Finding Jim (12 page)

Flowers arrive. A colleague of Jim's brings pizza. A friend sits on the couch beside me holding my hand. More friends bring food.

Dad and Glenda arrive to take me to Vancouver, to Jim's parents and the rest of the family. I shift the bouquets of flowers before manoeuvring stiffly into their car. Balanced on the edge of the leather seat, I crane my neck to keep sight of our modest brown and green home, as we turn left out of the cul-de-sac and right out of the subdivision. Then it is gone. Jim and Sue's place. I pull my gaze away. It's like raw flesh ripping from the bone.

I shift forward and back, to the right and to the left, like a caged animal. I open my mouth to speak and shut it without saying a word. My father is there in the car, driving, but I feel separated from him by an entire universe. I am being kidnapped.

When we arrive at Mom and Dad Haberl's three-level retirement townhouse on the west side of Vancouver, the front door is open. I hesitate on the threshold and remember the last time I was here, exactly one week earlier, before Jim left for Alaska. The last time I would ever see him.

Two months before our second wedding anniversary, Jim prepared for a trip to Alaska to climb University Peak with fellow Whistler guides Keith and Graeme. He printed off the usual equipment list from his computer and organized his sleeping bag, tent, fuel, stove, rope, crampons, ice axes, skis, two-way radio, warm outdoor clothing and two weeks of individually packaged dried meals into an 80-litre backpack.

Their flight left early from Seattle on Saturday, April 24, so Jim and I decided, uncharacteristically, to drive down to Vancouver the day before and stay with Jim's parents so we could connect with friends and family. Since building our home in Whistler – a two-hour drive from Vancouver – we had been coveting time with loved ones.

Mom and Dad Haberl were used to receiving Jim's postcards from Africa, the Alps, South America and Alaska. He had begun rock climbing and mountaineering when he was 14, and had recruited his brother Kevin for many of his adventures. When Jim still lived at the old five-bedroom family home, his expedition gear was often sprawled over the basement or family living-room floor. I asked Mom Haberl if she worried about Jim when he was in the mountains. She shrugged her shoulders and laughed, “Why worry? I mean it doesn't do a lick of good. It doesn't change anything.” Her lips and eyes almost disappear when she laughs, which makes me want to hug her.

Every Tuesday evening Mom Haberl goes to meditation group. Every Thursday she has aquafit class. She attends Catholic church and plays bridge with friends. She and Dad Haberl travel to the United States to watch baseball games, and they travel in Canada to family reunions. Mom Haberl remembers the birthdays of each of her 12 grandchildren, her six children and their spouses. She is a retired nurse and wears a small gold pin of the tiniest pair of feet you have ever seen in support of the pro-life movement.

I stood in their living room one day when Mom and Dad Haberl had a disagreement. Her hands waved in the air and her face was set. He did not concede. She threw her arms in the air, and with a downturned mouth and creases around her eyes, she said, “Peace be with you.” And she walked away.

Later that evening, Mom Haberl told me the story of how she and Dad Haberl had met in Montreal. She spread her fingers wide and positioned her hands in front of her as if she were holding the sides of a shoebox and exclaimed, “One thing that really attracted me to Bill was the fact that he takes charge. I like that.” Me too, I thought. I like that in a man. She cradled one hand inside the other and shook them up and down and confided, “But you know, he always thinks that his way is the best way … and the problem is that he's often right!” The last part of her sentence tumbled out with her laughter. She pointed her finger at me and, in a surprisingly stern voice, said, “But don't ever let anyone tell you that you cannot have an opinion.”

Dad Haberl is not an outdoorsman. He loves to play golf and watch baseball and is still working at 84 years of age. He is an avid Gyro Club member and is always up for a family reunion. As young men, Kevin and Jim called their dad from northern Canada for more money to pay for extra baggage, only hours after leaving home on an expedition. He chided them, laughed and sent the money. When Jim discontinued his English studies at university after one year, his dad said he would support him to take formal guide training. At a family gathering before Jim and I were married, I confided to two of the daughters-in-law that I felt a bit intimidated around Dad Haberl. They assured me that he had really softened up in the past 10 years. Jim told me he had a lot of respect for his dad for all that he had accomplished.

