(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.
Dear Jim,
I think and dream about you a lot and am trying to make sense of this whole thing. I knew it would be difficult when you returned from K2. But I guess I had my own expectations of how you would deal with the trauma you’ve experienced and that included me being there to comfort you. Although it has been difficult, I have now let go of any control I wished to have over your healing process. You’ll figure out what you need. In the meantime, in my eyes, you have gone on another expedition. Just as with K2, I will hold my confidence and my love for you until you return. I’ve made this decision consciously, although it scares me to death because there are no guarantees how you will feel about us when you return. But there are no guarantees in life and I have gone with my gut feeling here. Whatever happens, this will have been one helluva learning experience for both of us.
You asked me if I had any ideas how to recover your lost emotions. It’s normal to feel numb when grieving. Counselling and allowing time to grieve are my only suggestions. An organization called Living Through Loss comes highly recommended. I’ve enclosed information. I’ve decided that I should talk to someone too, although the idea of exploring the pain terrifies me. But forgetting something we wish were not true is only too easy.
I still feel in a daze about all of this. I remember the time we’ve spent together with a smile. Those memories will be an integral part of getting me through these tough times. I’ve always had so much confidence in you and I know you’ll work through the pain and be stronger for it. I can’t wait for you to come home, but until then, know that I’m loving you and supporting you from afar. You are such a special person, Jimbo.
Love, Sue
PS. I ate that whole tub of Häagen Dazs you left for me. It was great!
A week later, we met for dinner at the Naam Restaurant. I babbled away about whatever new came to mind. When I took a breath, he looked shyly at the table and commented, “That was quite a letter, Sue. I don’t know what to say. Thanks.”
I averted my eyes and responded with a quiet “you’re welcome.” He described how he met a reporter at the beach for an interview. They sat on a bench while she listened intently to his story. Looking at the table again, Jim said that this woman invited him to go for tea or a drink, whenever he wanted.
My head raced. “Why did you tell me that? We’re having enough trouble as it is. Why would you say that?”
“I dunno, I dunno,” he shook his head.
What did he want from me? I stuck by him even though he couldn’t commit, and now he said this. Why? To give me more reason to doubt? To push me away? To build his own self-esteem? This last reason made me angry. Would he hurt me just to feel better?
His eyes were wet when he looked up at me. In a low voice he said, “I’m going away.” My blouse clung to my underarms, and words stuck in my throat.
“Right,” I croaked.
“It’s a construction project in the Northwest Territories with Geoff. It’ll be good to spend time with my buddy. I’ll be gone for six weeks.” My eyes sank to the table and I caved inward. He was leaving me again. This was not the plan. He had been home for two months and now he was going again. I had nothing to say. I realized that my letter was naive. I was not willing to wait for Jim if he didn’t love me. I finished my meal as quickly as I could and motioned to the waiter to bring the bill.
Jim phoned most nights while he was gone. With each conversation, fear pulled my heartstrings taut like a bow. I wondered why I rejected a proposal for a date from a pleasant fellow I met by chance.
Six weeks later my body sagged as I stood in the arrivals area, waiting for Jim’s flight. I cringed when he bounced over beaming a warm smile. Although his clothes hung on him and stubble shadowed his face, he looked cuter than I remembered. My legs and arms went forward out of habit and we embraced stiffly, but my body repelled his as if we were magnets similarly charged. Jim’s words faltered, “Hey, how are you?” But he didn’t press forward.
“Fine. You?”
It was a quiet drive back to my place. Jim gazed forward with worried eyes, and my knuckles were white from gripping the wheel. I hung up my jacket, sat on the couch and folded my hands in my lap. Jim lowered himself beside me. Through pursed lips I lamented, “This is not working for me. I’ve had enough. I have no idea what you want.” My face stayed stiff and my gaze was steady.
Jim fidgeted with his hands and murmured, “Okay. I felt a change in you over the phone. I guess I knew what was coming. Okay.” He pulled himself to his feet, shuffled to the door and left. I covered my face with my hands and cried.
Dear Sue,
Here is the inevitable letter. I can’t just let you walk away without some thoughts.
