Finding Jim (21 page)

People slumped on the rocks eking strength from the sun. I went around congratulating them all, high on their success and not feeling sick myself, having strength to give them instead of being the weak one. One of the clients, who had been quite sick on the way up, worried whether or not he could go on. I overheard him say, “I'd better check with my coach.” He approached me and asked, “What do you think, should I go on?”

I stifled my immediate response and asked, “How do you feel?”

“Fine. Better.”

“I say you go for it.” I didn't have the heart to tell him he had no choice. At this point he had come far enough that the easiest way down now was up, because we would descend the opposite, less steep side.

All eight team members made it to the summit. I stayed at the back as the tail guide. Jim was the first to summit with the faster clients, and he returned to see how I was doing with the rest of them. As we walked together he confided, “Don't tell anyone, Sue, but I'm hallucinating a bit.” I gawked at him. My infallible Jim.

I felt strong until I accepted tea and a cookie on the summit from the African guide Frederick. Jim raised his eyebrows as I gobbled. Within minutes I vomited.

Back at Marangu Hotel, we sat on the lawn with our 25 African guides and porters to celebrate. They sang a song about Kilimanjaro in multipart harmony.

The trip had turned out to be more than a job. The team epitomized the generosity of the human spirit in that they chose to raise money and awareness for others. And as a team, they were able to make a greater impact. They united in their fear of the unknown, their desire to reach the top and their desire to help others. I was inspired.

Back in Canada, at the beginning of April, Jim and I met with ten people, including the premier of British Columbia, Gordon Campbell, and his family, who would make up the 1999 Ascent for Alzheimer's Kilimanjaro fundraising team. Days later, Jim left for Alaska on his final trip.

On May 18, 1999, 20 days after Jim was killed, I receive a letter from Ian Ross of the Alzheimer Society:

Dear Sue,

Nice to hear your voice last Friday. I thought I should contact you with an update. Everyone sends condolences to you. All ten climbers are still committed, although they are shaken by the loss of Jim.

We would like you to consider being our guide again in Africa in August. I realize you need some time to consider this. One of the main reasons the ten climbers signed up this year was because of the job you and Jim did coordinating our climb of Mount Kilimanjaro in 1998. There is no way we can replicate that amazing journey, but I do think we can, in the spirit of Jim, try to share the experience of a team working against significant odds for something greater than each one of us.

I remember Jim scolding me (in his nice sort of way) when I suggested that after we “conquered” Kilimanjaro, we would go on safari. He suggested in his very wise and gentle manner “you don't conquer mountains – they let you climb them or they don't.” The journey to Africa last August for me was a profound experience. Getting to spend time with you, Jim, and the other climbers helped push me into a more reflective state of mind and as you mentioned in your reflection of Jim, has made me a better person. Please consider joining the team in August.

Sincerely,

Ian Ross

Chair of the Alzheimer Society of British Columbia

I press my palms into the top of my desk to stop myself from grabbing the phone, dialing Ian's number and blurting, “Yes! Yes, I'll do it.” My songline woos me like a lover. Kilimanjaro is another landmark for my heart, like the Queen Charlotte Islands.

I take a deep breath and reach for the phone.

Once I commit, I am momentarily shocked by the list of things to do filling my mind: get in shape, contact the team, hire an assistant, buy a plane ticket, get the equipment together, organize a training hike, pack some of Jim's ashes to take with me.

Hiring an assistant is first on the list. Who can I trust to share this journey? Someone supportive who will not judge me. Someone who will take care of the clients if I fail. Someone with first aid and experience in the mountains. Matt comes to mind: a good friend of Jim's, a first aid instructor and a mountaineer with experience at altitude. And people trust him because he seems to genuinely care. His wife is supportive and he is keen.

One of the team members works at a local television network and will film a documentary of our climb, called
A Journey to Remember
, so each meeting and training hike is recorded. The Alzheimer Society takes advantage of the Campbell family being on the team by organizing media events to raise awareness for the fundraiser. Two weeks before we leave for Africa, we meet at an indoor climbing gym in North Vancouver for a press conference.