We chatted with Mom and Dad Haberl that Friday night before Jim headed to Alaska, and as we said good night, his dad dropped his chin, shook Jim's hand and, with a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, barked, “You know the rules, son.”

Jim nodded his head once and said, “Yup.”

“Good man,” his dad grunted.

I knew Jim's rules by heart:

• The summit is optional, descent is not.
  
• You don't conquer mountains: they let you climb them or they don't.
  
• Take care of your climbing partners.
  
• Know when to turn back.
  
• Be precise, be prepared, hone your skills and minimize the risk.
  

His mom hugged Jim and said, “See you in the morning.”

I raised my eyebrows and asked Jim if she was going to get up to see him off at 3 a.m. “Yup, she's a good one,” replied Jim. Jim and I curled up together and fell asleep.

Just before he left, Jim bent down over the bed in the dark and kissed me gently on the cheek. I wrapped my arms around his neck, kissed him on the mouth and mumbled, “Be careful. I love you.”

After a four-hour drive to Seattle, a four-hour flight to Anchorage and a four-hour drive in a rental car to Chitina, on the boundary of Wrangell–St. Elias National Park, Jim called that evening from a payphone. My heart raced when I heard his voice, “Hey, sweetie, it's me.”

It was too windy for the bush plane to fly them in to the Ultima Thule Lodge, so they would bunk down in the tool shed. I pictured the three-by-three-metre weather-beaten shelter on the west bank of the Copper River, remembering it from our trip there the previous year, in May 1998. I smelled the oil and gas that stained the wooden floorboards, and shivered at the memory of the wind filtering through the cracks. I pictured Jim pulling his jacket tightly around him as he walked the grey, windy, deserted streets to the payphone.

Jim chattered on about the spectacular flight to Anchorage. “The Chugatch Mountains look incredible. We should do a ski tour there.”

I laughed because I had suggested that trip the year before but Jim had preferred a bigger objective, and we'd gone to Mount Bona instead. I knew we'd do it now that Jim was ready. I teased him, “Why does it always have to be your idea?”

There was a pause. “I dunno. I sure wish you were here so that we could snuggle in our sleeping bags,” Jim mused.

“Me too,” I sighed. “I love you.”

“Me too.”

Those were our last words.

During that first week of Jim's absence, I busied myself with teaching, tutoring and some guiding. I was surprised to find that the time passed quickly. That Thursday night, I went to bed and complimented myself on doing well while Jim was gone.

My parents and I push through the screen door, step out of the darkness and into the light of the hallway. People move around the living room. Mom Haberl hurries toward me with her arms open wide. “Oh, Sue,” she squeezes out between tears, and skin bunches around her eyes like a drawstring. I sink into her embrace, crying the sort of tears that don't make you feel any better.

I hear voices. “I'm so sorry, Sue.”

I feel warm arms holding me. But I am underwater, floating in slow motion. Someone puts a chair behind me and I plunk down. Jim's sister brings me a cup of tea, but my taste buds recoil at the first touch of liquid and my stomach clenches into a ball. I cannot function in this foreign world.

Mom Haberl gathers us around the television to watch the late-evening news. The lead story is about Jim, and there is a photo of him that fills half the screen. I tense. He wears his barnyard red and royal blue one-piece
GORE-TEX
climbing suit with the hood pulled over his climbing helmet. His head tilts back, his blue eyes shine and his smile opens wide.

My throat aches as it squeezes down on my breath. There he is, as real as day, yet people keep telling me he is dead. I pick up a few words: “well-known Canadian mountaineer … first Canadian to summit
K2
, second highest mountain in the world … killed … Alaska.” The screen goes dark and people turn away.

Matt, Jim's long-time friend and climbing buddy, rocks forward slightly and expresses in a velvety voice his wonder at how lucky he feels. He feels so lucky because just two weeks earlier, Matt and Jim and Jim's brothers Pat and Kevin met in Squamish to do a very rare day of climbing together. It had been more than 15 years since they had done that, and it was not unusual for them to go months without seeing one another. I was there too. I'd met them for the afternoon and we did a multiple-pitch climb that took several hours. They bubbled like schoolboys, happy to be together.