Cold turkey is a bit hard on me, though I keep telling myself that it is for the best. I miss the comfort of knowing I can call you, share my thoughts with you and feel your exciting and tender warmth – I guess that fits my unrealistic pattern of actions and emotions that don’t jive with your definition of a relationship.
Next Monday (the 25th) I am on my way to Nevada to meet Eric for a 10-day stint of rock climbing (should help to clean the mental slate). I think about you often. Not with any bitterness or anger, mostly warm thoughts, disappointment and a few questions. I don’t wonder why it went the way it did; that was clearly laid out. I sometimes wonder if my life is unrealistic for a relationship or whether someone could “hack” putting up with who I am. And who am I? I wonder if my lifestyle would change as a result of a relationship like I used to tell you it would. Questions. I have many of the answers to my life but not all of them! I guess that would make life a bit too easy. I certainly appreciate the energy, dedication and patience you showed with me. I think you ran into one of the toughest years of my life. I was constantly tired and my emotions rode the big roller coaster. Not the greatest impression. On top of that, you shared your amazing ability to excite, your love, warmth and your energy for life. You like to have fun; keep that quality in your life.
I have only one regret – our inability to jump to the next level.
Believe it or not, I know I learned from our time together. In some ways I am more determined than ever to maintain certain aspects of what makes me Jim. I don’t think I will waffle on that one again. At the same time, I know in the right environment, I will make the changes necessary to achieve some of the goals in life that both you and I talked about and are striving for.
Sometimes I may sound a little mixed up or immature to your ears, partly my wimp-like personality that cringes at the thought of confrontation or hurting someone. Yet I know these thoughts have to be voiced or the big hurt eventually comes and little is gained by “holding on” to emotions. See, I am learning! Regardless, I feel quite clear about the subjects we spoke about last Saturday. To be completely honest, my heart was still growing for you (in my slow way) but I sense your heart has been closed, partly by your brain to protect yourself and your ideals, and is moving in another direction.
Fair enough. Ultimately, we have to listen to our hearts.
I hope you feel comfortable enough to give me a call some day, if you feel like throwing a football around or just to shoot the breeze. We had some great walks on the beach. If you need a favour, please don’t hesitate to ask. At the very least, I hope that you know I support you, continue to admire your way and am your very true friend.
Thanks for everything, Sue. We were close.
Love, Jim X0
I cried at his sweetness and wondered what he meant by “we were close.” Did he mean that we knew and understood each other or that we were close to taking that next step?
When Jim returned from his climbing trip to Red Rocks, Nevada, he came over with a gift. He explained, “I can’t give it to anyone else because I made it especially for you, before we split up. I’d like you to have it.” I peeled away the plain brown paper and gazed at a sunrise photo of the Tantalus Range, between Vancouver and Whistler, my favourite mountains. Jim had risen at 4:30 a.m., several mornings in a row, to take the photo. I hung it in the living room, where the morning sun lit up the soft pinks and oranges.
As he told me about his trip, his voice trembled.
“We were in Red Rocks canyon doing a pretty hard route, moderate anyway. Eric took the first lead, and I was going to lead the crux. And I’m up there, a ways out from my last piece of gear, and my legs start to shake. I get the sewing machine thing happening. My hands are all greasy, and I start to think about falling. It would be seven metres at least; a pretty big fall. I back off and tell Eric I don’t feel quite right. I have to talk my way through it. ‘Come on, Jim, get it together,’ I repeat over and over.”
I sat stiffly on the couch, fists clenched, and rooted silently for Jim.
“I finished the route but, man, I was shaky. I was secretly relieved when it rained the next few days and we couldn’t climb.”
I lowered my gaze and forced my breath to be steady and quiet so as not to expose Jim any further. He looked like a wounded animal. After several minutes, Jim rose to his feet and fumbled in the closet for his jacket. At the door, I lurched forward into his stiff arms, and we rattled together longer than a friendship hug permits until nervous laughter broke us apart. My hand rested on his arm. When he looked at me, my eyes grew hot with tears, and he pulled me to him and kissed me.
We started seeing each other again. Maybe we never really stopped.