by Jan Redford
I stretch, trying to reach the bolt, but it’s still too far away. Goddamned six-foot-four first ascensionists.
“I can’t reach the fucking bolt!”
I’m sucking in little gerbil breaths. Hyperventilating. Fear makes my body instinctively hug the rock, which puts my weight in the wrong place. One foot starts to shake, up and down, up and down like a sewing machine. I grip tighter, and the tighter I grip the more I shake.
Dan doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. He can’t swoop in and rescue me. This is my moment. The one I usually try to avoid. The one I came here looking for.
A deep breath from the belly, not my shallow breaths from the chest. It does what it’s supposed to. Brings my heart rate down a couple of beats, just enough to give me courage. I unglue my hand from its hold. Take another small step up.
A couple years ago I watched Jenna do a hard lead. She was high off the ground, unable to get in her first piece of protection, exhausting herself, while I was pacing a groove in the dirt, yelling, “Jenna, get something in!” Dan finally advised her to just blitz through the crux. So she did. I could almost see the change in her body as she made that decision. Her back straightened, her face relaxed, her power returned. She climbed smoothly to a good rest spot. She’d just had to relax and commit.
That’s the key. To relax before I clip the bolt. To climb as though I’ve already clipped it. Fake it till I make it.
I soften my grip on the rock. Soften my grimace. Breathe. Throw back my shoulders and straighten my spine so my weight is over my feet. My shoes grip the rock again. My thoughts come back to here and now, not to that ledge below me. Not to living out my final years ventilator-dependent in a wheelchair in a nursing home.
If I can control my body, I can control my mind. I always thought it was the other way around. But if I put my body in motion, my mind has to follow. Jocelyn tried to teach me that back when I was fourteen years old: “If the head she goes, the body he follows.”
Another hold comes into focus, now that I’m not fixated on the bolt. A good hold. Small, but with a sharp edge. These next moves will take finesse, not force. I reach to my right, high above my head, pull sideways and move my foot up behind me so the sole of my shoe is flat against an outcrop, scrunched under my bum. I could reach the bolt now, but I’m off balance. I have to make another move. I inch my way up the rock till my feet are secure, on two good holds. I take the quick draw from my harness, clip it into the bolt, pull up the rope and clip it into the carabiner.
I let out my breath. When I stop shaking, I look down and grin. “I almost shit myself!”
Dan smiles and it’s too far away to see his eyes crinkle in the corners, but I know they do.
What are the odds of marrying a man with the same name as your dead boyfriend? Of getting a second chance? A wave of euphoria courses through me. Is that such a bad thing? To feel comfortable with someone? To feel safe?
Leaning out from the rock, I study the route above. Even though I’m only halfway there, four more bolts to go, I can see the rest of the holds are bigger, the angle more laid-back. I also know whatever I just did on the crux is all mine. It will stick with me to the top.
I dip each hand into my chalk bag, reach high above my head, and continue leading upward.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I’m indebted to many mentors who have helped me believe in myself as a writer: Wayde Compton (Simon Fraser University’s The Writer’s Studio), for his unfaltering faith that my next lessons lay in post-publication; and Betsy Warland (SFU’s TWS and Vancouver Manuscript Intensive), John Vaillant (Sage Hill Writing), who skillfully nurtured storytelling; Lynne Bowen (UBC), whose teaching skills teased out some of my favourite essays (ie “The Big Sex Talk”); Connie Gault (Banff Wired), who was so unflappable as I plowed through the emotional work of writing my coming-of-age chapters (hopefully part of a future memoir); and Marni Jackson (Banff Mountain and Wilderness Writing), who convinced me that my life, my experiences, and my memories belong to me and that I have a right to tell my story. A special thanks to Marni for introducing me to my wonderful agent and editors.