Dad Haberl's deep, confident voice fills the room as he discusses the logistics of retrieving Jim's body. Jim's brother Pat, a lawyer, confirms that the travel insurance money – about $1,500 – will pay for flying Jim's body home. I stare at the floor and wish myself away. I feel queasy thinking of Jim's body in a box in the cold, noisy cargo hold of a plane.

My face goes rigid and I jerk up my head in panic.

“What will happen to Jim's body?” I blurt.

“It will go to Kearney's funeral home in Vancouver and they will arrange for the cremation,” Dad Haberl explains.

“I want to see him,” I demand.

Dad Haberl shifts from foot to foot, leans in and confides under his breath, “I've heard he's pretty beaten up, Sue. I don't think you want to see him.”

I lower my head but then fix my gaze on his and implore, “I need to see him.”

Dad Haberl nods his head and turns away.

Jim's sister crouches beside my chair to show me a piece of paper and says, “This is the obituary we've written for the newspaper. We'd like to know what you think.”

HABERL
– James Edward
A.C.M.G., M.S.M
.

A man of incredible grace, beauty and humility, Jim has left us, killed tragically by an avalanche while climbing in Alaska on April 29, 1999. Jim is survived by his loving wife Sue Oakey, parents Bill and Margaret, siblings Susan, Herb, Kevin, Patrick, Mike, their families and all the people whose lives Jim touched. Jim's bereaved family and invited guests will participate in a mass on Tuesday morning. Jim's friends are welcomed to gather at a Celebration of Jim's Life on Wednesday, May 5, at 6
P.M.
at the Chan Centre for the Performing Arts at
UBC
. In lieu of flowers, a memorial fund is being established.

I turn to her and whisper, “It's beautiful.” And it is. But I plead silently with my eyes, Why did you write that? Jim is not dead. He can't be. I love him. Why did you write that? The pieces of the puzzle are sharp like razors.

Dad and Glenda drive me to their home and make up the guest room. Dad hands me a glass of water and places a light blue pill the size of a peppercorn in my palm. “It will help you sleep,” he says heavily, and he kisses my forehead. I lie in the strange single bed staring into the darkness.

SATURDAY, MAY 1, 1999

The next evening, I drive to a friend's house where Jim's immediate family gathers to hear the details of the accident from his climbing partners, Keith and Graeme.

Mom and Dad Haberl, as well as Jim's three younger brothers and his older sister, sit on the edges of the light-coloured couches. Jim is missing. I force my mind to focus on this strange world where Jim should be but is not. I force myself because I have to find him. All heads incline slightly away from the stark lights. We wait.

Before the door opens, at the first jiggle of the doorknob, people are on their feet. Keith and Graeme have driven straight from the Seattle airport. Their faces are shadowed with stubble and their clothes crumple into the crevasses of their bodies. My legs are still catching up when I bump up against Keith's chest, encircle him with my arms. “Welcome home.” I step back. Keith's gaze darts above and below me and to the left and to the right.

Keith and Graeme sit down stiffly and take turns unravelling the tragedy.

Questions –  why? and how? – burn in our brains. No one wants to place blame, but we all want answers: Why weren't they roped up in case of a fall? Wearing transceivers in case of an avalanche? Helmets in case of rock or ice fall? How could Jim, such an experienced, wise and talented mountaineer, die in the mountains? Why him when Keith and Graeme survived? And my irrational silent questions: Where is Jim? Why did you leave him there? How do we fix this? How do we get him back?

Jim, Keith and Graeme had planned to climb University Peak, but the pilot could not land the plane there because of poor snow conditions. So they decided to climb an unnamed peak, known locally as Ultima Thule. They discussed how the unusually low snowpack had increased avalanche hazard. As a result, they decided to ski down the glacier and access the ridge to the summit via a 50° chute that was as steep as a double-black-diamond ski run and as high as the Eiffel Tower. The chute had been pummelled by previous snowfall, and so they surmised that it had avalanched and would be a safer route. As they moved along the route, they were laughing, really enjoying being out there with one another.

“I figure,” says Keith, “we were all wondering about the snow stability, but nobody wanted to break the spell.”