Finding Jim (5 page)

“Hey, there you are!” He beamed.

I ran to him, squeezed him and kissed his smooth cheeks, his lips, and we laughed. I felt his flesh and knew without a doubt that he was alive.

“God, it's good to see you,” I gasped while I buried my nose and mouth in the warm earthy smell of his neck.

“You too. You look great.” Jim grinned as he scanned my tanned shoulders.

My cheeks ached from smiling.

“Where's all your stuff?” I asked without letting go of his hand.

Together we hefted two square burlap packages containing handmade carpets into the trunk. Beside them we crammed his climbing pack and duffle bags. At every opportunity, I ran my hand down his arm, rested my fingers on his shoulder or grazed the back of his neck. Each touch set off another adrenaline high. He was alive.

As we drove to one of the climbers' houses in Seattle to go over the details of Dan's accident, I focused on directions. I chatted with the energy of a small bird and laughed at nothing. As we pulled into the driveway, Jim's facial muscles tightened to pull in a breath. I followed his gaze to the front door where Dan's father slumped, eyebrows raised in Jim's direction. I squeezed Jim's leg, leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Dan's family is keen to talk to the team alone so we thought it would be best if all of the other partners and spouses went for a walk together. Okay?” Jim glanced at me and looked back at Dan's father.

“That's fine. I love you,” I said quietly.

“I love you, too.” Jim ambled away from me. He was swallowed by the arms, voices and gut-wrenching sobs of those who desperately needed to hear his story. The juxtaposition of the two groups struck me. We were ecstatic to have our loved ones home, while Dan's family and friends were torn apart.

An hour later our group returned from our stroll, laughing and enjoying each other's company. I squinted into the sun to see Jim smiling down at me from the balcony. I covered my mouth and stopped laughing, but when we got close enough he said, “It's nice … to hear the laughter.” I breathed a sigh of relief.

Driving home to Vancouver, Jim rested his hand in mine as he always did in the car, but it felt lighter, as if the slightest movement would jar its hold. Our words skipped around as if they were not certain whether or not they wanted to be heard. I alternated my gaze between the road and Jim and was grateful not to have to keep eye contact.

“Jim … I,” and my gaze flipped back to the road, “want to be there for you, but I'm not really sure what to do.” This was unfamiliar territory for me. Generally Jim took care of me and requested very little attention in return. In fact, he was uncomfortable as the one in need. He didn't like to feel indebted.

“This is great, Sue, you don't have to do anything,” he reassured me.

“But I mean if you want to talk about it, I'm happy to…” I trailed off.

“It's just great to be home,” he said and kissed my neck. It was going to be okay. We were going to be okay. For the rest of the trip we exchanged stories, news and plans for the future. Where did he want to stay in Vancouver? He had no fixed address. He could stay with his parents. I offered for him to come and stay with me. He agreed immediately, but there were butterflies in my stomach telling me that he was uncertain. Usually he was so thoughtful, deliberate and confident about his decisions. Now I second-guessed him silently.

At my condominium, Jim fielded phone calls from newspaper and television reporters. Everyone wanted to hear the story of how Dan died. Soon the living room was full of portable studio lighting, huge camera lenses and microphones. Jim was emotional as he described how he and Dan walked arm in arm to the summit of
K2
. In short childlike sentences, he described how Dan fell. The headlines didn't hold much back:

K2
Scaled, Draws Blood

K2
Climbed, Claims Yet Another Life

Climber Recalls Deadly
K2
Day: Jim Haberl Watched Dan Culver “Roll By”

Climber Who Died After Besting
K2
Eulogized As “Bright Shining Blade”

A Life Lived To the Outer Limit

K2
Assault: His Ambition Was To Preserve the Wilderness

Dan Culver Had Died Doing What He Wanted To Do

When all of the cameras were gone, Jim sat motionless on the couch. He would tell his story many more times.

