong. I could take off my shoes and socks and wade through, but the rocks would cut my feet, it was freezing cold and the current still might pull me over. And my blisters would get waterlogged.

“Come on, Sue, you can do it,” Jim coached from the other side.

“I know. Okay, okay!” I barked. I didn't like to be left behind. I blew two short breaths through my nose, inhaled deeply, swung my arms back and then threw them forward with my leading leg. Airborne. I watched my foot sink into the mud many inches from the edge of the water and exhaled. Once I readjusted my pack, I grinned at Jim. For me, having to be self-reliant was part of the appeal of these wilderness adventures. I ventured out of my comfort zone to learn about courage, my strengths and my weaknesses, to trust myself.

The next morning, I winced as I pushed my feet into my hiking boots. The open blisters on my heels burned in spite of the padded dressing surrounding them. I tied my boots to my pack and wore woollen socks and Tevas for the rest of the trip.

The next stream crossing was too wide to jump. Water pushed against Jim's knees as he ferried our packs across. Jim returned for a third time and piggybacked me so that my blisters would stay dry.

On the final day, bugs of all shapes and sizes assaulted us as we descended through the forest. We walked briskly, at least four kilometres per hour, so that the biters were hard pressed to land. Sweat plastered the tightly woven cotton of our bug shirts to our skin. The mesh in front of my face drew strands of hair like a magnet, forcing me to continually blow at the clammy mess. At lunchtime we walked on the spot to discuss our options, slapping at miniature enemies on our hands.

“They'll eat us alive if we unzip our bug shirts to eat.”

“Right. We could set up the tent,” Jim offered.

“Let's do it.”

As we yanked the tent from my pack, spread the pieces on the ground and fumbled to put them together, I growled, “Now I know what people mean when they say ‘she went crazy and ran screaming from the woods.' Argh! It's too much!” My hands were covered in red welts, and anywhere the mesh of my bug shirt stuck to my skin, black flies had left little bloody craters. We dived into the nylon asylum, boots and all, zipped up and thrashed about killing any bugs unlucky enough to have made it in. Satisfied we were safe, we unzipped our mesh hoods and breathed new air.

“I like how if there is something that needs to get done, you do it, even if it's uncomfortable,” Jim said.

“Thanks. That's nice of you to say.” I stored the compliment for safekeeping. I watched Jim eating happily, covered in welts and stinky bug repellent and thought, he just doesn't get riled. He's so steady. “You're great. I love you.” I returned his compliment although he didn't need reassurance like I did.

Jim urged us to get going again. We lurched along for the last two hours, half walking, half running under our hefty packs. At the side of our pickup lake, we heaved our loads to the ground but remained standing to avoid contact with our clammy rain gear. The floatplane pilot loaded us in with a cheery, “Pretty wet, hey?” Jim and I laughed.

(SEPTEMBER 1995–MAY 1997)

Back in Vancouver, after seven months of travelling, we invited my parents out for dinner to reconnect. Over dessert, my stepmom looked at me expectantly and asked, “So, is there a special reason why you invited us out?”

“No, not really.” I raised my eyebrows trying to guess her meaning.

“No special announcement?” she pressed.

“Oh. I get it. Ha. No.” I laughed uncomfortably.

The next day, Jim and I enjoyed a picnic at the beach in the sun. Several curt comments escaped my lips before I mustered the courage to broach the subject on which I had been ruminating for more than a year.

“So, I was wondering where we're at,” I started.

“What do you mean?”

“We've been together for three years. It seems like we could take the next step,” I ventured.

“Like what?” Jim persisted with his oblivion.

Impatiently I retorted, “We could move in together.”

I wanted Jim to take the lead when it came to our relationship, to take the chances, to be vulnerable, just as he did when he was in the outdoors, but he made me ask. Jim moved into my place but was only there for a few months before the ski season began. He took a heli-ski job in Whistler instead of in the
BC
interior, to be closer to me, happily settling into my parents' cabin for the winter. We fell into a pattern of me driving up to Whistler on the weekends to see him while he came to me in Vancouver on his days off.

By early spring, I tired of having a part-time boyfriend. When I arrived for my weekend visit, Jim kissed my cheek, but I neglected to give him my usual embrace. We moved stiffly around one another preparing dinner. I went upstairs to lie on the bed while the sauce cooked, and after a few minutes Jim followed. He stretched out on top of me and said, “Let's get married.” My heart raced. The day was March 2, 1996. I knew right away that I would marry him.

A few months later I questioned my decision.

On May 11, 1996, eight people, including two experienced mountain guides, were killed. It was the biggest disaster in Mount Everest's history. I leaned closer to the print of the local newspaper.

“Why?” I asked Jim. “Why?”

“It's hard to say if you weren't there. It's too easy to judge others in hindsight,” Jim dug his hands deeper into his pockets.

“Yes, but why?” I insisted.

“Guiding a mountain like Everest is risky. The more people who go, the more inexperienced they are, the higher the likelihood of an accident.”

“So why do they guide it?” I gestured at the newspaper article.

“Because people will pay to be guided,” Jim sighed.

My mind chewed on the words.

Jim's climbing partner arrived at our apartment and laughed the words out, “Can you believe that deal on Everest?” His body was agitated, like a toddler.

Jim rocked forward, raised his eyebrows and guffawed, “I know, it's crazy!”

“Eight dead!”

“And Scott Fisher and Rob Hall!” Their bodies quivered with excitement. The room buzzed. I felt as if I were the only one at a party who was not high.

When Jim and I were alone, I questioned him.

“How can you act so psyched? I don't get it.”

Jim shrugged.

I struggled on, “Mountaineering seems so selfish, such a waste of energy, and the courage and boldness that go into mountaineering could be put toward a more meaningful goal.”

