by Jim Davidson
A few minutes later, we land in a green field, surrounded by trees on a warm summer day. After five days of ice, cold, and rock, this new world shocks me. I step out to a throng of waiting rangers.
And thus begins the inquisition, I think.
One of the rangers steps out from the others, shaking my hand. His name is John Madden.
“Just relax,” he says. “I’m here to take care of you. If you need anything, just ask. I’m also here to get whatever information we can out of you so we can help other climbers and learn from this incident. There’s no pressure, so you take your time, you do what you need to do, and we’ll get through it.”
“I think I can do it now.”
For two hours in a park service office, I spill it all into his tape recorder. My background and Mike’s. Our route. The joy on the summit. The disaster on the descent. The climb out.
Finally, he tells me that they want me to get some lunch, get checked out by a doctor, and then retrieve our rental car from the other side of the mountain.
HOLDING THE HEAVY black receiver to my ear, I dial home. It’s about noon in Colorado, and Gloria picks up the phone.
“Hi, Glo,” I say tentatively.
“Oh, good, I’m glad it’s you,” she answers, utterly normally. “I was worried when I didn’t hear from you last night. How did it go?”
My heart sinks. It’s obvious no one has called her.
“The climb up went well and we made the summit yesterday.”
“Oh, good,” she says.
“But there’s bad news.”
“What?” she asks. I can hear the apprehension in her voice.
“On the way down, we had an accident. We had a bad accident, Glo.”
“Oh, no.”
“We fell in a crevasse. We fell about eighty feet into a crevasse on the way down.”
“Oh my God, are you all right?”
“I’m beat up, but basically, I’m okay. But not Mike.”
“Oh my God, what happened?”
“Mike didn’t make it, Gloria.”
“What?” she says, her voice barely a whisper.
“He didn’t make it,” I cry. “I tried to give him CPR and mouth-to-mouth, but I couldn’t save him.”
“Oh my God, Jim.”
Through tears I say, “I made it, Glo. I’m alive. I kept thinking about how I just had to get out for you and Dad.”
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, I sit in the sun, talking with Ranger Madden, wondering aloud whether I could have done something differently.
He says, “Sounds like you just had bad luck. There are ten thousand things you could have done differently. Maybe none of them would have made a difference. There is something you could have done so that this never would have happened: You could have taken up sailing instead of climbing. But then, of course, you might have gotten run down by a Panamanian freighter somewhere in the Caribbean.”
As a law enforcement ranger, Madden has seen a lot of survivors. By way of advice he says, “You might feel the urge to turn in on yourself and not face the world. It’s going to be hard, but anybody who survives what you did has to be a fighter. Giving in is definitely not what you’re about. I’m sure it’s not what Mike was about, either. You have been given a great gift: life. You didn’t get that gift handed to you, you earned it. Use it.”
Later, Madden drives me around The Mountain to the town of Enumclaw to get checked out.
As I sit in the emergency room, I reek of blood, sweat, urine, and the dank clothes that have been on my body for five days. Dr. Savage checks me over, worrying at first that my wrinkled white feet are frostbitten. After my feet dry, he can tell that I just have mild trench foot from being wet for so long.
An hour later the doctor returns with paperwork and says, “Some of these numbers in your lab work seem impossible for the fit young man I see in front of me. My guess is that you’ve been running on pure adrenaline for a long time now.”
Following X-rays and tests and a lot of pushing and poking, the conclusion is simple: I am terribly beat up, but I suffered no life-threatening injuries, no broken bones, nothing that will require surgery. All that blood I spit up in the crevasse seems to have been from getting smacked in the face, not internal bleeding.
After we leave the hospital, Madden tells me that the crew up on the mountain retrieved Mike’s body from the crevasse.
I drop my head backward, close my eyes, and say, “Thank God.”
Madden drives to the White River Campground, and we pull in next to the rental car Mike and I left five days ago. I reach into my parka’s chest pocket and pull out the car keys I carried up from the crevasse and think: I guess I get to actually go home.
In the car, I see Mike’s travel clothes, his books. Everything I look at overwhelms me with memories of him.
Then I get behind the wheel and follow Madden on a meandering drive around the east flank of the mountain to the Paradise Inn, on the south side.
I check in, but it’s too late for dinner. I buy a bag of Fritos from a vending machine and pick up a bottle of milk and a slice of cherry pie, then wander out onto the deck to eat.