(SEPTEMBER–NOVEMBER 1993)

Mountain Equipment Co-op sponsored Jim to give a
K2
slideshow at John Oliver Secondary School in Vancouver. One thousand people stamped their feet and shook their umbrellas as they squished into the auditorium. More than a hundred people clamoured at the door where tickets were being scalped. Jim surveyed the throng of people, some standing at the back and down the sides of the auditorium, and clasped his hands in front of him. “Wow!” he exclaimed. Eleven members of my family occupied the row right in front of Jim's podium. I grabbed both of his hands, kissed his cheek and wished him luck. He wore a
K2
T-shirt and jeans and stood alone onstage.

The show began with photos of Jim's close friends: his younger brothers Pat and Kevin, buddy Matt from Camp Potlatch, high-school friends Eric and Geoff, climbing partners Michael and Mike. His voice choked up and his hands trembled as he thanked these people for being in his life. “Here we go,” he half joked to the crowd. “Shake it out, Jim.” And the climbers in the audience chuckled at this climbing expression used to calm the jitters.

The natural storyteller in him took hold, and he relaxed as he detailed the long trek into base camp, the countless storm days, the slow ascent to the summit. The audience watched silently as Jim simulated just one step of his 13-hour summit day. He breathed slowly and heavily into the microphone 15 times, then stopped and said, “And then I took another step.” For 13 hours he used this as his mantra to keep forward momentum, 15 breaths and then a step. And if he couldn't take a step after 15 breaths, he made up for it with the next step. Thirteen hours to gain an elevation of 600 metres, and there he was, just below the summit. Jim dug out a little platform in the ice and sat down to wait for Dan. It was their dream to reach the summit together. When Dan arrived, 45 minutes later, they linked arms and walked the final steps to the summit and hugged.

There was a holding in the crowd then, as if people had taken a deep breath.

Jim explained, “You know, we could see clear down to China from there. It was a pretty neat feeling.” With those unassuming words so typical of Jim, the crowd let out its breath and laughed, and applause erupted. Jim and Dan were the first two Canadians to reach the summit of the world's second-highest peak and the crowd celebrated what it must have felt like to be at the top of the world.

When the noise died down, the screen went black and the light from the podium carved shadows in Jim's face. “This is going to get harder,” he said and took a deep breath, “But anyways…”

I leaned forward in my seat.

Jim gripped the sides of the podium, closed his eyes and cocked his head. He ground out each word through his stiff jaw. He rocked his head from side to side as if trying to dodge the pain.

“We were focused now on getting down safely to camp,” Jim explained. Jim led the way and had descended the technical bottleneck section when he heard a loud crack behind. He turned and saw a shock of blond hair and Dan cartwheeling down the steep slope. Dan stabbed repeatedly at the snow with his ice axe, trying to get a purchase. Seconds passed and then he was gone. Jim opened his mouth and then closed it. He opened it again and a cry for help came out, and then he followed the body imprints. They became progressively farther apart and deeper and more jagged. Jim retrieved Dan's hat. He carefully picked his way down the slope until it dropped off the impossibly steep south face of
K2
. He sat down in the snow and felt the salt of his tears stinging his cracked lips. Dan was dead. He knew it. But a voice inside of him nagged. What if he got caught up somewhere and is waiting for me to come and rescue him? What if? But logic told him Dan was dead, and now Jim needed to get it together to survive. So, he put his heart into a bottle and set about climbing back up to Camp Four. Partway there, he met up with his team members Stacy, John and Steve, who were dressed for rescue. They had heard Jim's call. Jim managed to breathe out, “Dan is dead,” and he crumpled backward into the snow.

As I listened to Jim's story, my body tensed. “No,” I wanted to scream. I wanted to wrap myself around him. I wanted to rewind the story and rewrite it so that Dan and Jim descended safely and returned home to a hero's welcome.

The last slide of the show was of Dan – a tribute. Jim finished by saying, “Reaching the summit of
K2
was an incredible experience, but I would trade it in a heartbeat to have Dan back.”

It was a choice he did not have. He made a different choice by climbing
K2
.

As the applause built to a roar, I beamed at Jim. The lights came on and excited murmurs filled the space. Jim hung around the podium, and people moved forward to congratulate him. I waited until he was alone. He squeezed most of the air out of my lungs with his hug.