I wrote most of this book in my very messy office with the buzz of a dozen or so neighbourhood children and dogs in the background, but some of the most emotionally challenging chapters were written in heavenly solitude: on Hornby Island, thanks to Deb McVittie of 32 Books; on the North Bench in Golden, thanks to my mountain-biking buddy Tannis Dakin; and in a cabin on the Sunshine Coast, thanks to Andreas Schroeder and Sharon Brown.
To my SFU Writer’s Studio family who had more faith in me than I did and laughed encouragingly at my humping-bunnies story: Eufemia Fantetti, Ayelet Tsabari (who was also instrumental—from Israel!—in connecting me with my agent, Sam), Leslie Hill, Sue Anne Linde, Naz Hazar, Jen Caldwell and Fiona Scott. And to my many other workshoppers and readers: Clarissa Green, Morgan Chojnacki, Sally Halliday, Joan Flood, Julie Okot Bitek, Libby Soper, Cathy Ostlere, Deb McVittie, Barker, Judy McFarlane, Tannis Dakin, my “sista” Theresa Godin and Saul Greenberg, who read multiple drafts, proclaiming each one a finished product (possibly so he wouldn’t have to read another one).
About finding one’s voice, Tristine Rainer wrote: “Write as you would to that little group of admirers who is really interested in what you have to say and laughs at your jokes.” Thank you to Tracey Thatcher for being the little admirer in my head.
A gargantuan thank you to Andreas Schroeder for guiding me through my thesis and not groaning too loudly when I sent him yet another few thousand words, and to Timothy Taylor, my second reader, for recognizing that the focus had to be on the mountains, not on the dysfunctional family. My fellow students at UBC (too many to mention, but you know who you are) gave me courage and confidence, and the amazing instructors in the MFA program helped me become a better non-fiction writer through fiction, screen and journalism: Linda Svendsen, Peggy Thompson, Deborah Campbell and Keith Maillard.
I’m grateful to my kids, Jenna and Sam, for allowing me to write about them, and for charging at life with courage and gumption. And to Dan, for reading everything I write (over and over again), for believing in me as a writer (and climber, mountain biker and person) and for not worrying about my lack of financial viability. You are the calm within my storm. And to my siblings, Eric and Susan, for allowing me to share some of our mutual past (and for helping me survive it).
Since the first words of this book were set to paper, both my parents have passed away: my father soon after my first attempt at a story, and my mother right in the middle of my last rewrite of the whole manuscript. I know they’d be slightly horrified but mostly proud of me. It is my deep regret that my uncle, Dunkin Bancroft, an artist and aspiring writer himself, is not here to see my dream come true. I received word of my book contract days after his death. Thank you for believing in me and laughing out loud at my stories.
Thank you to UBC, the Banff Centre, Sage Hill and the BC Arts Council for your financial support through this and other projects.
And of course, a huge hug of gratitude to Amanda Lewis, my editor and champion at Random House Canada (now freelancing, doing yoga and puttering in her garden). You believed in me from the start. Your e-mail with the subject line “Could we chat?” changed my life. And to Anne Collins, who jumped into the fray toward the end and nipped and tucked so beautifully with her sharp eye. Thank you for your kindness and patience as I kept vigil over my mother. And to my ever-so-supportive agent, Samantha Haywood, with Transatlantic: you so kindly reassure me through my rants that I’m normal, that many writers are afflicted with self-doubt and angst. And to the team at Counterpoint Press, especially my editor, Megha Majumdar, thank you for your constant flexibility, support, and enthusiasm and for bringing my book to a whole new audience.
To the first person to encourage me to get my story down on paper (in third person so I could get much-needed distance and perspective), Elva Mertick, wherever you are, thank you for giving me the courage to move on, and f
or saying you would read a whole book like the story I wrote about Sam pooping in the bushes in front of our new home in student housing. Well, here it is. A whole book.
And thank you to my climbing family for providing a home that fit, and many stories.
Dan Guthrie and Ian Bult in their element.
Dunkin Bancroft
Me in 1975, at age fourteen, around the time our family bought a dilapidated little cabin in the Laurentians, where I did my first “rock climb.” After that ascent I wrote in my diary, “I’m going to be a mountain climber when I grow up.”
