Finding Jim (15 page)

The support network has been truly awesome. Family first as always, but also so many different groups of people you were a part of over the years, Jim, Jim-Bob, Habby. In each circle, your natural way made you the guy that everyone could go to for an uncritical smile, a ready ear or an honest answer. How'd you do that? I guess they could tell you really cared – people first, right?

Some of the closest folks are pretty shattered, Jim. It's an amazing group, big bro' – some have been around forever, some just lately, but they've got good and true hearts. We're so lucky. But it's great to see everyone, there's such energy when we're together – you should be here. It's wild, too; it takes something that rubs everyone raw to make some connections work. I feel closer to some people in the last few days than I ever have.

I'm gonna miss my best teacher and my guide. You spent a lot of time breaking trail for all of us and had a ready smile when we caught up. A deep, sincere thanks for your part in making me me.

I hope nobody tries to make you out to be a god tonight. I know you always had uncertainties, doubts and questions. But the hills are a good teacher and we found a few of the answers together. We'll just try and remember your way, and carry you with us, and live it. Plain old Uncle Jim.

I'm really glad for you that you made it this far. It took you a while to realize that the path you were on was your path. And you found Sue. I loved seeing you find peace within, and I've tried to learn from that, too.

I don't think you were too scared in the slide. Probably just feeling guilty 'cause you knew how sad we'd all be. Don't worry, Jim, I don't think you left anything unsaid. We can feel your spirit here. And we'll try to be there for Sue. We'll be okay.

You always wrote the best letters. I think you'll be answering this one tonight. I can't wait. So, Jim, “Heebla,” “Jacques,” “Boom-Chicka-Boom.”

Lots and lots of love,

Kevin.

The audience applauds loudly. Truth spoken right from the heart. So like Jim.

I sit on the edge of my seat, listening and waiting. I envision long roots extending from my body down into the earth. Patti tells me to envision light encircling my body, protecting me. I try. I try to breathe. I try to stay grounded but I am ricocheting through the universe with no compass bearing and nothing to hold me together. My hands tremble and my knuckles are white from clutching the three-hole loose-leaf pages on which I have written my farewell words. Two drafts.

I picture myself on stage, composed, reading my eulogy. People will say how strong I am, how brave. Partway through, the blood will drain out of me and I will collapse onto the floor, unconscious. People will gasp and press forward to help. But they will stop short when, from the top of the domed ceiling, an eagle will trill and dive to my side, spreading his three-metre wings protectively around me. I will rest while Jim shrieks at anyone who threatens to come near. I will wake, and, faced with his glaring amber eyes and sharp hooked bill, remain still. Haltingly, he will brush the soft feathers of his head against my cheek. I will stand, Jim perched defiantly on my arm, and we will go home.

Then Dave announces my name from the stage. My heart pounds so deeply my ears vibrate. Patti holds my elbow as we feel our way down the dark aisle. At the side of the stage she asks how I am. I turn to her and say, in someone else's composed deeper voice, “Fine, thank you.” I skate on the surface of my grief, because if I go deeper, allow even one small fissure to open up, I will drown in the pain. I know it.

I climb the stairs alone to the podium. I glance out into the sea of black. It's like staring into a cave full of breathing. Pat's face is illuminated in the front row. He looks worried. Scared for me. I fix my gaze on the paper in front of me. My voice wavers: “My name is Sue and I am Jim's wife.” My throat closes and it is seconds before I can breathe again. I take one long deep breath and let it out between trembling pursed lips. And I read. I stand there and I read it. There are even a couple of times when people laugh.

Today we are here to celebrate Jim's life. Everyone who knew Jim loved him.

Jim valued friendship. Alastair once said that Jim had more close friends than anyone he knew. Greetings began with a hearty hug. You'd often hear a sincere “Good man!” at the end of phone conversations with buddies. I can hear him laughing uncontrollably at Mike's jokes. There are countless stories of being tent-bound for days, of forgetting fuel, of battling pulmonary edema and of reaching summits. All of these adventures bonded Jim and his buddies. Jim opened his heart and created a safe haven for friendships to grow.