Despite Jim's letter detailing how much weight he'd put on at Base Camp, he had actually lost 10 kilograms on the mountain, and weighed about 55 kilograms. One morning, he clutched at his stomach and grimaced but insisted he was fine. I convinced him to see a doctor, who prescribed Flagyl to treat giardia. The next night, my stomach turned; it was clear that I had caught whatever Jim had. Each time I got out of bed, Jim's body tensed beside me. He asked me if I was okay, but he kept his distance. I did not ask him for help because he was having a hard enough time looking after himself. As I hunched over the toilet, I longed for the “old Jim,” who would have held my hair back and out of the vomit and rubbed my back.

The next night, I woke up to Jim's whimpering. He yelled so loudly that he woke himself up. I put my hand on his arm and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Bad dream.” He pulled the covers up around his neck. I wrapped my body around him and tried to absorb the pain.

As we both struggled, the void between us intensified. One evening Jim and I sat on opposite sides of my living room, and I asked him to let me in, to help him with his grieving. Jim gazed past me and said, “I don't think it's fair to ask you to carry the burden of the risk I have taken. It wasn't your choice to climb
K2
, it was mine, and you shouldn't be asked to share the cost.”

I sat up at the clarity and practised nature of his words. As I leaned forward to assure him I wanted to share the burden, he looked at me with dull eyes and continued, “Sue, I'm having trouble finding my feelings for you.”

I gulped and held my breath. A few tears trickled down my cheeks, but Jim remained on the other side of the room.

“I think it would be best for me to go and stay at Eric's place.” Eric lived in Squamish, an hour's drive away.

“Please don't go,” I pleaded. Without another word, he went to the door. We didn't hug. My sobs echoed in my ears until I noticed the silence surrounding me and caught my breath. It was so dark.

The reality of Jim breaking up with me clashed with my plan of being the supportive girlfriend. I continued my summer routine of exercise and socializing but avoided close friends and family. Patti called to ask whether Jim had one of Dan's ice axes. I said I would ask him but that he was at Eric's place. I asked her how she was coping, and she said day by day. She paused and asked, “How are the two of you doing?”

“Oh, fine. You know, it's an adjustment.” My voice quavered. There was silence.

“You don't sound fine,” she said softly. I told her everything, how Jim had left. She invited me for dinner. I couldn't believe she had the strength to listen to my problems, but she did.

“Try to be patient with Jim,” she advised. “He's going through a lot.”

A week later, when I was biking to my softball practice, Jim drove up in front of me. We had not seen or spoken to each other since he left my apartment. I pulled up, straddling my bike as he approached wearing a toothy grin.

“Hi,” Jim began.

“Hi,” I replied into my baseball mitt.

“How's it goin'?” He stood right in front of me.

“Fine,” I lied and hoped my voice wouldn't crack.

“Where are you headed?”

“Softball,” I whispered.

“Hm. Well. Take care of yourself.” And he popped back to his car. How could he be happy? Jerk. I'd worked hard in my life to avoid rejection, often by being who others wanted me to be. Now I'd been rejected and I didn't know what to do. Anger festered deep inside of me. Anger at Jim for ignoring my pain. Anger at myself for not calling him on it. But confrontation frightened me.

Within a few days, a card arrived at my apartment:

Dearest Sue,

Of all the women in my life, you have most filled my desires and ideals for a mate. Hearts, however, are things over which we often have little control. I hope your life is treating you well and love is just around the corner. Patience is one of your many virtues and with it you will find happiness. You are one in a million. Take care of yourself, it's important. Thanks.

Love, Jim

I interpreted his card as an invitation to stay connected, which is what I wanted. I didn't feel quite so rejected anymore. With renewed hope, I began my reply, but it took me many attempts to create an acceptable first paragraph. The next day, my writing was interrupted by his phone call. My heart beat faster as we both stuttered out greetings and pleasantries. I wanted to say the right thing so that he would fall in love with me again. I wanted it to be like it was before. He needed space and time. He missed me. I needed more certainty of his feelings for me. I told him I loved him, said goodbye and sat down to rewrite my letter.