THURSDAY, MAY 6, 1999
There are bold mountaineers and there are old mountaineers.
But there are no old, bold mountaineers.
—UNKNOWN
My childhood friends Jenny and Andrea come to my parents’ house the next day to visit.
“Wow, Kevin’s letter at the memorial was incredible.” Jenny leans forward on the couch and shakes her head.
“Yes. Everyone was saying afterward how heart-wrenching it was, and well written.” Andrea agrees. I rock in my chair. No, Kevin’s can’t be the best. Mine has to be the best eulogy. It has to be. They chat about the memorial. I slither out of the chair and hole up in my room, face in my pillow.
“Susie?” Jen knocks on the open door. “Are you okay?”
“No.” I raise my wet face to look at her.
“I don’t know what to do. What can I do?” She whooshes to my side like the wind.
“Just hold me, please.”
“Of course,” she cries.
When they have gone, I lie down and sleep. Drained.
That afternoon I continue my task of clipping out articles about Jim’s accident. The media likes a healthy, square-jawed, well-toothed, handsome young man. And there he is, smiling at me from the local, provincial and national newspapers. I scan the headlines. “Avalanche Kills First Canadian To Climb K2.” “Climber’s Death Eerily like Friend’s.” “Uncertainty of Climbs Held Powerful Appeal.” I skip over the details of Jim’s mountaineering career. But one article, “The Loss of Our Guide,” written by a friend, Jayson Faulkner in Pique Newsmagazine, I read over and over:
Nobody expects to lose a friend in the mountains. You do expect there will be a price paid if you live and play in the mountains. But not necessarily a close friend – you hope. The risks we take while mountaineering, backcountry skiing, ice climbing, kayaking and such are clear and ever present. For many of us, that is an integral part of why these activities are of value or interest. Whistler is defined by these activities and the full life they give us; the risks and, especially, the rewards.
Jim was our Grand Old Man of the Mountains, putting up bold new routes since he was 18. He was the first Canadian to summit K2 and he did it in the best possible style. He was incredibly wise, strong and sensitive to everyone and everything around him. He was the only climbing partner for many of us who had the official seal of approval from our partner or spouse. Oh, you’re going with Jim – then that is okay. I know you will be safe. He taught avalanche courses, trained guides and had experience and wisdom we all looked up to. He spent his professional life learning about the environment he worked and played in so that he could manage the risk. He wrote two books about the ultimate price of the game we play.
One of my friends commented that he is re-evaluating mountaineering, because if Jim could get killed, then the belief we have all signed on to – that we can manage the risk at some level – is pure fantasy. He wasn’t sure if he could climb again. How could he selfishly disregard the impact on his family, his children?
The loss is devastating for Jim’s family, particularly for his wife Sue, as they had settled into Whistler, built a house and become part of the community. The future was looking very bright indeed. We all feel mostly for Sue and Jim’s family. We cannot understand why or how.
How the hell did this happen to Jim? What went wrong? The truth is, it doesn’t matter. He was a person more defined by the mountains than anyone I have ever known. He was the definition of a life well lived. Jim was our Guide. We will be lost without him.
When I see my name in the article and read how Jim was happy with me, how our life together was good, I cry with gratitude. When Jayson talks about how nobody expected Jim to die, I feel relief. It wasn’t just me who made the mistake of believing Jim was too good to die. I save all of the newspaper articles in a marked folder, and I send a copy of Jayson’s article to Mom Haberl. She tells me she likes it best of all.
In the evening, my half-brother performs in his high school musical, Grease.
“The show must go on.” Dad clears his throat. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“Yes. Thanks.” I swallow.
“You’ll be okay by yourself, won’t you?” He lumbers past, coat in hand, his chin tucked.
“Yes.” I draw my legs up under me on the couch and fiddle with my sock. He tests me. If he coddles me too much, he fears I will crumble. Model a stiff upper lip and I will pull through. It’s his way of showing his faith in me. I stroke the weave on the cushion so that I won’t raise my arms up to him like a child and wail, “Please don’t go. Hold me. Rock me. Sing to me. I can’t do it on my own.”
The front door clicks, and my gaze darts to the darker corners of the room, half expecting ghosts to appear. I huddle inside my sweater and turn on the television. I follow a few dialogues before the noise blurs into white. I stare at nothing and sob, shoulder-shaking, aching sobs. I might not stop. I might shake myself into nothing.
Suddenly, I hear something and stop crying. There it is again in both of my ears. Loud. I straighten, jerk my head around to face whoever is there. But I am alone. Where is that breathing coming from? Like wind rushing through my ears. In. Out. Heavy. Scared. I plug my ears. Still there, with more of an echo. I realize it’s my own breathing and lean my head into my hands, relieved that there isn’t a stranger in the house but frightened that I am going crazy.
A book I read describes my experience as disassociation. In post-traumatic stress, a person might separate herself from her body in order to escape the pain. I do not tell a soul.