Free Finding Jim by Susan Oakey-Baker

why they call it the divorce boat!”
    On the contrary, my relationship with Jim matured when we faced discomfort and fear together. I learned that I could depend on him under pressure. I learned that he loved me when I was not at my best; when I was scared and withdrew and put the responsibility on others. When I was not perfect. I had felt so vulnerable and imperfect on Kilimanjaro, trying to keep up with Jim. I knew now that being vulnerable allowed our love to grow.
    After our river trip, we ate and slept for 24 hours at our bed and breakfast before boarding a floatplane to the foothills of Mount Edziza.
    Rainwater funnelled down the sleeve of my jacket as I pushed through the dense salal, head lowered and doing my best to ignore the wet squelching sound of my socks inside my leather hiking boots. Under my breath I counted out 30-second intervals punctuated by a shocking toot of my air horn. Around each corner, my steps faltered and my head whipped from side to side in search of dark masses among the thick, shoulder-high brush. I stopped short in front of a steaming pile of bear scat and crinkled my nose at the acrid smell of wet fur and urine hanging in the air. If we surprised a grizzly on this narrow trail, hugged on both sides by tangled brush, there would be no escape.
    After six hours of trudging uphill in a downpour, we broke out above treeline onto a moonscape of volcanic rock decorated with intermittent tufts of dry grasses. The black, grey and green striations flowed upward to the striking white snow of Mount Edziza. Brown fuzzy caribou shapes dotted the snow-covered gullies. We set up the tent and cooked dinner over the gas stove, mesmerized by the gentle movements of the caribou in the soft orange glow of the setting sun. Before bed I poked a needle into the bases of two bulging blisters on my heels.
    The rain eased, and for nine days we crossed swollen glacier-fed streams, wandered over crushed black rock, and crunched on snow to the summit of Mount Edziza. We did not see another person. At our first water crossing, Jim crouched momentarily before leaping a metre over rushing water, fully loaded under a 27-kilogram pack. I edged forward on the wet, slanted, launching spot, knees bent, one arm ready to swing, puffing madly, gaze alternating between the muddy landing on the opposite bank and the bubbling water below. Breathe, bend the knees, swing the arms and jump! But my feet stayed firmly planted. What if I fall? Get wet? Twist my ankle? Come on! Get it together! Breathe, bend the knees, swing the arms and jump! But the more I thought about it, the more I couldn’t move. What if? My heart sped up with the ever-increasing list of things that could go wrong. I could take off my shoes and socks and wade through, but the rocks would cut my feet, it was freezing cold and the current still might pull me over. And my blisters would get waterlogged.
    â€œCome on, Sue, you can do it,” Jim coached from the other side.
    â€œI know. Okay, okay!” I barked. I didn’t like to be left behind. I blew two short breaths through my nose, inhaled deeply, swung my arms back and then threw them forward with my leading leg. Airborne. I watched my foot sink into the mud many inches from the edge of the water and exhaled. Once I readjusted my pack, I grinned at Jim. For me, having to be self-reliant was part of the appeal of these wilderness adventures. I ventured out of my comfort zone to learn about courage, my strengths and my weaknesses, to trust myself.
    The next morning, I winced as I pushed my feet into my hiking boots. The open blisters on my heels burned in spite of the padded dressing surrounding them. I tied my boots to my pack and wore woollen socks and Tevas for the rest of the trip.
    The next stream crossing was too wide to jump. Water pushed against Jim’s knees as he ferried our packs across. Jim returned for a third time and piggybacked me so that my blisters would stay dry.
    On the final