Afterward, I hobble back into the main lobby, feeling eyes on me, and find a pay phone.
It’s nine when I call Mom and Dad, midnight in Concord. Dad picks up after one ring. Gloria had told them earlier, so he’s been waiting for my call. I picture him sitting at our brown kitchen table. For ninety minutes, I replay the movie in my head, detailing the climb and the disaster for him. At some point, we turn to the future—to what this will mean for me. We talk about my gear; I don’t even know where it is. In the crevasse, gone forever? On its way to me?
“Maybe ya should just leave it all behind—be done with it,” Dad says.
But I’m not ready. Even now, the day after the worst experience of my life, I’m not ready to declare that I’ll leave climbing behind.
“I don’t think I should make that decision now,” I tell him.
Dad and I are close, but we usually have trouble expressing emotion with each other.
“I love you,” I tell him.
“I love you,” he says back.
Finally, I hobble into the bar. I order two beers: one for me, one for Mike. I drink them both.
MORNING COMES. MY leg joints are stiff, the muscles very tender. With a single massive blue bruise stretching from my left knee to my groin, my left leg flounders worse than my right one, so I shuffle across my room in an unbalanced, halting gait. My left forefoot remains numb and feels squishy, making the wood floor seem distant beneath me.
Leaning on the bed, the walls, and then the door frame for support, I tread a slow lap around the small room. As the alpine morning light spills in through the lone window, I keep hobbling around the rustic room, trying to loosen up. The walls, floor, ceiling, and furniture are all constructed of the same honey-yellow pine. With each lap, my legs and back relax a little, so I push myself to shuffle once around the whole fifty-foot perimeter without using any support.
I stop at the doorway to the bathroom, and four feet away, just above the old porcelain sink basin, I see myself staring back from the mirror. My eyes look dark and withdrawn, almost menacing. I’m uncomfortable looking at myself.
When I grab the back of a tall wooden desk chair, pain radiates across my left shoulder. I try rotating my head to work the pain out, but I can’t turn to the left very far. I worry about it, but it’s only been two days since the accident.
The chair scrapes loudly across the pine floor as I slide it out. Using the edge of the desk for support, I sit down awkwardly. With no cushion, the hard wooden chair is uncomfortable. Good. The discomfort will keep me awake, and besides, I don’t have the right to be comfortable now, anyway.
I glance out the window. The worn curtains are mostly closed, so I can see only a little piece of the mountain. It’s just as well. I could not bear to glimpse the summit right now. Even better, the glacier where it all happened is on the opposite side of the
mountain from the Paradise Inn.
From the desk drawer I pull out some stationery. The sheets of paper and the envelope are both decorated in brown ink with a lithograph of Mount Rainier. I study the drawing to see if our ascent or descent routes are in the sketch. I run my swollen finger along the mountain’s silhouette and stop at the volcano’s apex. This seems to be an image of Rainier’s southern side. Slowly, I realize it’s the view of the mountain you can see right outside the inn.
Rummaging in the drawer, I find a pen tucked in the back. When I try to hold it, my hand is so puffy that my fingers don’t bend right.
I’m afraid to start writing.
I need to talk to Mike so badly right now, but he’s gone. Writing to him seems to be the only way. I need to tell him what happened. I’ve got to tell him how hard I tried to save him, and myself. And I need to apologize—for him dying, and for me living.
Once I leave the mountain today, everything will be different. I will have to face the world. Everyone will want to know what happened, but maybe they’ll never understand, because they weren’t with us on the glacier. I will have to talk to Mike’s family, too. God, how will I possibly be able to do that? What will I say? What can I say?
How am I going to live with this?
I shuffle and align a few blank pieces of stationery. Holding the stack of paper with both hands, I stare at the brown mountain and the words beneath it: Mount Rainier National Park.
I lay the paper flat on the wooden desk. To sit taller in the chair, I straighten my back, ignoring the aches and stiffness. My rigid fingertips crimp around the pen’s point. Trying to build momentum, but still unsure, I coax myself onward.
I PRESS PEN onto paper.
June 23, 1992
Dear Mike,
Jesus, man, I’m sorry! I can’t believe this happened to you and to us … I swear to God, Mike, I didn’t mean to fall into that crevasse and I certainly didn’t want to pull you in behind me. God, this sucks …
I stall.