Dave Stark
Tending to our blistered feet in the Canyonlands, Utah, during my three-and-a-half-month semester course at the National Outdoor Leadership School (NOLS) based in Lander, Wyoming. The Beast, my eighty-pound backpack, is in the background. I had just turned twenty.
El Capitan, on my first trip to Yosemite in the spring of 1982, with Saul and Geoff. On my next trip, that fall, Rik and I were rescued off this wall. I went on to take a total of five trips to Yosemite.
The summer of 1982 at our trail crew camp in Kananaskis Provincial Park in Alberta, beside my first car, a ’67 Dodge Dart I bought for $300. I lived in the tent cabin in the background with five others.
Skiing across the Columbia Icefields with a couple of friends in the spring of 1982, on our way to climb Mount Columbia, seen in the background. As we made our way through the glacier’s crevasses we discovered none of us had actually done a crevasse rescue, though I had read about it in my earmarked copy of Mountaineering: The Freedom of the Hills, the climbers’ bible.
Gary Bocarde
Leading the pendulum pitch on the Royal Arches Route in Yosemite. The route is easy but long, about seventeen pitches. Here the sky is blue, but not long after this picture was taken it poured, creating waterfalls on the route. We managed to get down the tricky descent before dark.
Gary Bocarde
Here I am looking very cheerful while suspended over 1,400 feet of nothing, on a classic climb in Yosemite—Lost Arrow Spire. We rappelled two rope lengths down into a notch and climbed three aid pitches up the spire, then set up a Tyrolean traverse back to the rim. I was being pulled on a haul-line by my buddies but they got a bit too enthusiastic and smashed me into the rocks on the other side a few times.
Gary Bocarde
One of the members of our group going across the Tyrolean traverse of the Lost Arrow Spire. We were a group of eleven, including Gary from Alaska, and the friends I’d travelled south with from Alberta—Doc, from North Carolina, and Niccy.
My first season of ice climbing in the winter of 1983, near Field, BC, with Jim. I’m leading here, but my ice climbing skills were by no means stellar, so it’s a wonder I never fell.
The summer of 1983. Camping at the base of Yamnuska, a fin-shaped mountain of limestone, more than 1,000 feet high with well over a hundred routes, between Canmore and Calgary. My hair hadn’t been cut in a couple of years, and my lip is fat with chewing tobacco.
Practising jumarring up a tree in Yosemite, fall 1983, in preparation for my first big wall climb. Jumars are metal ascenders that slide up the rope, but won’t slide down when weighted. This way you can ascend the ropes without touching the rock when it’s too hard to “free climb.”
Karin Malmberg
Here I am cleaning the Kor Roof on my first and last big wall climb in Yosemite, late fall 1983, with Karin, a friend from Sweden. Because I’d only jumarred one route (and had to be rescued) and one tree, it rated high on the terror scale. The two people above me are the Parisians who snuck up past us after we’d slept out on Dinner Ledge. They were so slow we had to bail, knowing we’d run out of water.
In Fernie, summer 1984, patching up the fibreglass kayak I inherited from Brad. Instead of leaving it shattered on his lawn after he broke my heart (my first impulse), I strapped it to my Dart and drove away.
In the Bugaboos, summer 1985, with the Howsers in the background. On this occasion, my friend Kevin and I were climbing the Northeast Ridge of Bugaboo Spire. I’ve done five trips to the Bugs, one of my favourite areas.
Dan Guthrie, pumped after a climb. This is about the time I first met him in Yosemite, fall 1985, when we were both nursing broken hearts.
The Professor Falls, near Banff, Alberta, in winter 1985. This was one of my first dates with Dan. He’d soloed the whole waterfall earlier in the season, and his crampon kept popping off. He’d hung off his tools, without a rope, snapped the crampons back on, and kept going. He could solo the route in two hours and forty-five minutes, doing the approach on a mountain bike.