Cameras pivot to Gordon Campbell, his wife and two grown sons, who dangle beside me on a rope. I curl my toes around the climbing hold to balance myself as I swing open to face the cameras, satellite phone in one hand, the other hand white-knuckled on the climbing wall. Click, click. Their real focus is the Campbells, but I am an interesting story too, because of Jim. When I come off the wall, a reporter floats a microphone near my mouth. “I am sorry for the loss of your husband, Jim Haberl. What made you decide to guide the ascent team by yourself this year?”

“Last year's climb with Jim was a powerful experience. It feels important to do it again. It will be an emotional journey, and I'll be taking it step by step. Jim will be at my side in spirit.” I wonder if I sound detached and cold talking about my dead husband. I wonder if I really know why I am going. I am not Jim. Jim was a full mountain guide; I am a backpacking guide. Jim led the climb in 1998; I was his assistant. Jim always protected me. Now I am on my own. But the fear of failing as a guide is nothing compared to the fear driving me. What if I don't find him? What if he is dead?

I've seen his body – I've been to where he fell in Alaska – but I will not stop looking for him. I read that denial and disbelief are reactions to the stress of grief. I chase the past because thinking in the present feels unfaithful to Jim. I need more time to absorb the grim reality of his death. And it is even more than that. You would think that all of my past hurts would pale in comparison to the pain of losing Jim. But it is not true. All of my hurts hurt all over again. My parents' divorce. My estranged relationship with my mother. I felt loveable with Jim because he loved me even when I was insecure, self-focused, possessive, competitive, fearful and controlling. His death shakes the foundations of my confidence, and I am a child again who does not feel lovable. So I look for him, literally, even in places like Kilimanjaro where I know he won't be, because it is my only hope to reverse the finality of his death and to find the “lovable Sue.” And to find the man I loved more than anything.

After 24 hours of flying, we land at Kilimanjaro International Airport near Arusha, Tanzania. Stepping out onto the tarmac into the black, I suck in the familiar smells of smoke, dirt, animal excrement and moist greenery. The warm evening air relaxes my skin.

A two-hour drive brings us to the Marangu Hotel. In the courtyard, surrounded by red bougainvillea, Seamus ambles up to me, eyes downcast, and hugs me.

“I'm so sorry, Sue. We get a lot of people through the hotel every year to climb Kilimanjaro, but all the staff remember the faces of Jim and Sue.”

Frederick, the African guide who helped Jim and me the previous year, cups one of my hands in both of his hands, holds my gaze with his deep brown eyes and says, “
Pole sana
, Sue.”

The next morning, I wake up and begin my routine. I reach for the cassette with Jim's neat square printing on it that reads “Lost Together,” slot it into my Walkman and press play. Lying on my bed, I listen to the love songs Jim collected for me when we first began dating. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I focus on relaxing each part of my body. My lips tremble and I cry. I tuck the Walkman into my pants and stand to stretch. With each extension, I breathe deeply 10 times. By the time the Walkman clicks off, I feel lighter. I finish my routine with a feeling of gratitude. Today I am grateful to have travelled in Africa with Jim. I dress and think about how I will prepare the team for the day.

The team members stroll around the extensive lawns of the hotel. The clouds part and Kibo pokes its massive head out.

“Look, there's Kilimanjaro,” I point. Necks crane, eyes squint.

“Where?”

“Up there, higher.” Necks tilt. Silence.

Jim and I had planned to do a new route on the mountain with the team, called the Rongai. I stick to the plan. I go through the motions of preparing the group in terms of equipment and altitude. We drive off in the huge 4
WD
Mercedes truck to battle the three-hour dirt road to the trailhead: 35 porters, five African guides, eight climbers and Matt and me.

I catch the eye of a porter who has been smiling at me as we bump along.

“Hello,” he shouts over the diesel engine. “Do you remember Machame, with Jim? I was there.” He beams.

I do remember, and my heart beats faster.

“I am Johnny.”

The memories flood back … Johnny. “It's so nice to see you,” I say.

His smile widens and his eyes bore into mine. “And I am so sorry because I heard your husband passed away.”