Jim was loved and supported by his family. His mom and dad believed in him. He had love in his voice when he walked through their door and said, “Hey, Mom!” and gave her a big hug. Kevin and Jim had an unspoken bond. Jim said that when they climbed together things just flowed and that there was very little need for words. He loved that. Jim was like a second father to Kevin and Vicki's kids. At the mere sight of Jim's car, Jaslyn and Connor would come running, yelling “Uncle Jim!” and beat down the door to get in the first hug. When Jim and I first started dating, my stepmom said, “Isn't it nice to be going out with someone who everyone likes?” My father sang his praises often. Once we met a client of Jim's when we were out for dinner. The man came over to say hello and said, “You know you have quite a son-in-law here.” My dad replied, “I know, I'm thinking of changing my will.”

Jim was passionate and full of heart and soul. He listened to his soul and lived his life accordingly. He gave people the benefit of the doubt; he took the higher ground, he looked at the positive side; he believed that things happen for a reason; he believed that it is better to give than it is to receive; and he believed that love is worth the risk. This inner strength grounded him and created something of which we are all a part. He inspired us to follow our dreams.

Now we have a big mountain to climb because we are all missing him very much. We will climb this mountain with his help, even if it takes 15 breaths for each step.

I am very fortunate because I met my soulmate and spent so many wonderful years with him. I am grateful for all of his love, kindness, understanding, passion and support … for all of his hugs, kisses, smiles and chuckles. I am a better person for having known him. He was an extraordinary being, and I know that his spirit will live on in all of us and in everything that is good and beautiful in this world.

When I am done, I listen to the breathing. I whisper, “I love you, Jim, always.”

I want Jim to see that I will be okay, but I am not convinced of this myself. I want to honour everything he and I shared. I want to shout my love for him from the top of the mountains. And more than anything, I want him to come back. I want to read the best eulogy ever so that he will come back.

The service ends with a slideshow of Jim's life: 2400 photos, music, two projectors, one image fading into the next. Climbing and mountaineering photos dominate, but there are also scenes of the ocean. In each one there is a love of being with Jim. Depending on one another in the wilderness fostered that love. Facing the unknown together with a sense of clarity and purposeful action created a respectful bond. One full section is dedicated to Jim and me. I grip my seat and gulp air as photos of Jim and me from all over the world colour the screen: under a waterfall, on top of a mountain, dancing, hugging and laughing. I smile to hold back my tears. Van Morrison belts out “Have I Told You Lately that I Love You?” I used to cup Jim's face in my hands and ask him that. Or sneak up from behind and wrap my arms around his neck and whisper in his ear. He'd laugh and say, “No.” And I'd say, “I do, truly, madly and deeply.” It was the song we danced to at our wedding.

I strain to hear the words of the final song, “Here in the Heart,” by Daniel Lavoie:

Here in the heart of me

That's where you'll always be

Deep as the deep blue sea

Close as the air I breathe

I wipe my nose on my sleeve and hang my head and whisper, “Close as the air I breathe.” Patti guides me by the elbow to the hall outside the auditorium.

“People will want to talk to you,” she says and positions me front and centre. The foyer fills, and I lean against a table, chew my lip and feel like my parents have just dropped me off at my first day of kindergarten, naked. Groups form. The room buzzes. A few people talk to me, and then I slip up the stairs to the landing, crouch down and cry.

“There you are.” It's my sister Sharron. I stand up, wipe my eyes and she leads me downstairs to the bubbling crowd. Kevin is right. Jim's family and friends are happy to be together.

A colleague of Jim's, a guide, rests her hand on my arm and says, “I'm so sorry, Sue. You know, Jim made me want to be a better person. And I'm going to do that. I'm going to try to be a better person, not just for me, but for Jim.” I hug her, more out of habit than anything else. The room spins.

I ooze along with the crowd until we are outside in the dark.

“Hey, Sue, some of us are going to the high-school pizza haunt on Broadway. Please come.” Pat's voice is charged.

“Okay.” Keen not to be left behind. Keen to be anywhere Jim was. My sister drives me. Pitchers of beer, pizza, raucous laughter. I laugh at a joke and catch myself. How could I laugh when Jim is dead? I think I'm going to be sick. My body sits still, but my soul weaves across the room, tries to escape and collapses on the floor. There are shouts, people at my side, an ambulance is called, a stretcher, and my soul is whisked away. I watch it all happen and am surprised to feel the warmth of my thighs beneath my hands. My body is still here, sitting on the chair, the party goes on around me, and Jim is still dead.

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.