Here Dan and I are posing at the base of the Professor Falls. The beaten-up blue vest is the one piece of his clothing I still have. He used to wear it everywhere.
Here we are in spring 1986, in front of my uncle Dunk and aunt Ruth’s house in Vancouver, on our way to Squamish. This was one year to the day before the avalanche that killed him.
Taking a wee rest on a ledge in Yosemite in my classic patched-up red climbing garb, around 1987. Those rugby pants finally disintegrated in the washing machine.
Larry Stanier
Mount Aberdeen, near Lake Louise in June 1986. Niccy Code and I bragged that we didn’t place one ice screw all the way up that tongue of ice. As Dan said, we were lucky we didn’t fall.
Niccy in the summer of 1986, after we’d been climbing together for about five years.
Niccy at the Banff National Cadet Camp, summer 1986. I always felt braver climbing with Niccy. She had a way of instilling confidence.
Hamming it up for the camera with my tough-guide pose at the Banff Cadet Camp, summer 1986. As climbing instructors, we took the fifteen-to-seventeen-year-old cadets rock climbing and mountaineering. I worked with the French-Canadian cadets because I was “bilingual” after my month-long high school Quebec exchange, and my nine months with Katimavik. I did a lot of gesturing, including throat slitting.
Karen McDiarmid
Niccy, Doug and I taking our cadets to climb the 9,740-foot Saint Nicholas Peak, summer 1986. We went up the obvious line of snow to the summit, the northeast face. With four cadets on my rope, all of them heavier than I was, the likelihood of my being able to hold a fall was slim.
Dan and Ian in Seattle, May 1987, just before we headed for the airport to put them on the plane for Alaska. The paper bag was Dan’s carry-on luggage.
Dan in Seattle, on his way to Alaska, tolerating one last photo. I’m glad I insisted.
Mount Foraker, in a photograph taken from the plane by Dan’s parents. Ian’s family also flew over the mountain. The boys’ bodies are still in the avalanche debris on the lower right of the photo. They had been acclimatizing on the descent route of their ultimate objective, the bigger, more serious route—the Infinite Spur.
Climbing with Grant at Devil’s Tower, Wyoming, two and a half months after Dan’s death, when smiling was still a struggle. I’d just finished a stressful season of guiding on Valium at the cadet camp, and was about to move to Calgary to go to university.
With my parents, Jean and Ron, at my wedding on the banks of the Bow River in Canmore, Alberta, April 1988. My pink wedding dress, a hand-me-down from my mom, billowed over my five-month pregnancy. The jacket hiding the dress was borrowed from Barb, a friend and fellow guide at the Banff Cadet Camp.
Near Calgary with Jenna Danielle, a few months after she was born. Grant got back from the Himalayas just in time for her birth. He was such a proud dad he decided to stay home with us instead of heading off to Everest.
Our home on almost ten acres in the Blaeberry Valley, north of Golden, BC, in 1990. I expected to work in my huge garden, get dogs, cats, goats, possibly a horse, pop out a few babies, and live happily ever after.
Chaba, our golden Lab, came with me every day when I worked with the Ministry of Forests. We had to give him up when I went back to school, but he eventually went to a couple who loved him so much they shared their bed with him and fed him cookies and cake.
Samuel William, a few months old, in the Blaeberry. My list of the pros and cons of having a second baby (two pros, ten or so cons) went right into the wood stove after I brought this perfect baby home.
My dream job, hiking around in the bush with a bunch of amazing women. I worked in forestry for three seasons until I went back to university in Calgary. My only regret was having to return to work to keep my seniority (and sanity) when Sam was only five months old.
Working on a burn near Golden, a very grubby, exhausting job. I could barely hold on to the hose when the water was turned on. This photo I took of Nona and Bonnie won a photography contest with BC Ministry of Forests.
Sam helping with the weeding in our garden in the Blaeberry. He was the kind of baby who smiled with his whole body, a natural ham.