“Yes, he did. Thank you.” I wonder if people around me are uncomfortable.

“He was a good guide, a very nice person,” Johnny continues.

My heart rushes to meet these words, “Yes, he was.”

“You are a very good guide.”

I drop my head a bit, “Thank you.”

Africa moves past outside and fills me up like helium. Jim fills me with life. I smile and let it be: all of Jim, all of me and all of Africa. I love Jim and feel him as I feel Africa: with all of my senses. And it is timeless.

At the trailhead, I fall into a meditative step behind Frederick and inhale the smell of hot, dry, volcanic earth. Walking feels good. In a sense I still don't know where I am going, but at least I keep forward momentum.

Briefing the team at dinner, in the morning and throughout the day helps to take my mind off my own pain. They have lots of questions and I am happy to help. Step by step we gently ascend in the thinning atmosphere. At Kikelewa Caves we are above the clouds, at 3600 metres. There are headaches and lethargy.

The next day, we gain a ridge and descend to Mawenzi Tarn, the only “lake” on the mountain. It is less than 15 metres across and ringed with green-brown algae. Mount Mawenzi towers above at 5200 metres and fingers the sky with its jagged black rock.

We are the only group at Mawenzi. As we explore the paths winding up the rubbly sides of Mount Mawenzi, I soak up the everlasting wildflowers and the view clear down to the plains of Kenya and Tanzania.

I plan to place some of Jim's ashes on Mawenzi. I ask the rest of the group to continue down to camp, and I sit among the white papery everlastings and the rough volcanic rocks to light my candle and set up against a rock a teddy bear Mom Haberl gave me. I spread Jim's ashes.

Hi, Sweetie. It's a beautiful spot here. I thought of you as soon as I saw it. The needle-like ridges remind me of the Brooks Range. That was quite a trip. Seven days of torrential rain and the creek almost dragged our tent away with us in it. Just you and me in the wilds of Alaska. I miss just you and me.

I have anticipated this moment of letting your ashes go. The pressure has been building. I focus on my responsibility to the group and try to lead them as you would have. I know I fall short. They would catch me if I crumble, but I won't. The trip goes well, but I am tired. I walk along the trail, focused on the pace, when to break, the weather, and then it will hit me … you are dead. How can you be dead? We're supposed to be leading this trip together. I believe you are with me; that your love will always be with me. I will be okay. I am so grateful for all that we shared.

Frederick has lunch waiting for me when I get to camp. My body is limp. I have climbed my mountain. If I were on my own, I would go down.

The next day, bundled in fleece and
GORE-TEX
, we head across the windy saddle and settle into high camp at 4700 metres. Up at 11 p.m., we dress and pack for the summit attempt. One foot in front of the other at an agonizingly slow pace for six hours … and then our spirits rise with the sun as the mountain glows orange.

My soul has been here before. My feet follow my heart to catch up with the truth of my life. I am not whole, not together, not connected to myself or to others. I look up at the crater rim and tears stream down my face. He would be here.

A white-naped raven the size of an osprey skims along the ridge. He ravages the thin air, a black shimmer on a blue background. Right above me he folds his wings to his body, makes a quarter turn and flips sideways until the wind forces him back to a level plane. I fight to breathe and the raven plays on the wind. I chuckle. Nature humbles me. I hear Jim: “You don't conquer mountains…” Voices die but words live on, an African proverb.

We reach the crater rim but still have another two hours to reach Uhuru Peak.

One of the group members cannot catch her breath, even after we rest. Her lips are blue. Frederick is concerned that she has the beginning of pulmonary edema. We decide she should go down. Another client feels too ill to continue. I tell Matt that I feel weak. I have no will to go on. I reached my summit on Mawenzi.

I go down with the ailing clients, and Matt continues with the rest of the group to Uhuru Peak.

Safely down at 3700 metres, we regroup to tell our stories to the camera.

“No need to interview me, as I didn't make it,” one member of the team jokes.

“Yes, maybe there can be a separate documentary for the challenged ones.” The self-deprecating comments are full of disappointment. I charge to their rescue.