Free Finding Jim by Susan Oakey-Baker Page B

married.” My heart raced. The day was March 2, 1996. I knew right away that I would marry him.
    A few months later I questioned my decision.
    On May 11, 1996, eight people, including two experienced mountain guides, were killed. It was the biggest disaster in Mount Everest’s history. I leaned closer to the print of the local newspaper.
    â€œWhy?” I asked Jim. “Why?”
    â€œIt’s hard to say if you weren’t there. It’s too easy to judge others in hindsight,” Jim dug his hands deeper into his pockets.
    â€œYes, but why?” I insisted.
    â€œGuiding a mountain like Everest is risky. The more people who go, the more inexperienced they are, the higher the likelihood of an accident.”
    â€œSo why do they guide it?” I gestured at the newspaper article.
    â€œBecause people will pay to be guided,” Jim sighed.
    My mind chewed on the words.
    Jim’s climbing partner arrived at our apartment and laughed the words out, “Can you believe that deal on Everest?” His body was agitated, like a toddler.
    Jim rocked forward, raised his eyebrows and guffawed, “I know, it’s crazy!”
    â€œEight dead!”
    â€œAnd Scott Fisher and Rob Hall!” Their bodies quivered with excitement. The room buzzed. I felt as if I were the only one at a party who was not high.
    When Jim and I were alone, I questioned him.
    â€œHow can you act so psyched? I don’t get it.”
    Jim shrugged.
    I struggled on, “Mountaineering seems so selfish, such a waste of energy, and the courage and boldness that go into mountaineering could be put toward a more meaningful goal.”
    â€œBut mountaineering allows us to be courageous and bold. In any other environment we would not perform. Accomplishments in mountaineering inspire others. Isn’t that enough?” Jim countered.
    â€œI just wonder if the cost is too great.” I thought of the satellite phone conversation between Rob Hall dying near the top of Mount Everest and his pregnant wife back home, of her choking out her final words to him.
    â€œAnd what about us, Jim?” My throat constricted with the truth. This was my real question. I judged mountaineering because I feared the repercussions in my own life. I admired the courage of mountaineers, but I did not want Jim to die.
    Jim inhaled and then released his breath with his answer, “I’m not going back to the big mountains.” My body relaxed. I did not want to ask Jim to stop doing something he loved, but at the same time a little voice nagged at me that it would be crazy to marry and to raise a family with a mountaineer who climbed above 8000 metres, in the “death zone.” My pragmatic side lamented that life would be a whole lot easier with an accountant as a mate.
    That summer, we drove 22 hours up the length of British Columbia’s varied topography before cutting across the left-hand bottom corner of the Yukon. It took another two days to putter to Fairbanks, Alaska, where we boarded a plane to Bettles, followed by a floatplane into the mountains of the Brooks Range. A total of 3500 kilometres and 40 hours of driving.
    Sometime during the third day, while stiffly raising my feet to the dashboard to relieve the pressure on my bum, I asked, “Why don’t we do our own premarital classes? We could each talk about our five-year goals.”
    â€œOkay,” Jim adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
    â€œI’ll go first,” I offered. “Well … let’s see. I’d like to improve my climbing, find a home with you somewhere in the Sea to Sky corridor, have a baby and start an outdoor program for kids.” I turned to Jim.
    He gave me a cursory glance and fixed his eyes on the road. “Okay, great. Me, well, I’d like to lead solid 5.11 and climb 50 days in the year. I’d like to write a book about Alaska. More photography. I want to be more disciplined about taking