“But mountaineering allows us to be courageous and bold. In any other environment we would not perform. Accomplishments in mountaineering inspire others. Isn't that enough?” Jim countered.

“I just wonder if the cost is too great.” I thought of the satellite phone conversation between Rob Hall dying near the top of Mount Everest and his pregnant wife back home, of her choking out her final words to him.

“And what about us, Jim?” My throat constricted with the truth. This was my real question. I judged mountaineering because I feared the repercussions in my own life. I admired the courage of mountaineers, but I did not want Jim to die.

Jim inhaled and then released his breath with his answer, “I'm not going back to the big mountains.” My body relaxed. I did not want to ask Jim to stop doing something he loved, but at the same time a little voice nagged at me that it would be crazy to marry and to raise a family with a mountaineer who climbed above 8000 metres, in the “death zone.” My pragmatic side lamented that life would be a whole lot easier with an accountant as a mate.

That summer, we drove 22 hours up the length of British Columbia's varied topography before cutting across the left-hand bottom corner of the Yukon. It took another two days to putter to Fairbanks, Alaska, where we boarded a plane to Bettles, followed by a floatplane into the mountains of the Brooks Range. A total of 3500 kilometres and 40 hours of driving.

Sometime during the third day, while stiffly raising my feet to the dashboard to relieve the pressure on my bum, I asked, “Why don't we do our own premarital classes? We could each talk about our five-year goals.”

“Okay,” Jim adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I'll go first,” I offered. “Well … let's see. I'd like to improve my climbing, find a home with you somewhere in the Sea to Sky corridor, have a baby and start an outdoor program for kids.” I turned to Jim.

He gave me a cursory glance and fixed his eyes on the road. “Okay, great. Me, well, I'd like to lead solid 5.11 and climb 50 days in the year. I'd like to write a book about Alaska. More photography. I want to be more disciplined about taking photos. And living in the Sea to Sky sounds good. Yup, that's about it.” He nodded his head.

There was silence as I waited for the ball to drop. Nothing.

“Jim, do you see anything wrong with our goals?” I blurted.

“No, what do you mean?”

“I'm going to have a baby and you're not.” My voice lilted with the irony.

“I guess that's just where we are at,” Jim clamped his lips together, staring ahead.

“That's not good enough for me, Jim. I'm 30 years old and I'd like to have a baby before I'm 35. Risk increases after 35. We need to be on the same page about this.”

“It has to be the right time, and I don't know if I'm ready for a family. I know other guys who have regretted having a family.”

“You're 38 years old! When are you going to be ready?” I raised my voice in frustration. Silence filled the car for the next hour and 45 minutes as we both stewed in the possibility of not getting our way. I broke the stalemate with a cautious, “So, what would make you feel more comfortable about having a baby?”

“I guess being more financially stable would help,” Jim continued to stare ahead. I caught the dismissive reaction in my throat before it escaped. For me, whether or not we had a baby did not depend on finances, but I realized that Jim felt differently. And people feel the way they feel.

“What does that look like to you, being more financially stable?” My voice softened as I turned to him.

“I'd like to diversify, not to have to rely on guiding income, do more writing and sell more photographs.” Jim glanced at me.

“Okay, so how about we work on that for the next few years and then see how you feel? I am very clear, though, Jim: I want to have a baby.”

“Okay.” Jim cleared his throat. My hand crept back into his.

For six weeks, we explored the wilds of Alaska as far north as the Brooks Range. Rain pounded down for six days straight, carving waterways beneath our tent. Grizzlies with cubs wandered through our campsite, unearthing mounds of dirt. On a boat near Seward, we clutched the railing as the wave from a calving glacier rocked us. At the end of the summer, we journeyed back to Vancouver, where I prepared for my teaching and Jim resumed guiding and writing.

In the fall, we secured the opportunity to build a house in Whistler. Over Christmas, in a backcountry ski hut where the thermometer dived to –30°C inside, Jim and I scribbled on graph paper the house we would build. Our first real home. The rest of the winter was busy as we prepared for our June wedding.

“Oh, phooey, it doesn't matter if you're not religious, you can still get married in a church!” Jim's mom swatted the air with her hand. The skin around her eyes crinkled from her laughter, and I knew she would love me regardless.

Jim and I exchanged vows in the gardens of a heritage house in Vancouver in front of 80 of our friends and family. Before the ceremony, I stood in my simple white gown and brushed my sister's hand away when she tried to fluff my hair and offer me a glass of red wine. Someone knocked at the door and pressed a card into my hand. It was a photo of a young boy whispering to a young girl. Jim had filled in the caption, “Psst, hey, guess what? We're gonna get married and it's gonna be great!” I sighed and held the card to my heart.

At the top of the stone steps, I asked my father to say something reassuring. He nodded, “You're doing the right thing.”

I followed the dark-green footprints of my sisters, my oldest friend, my nieces and nephews down the grass aisle past my closest friends and family, my lips locked in a concrete smile. Jim sucked sharp, shallow breaths through the tight line of his mouth, his brow furrowed. As I drew closer, I reached for his clammy trembling fingers.

The fluffy-white-haired Justice of the Peace raised her eyebrows to peer at me over her spectacles, which glinted in the late afternoon sun. I inflated my chest and locked onto Jim's blue eyes. Tears slid down his cheeks as I spoke my vows from memory.

Jim cradled my hands, cocked his head back and held his breath.

The
JP
leaned forward slightly, glanced at the paper in her hand and prompted, “From the…”

Jim snapped his head around toward her and pleaded, “I know, I know!” He pulled his chin against his chest, inhaled and choked out his vows. I cried.