Talk to him.
Everyone tells me that it was all an accident and that it could have been the other way around just as easy. I suppose they’re right.
My writing slopes off the page.
Don’t stop.
I really enjoyed our climb … God—weren’t our bivouacs wild? We were like real alpine hard men—as you said, this climb should make some great stories … I will try and do as the ranger suggested and remember you smiling with an ice ax in your hand on the side of the mountain …
My hand jerks across the paper as I struggle to find the words.
Keep going.
Michael—you would have been proud of my lead—insufficient gear, vertical to overhanging ice, objective hazards (falling snow), time constraints, about ten falls, pro pulling out, never aid climbed before, never self-belayed before … and I made it. I always kept going. I took your helmet, pile jacket, and some gear—I was sure you wouldn’t mind as I needed it to get out of the hole. I tried to give you what dignity I could. I closed your eyes, put your glasses on, redid your harness, tied you and your gear into the screws so that we could get to you—and while the Therm-a-Rest was initially intended to protect my rope from snarling, it did protect you from snow and ice fall. I was glad of that.
I apologize if my nervousness made you mad or frustrated. Perhaps it was a lack of courage. Perhaps it was foreboding. My crevasse fear did build and build right up to the last few hours and minutes—perhaps I knew.
I assure you that had you gone in first, I too would have dug in for all I was worth and then would have gone right in behind you. I think you know that, though. I truly felt we were friends and partners.
I’m sorry your young and promising life is over, Mike. This stinks—you didn’t deserve that. I’m so bummed out and sorry for you, buddy, that I can’t describe it—every time I think about the fact that you’re dead, I start to cry again.
I’ll really miss you popping in from parts unknown for a few days. I’ll miss our late nights at Potts and Washingtons. I’ll miss our philosophical discussions (and disagreements!). I’ll miss rock climbing in the sun with you at Lumpy and Greyrock, and then running down in the storms. I’ll miss looking for your blue truck. I’ll miss your support for me and your friendship outside our climbing. I’m sorry for all the climbs and things we won’t do together. And I’m sorry for all the climbs and things you won’t get to do.
I tried to save you, Mike, but I just couldn’t do it—nothing worked, and you weren’t getting better—you just got worse. I tried, Mike, but when you were gone I had to save myself. I hope that you understand, and I felt then and now that I had your blessing to take some of your gear and go.
They say we did things right; that we were unlucky, that these things happen. Well, that may all be true, but it doesn’t bring you back and it doesn’t make me feel any better. You’re still gone, and this still stinks.
I hope that you went painlessly and are now resting in comfort and peace. I shall strive to do what little I can for you and your family. I shall strive to take this second chance I’ve been given and unfurl my wings and fly with it, not turn inward into a dark ball. I shall strive to live a strong, forward-moving, vivacious life in your honor.
You were my friend and partner, Mike, and I shall never forget you.
May your soul be peaceful and spirit calm.
Take care Mike.
Your friend, Jim
I ALIGN THE four scribbled sheets, then fold the stack in thirds. Dragging a wrist across my face, I wipe away the sweat so it doesn’t fall on the papers. I slide the letter into the small matching envelope, lick the glue, and carefully close the flap. Before I put it in my pocket, I stare for a long time at this sealed letter, reading the preprinted envelope over and over again: Mount Rainier National Park.
I AM SUPPOSED to meet Madden to sort out the rest of our climbing gear, which has been pulled from the crevasse. I push my breakfast around the plate, staring at a brief newspaper story about our accident.
John takes possession of Mike’s things to ship them to Mr. and Mrs. Price. We finish a few minutes after one P.M. I shake his hand and thank him for his kindness. Leaving the rental car unlocked, I use the bathroom, then return to the car and open the driver’s door. Some gear that just came off the mountain has been left on the front seat. It’s two carabiners clipped together—one of mine, one of Mike’s.
AT THE AIRPORT I call Gloria and then her mother, Marilyn Neesham, and a family friend, Father Peter Mihalic, who obtained the pope-blessed medal I wear. I assure them all that I was wearing the medal and thank them. They tell me they are praying for me and Mike. As we lift off, I try to spot Rainier out the window on the other side of the plane, but I can’t see much. It’s probably just as well. After what seems like an eternity, we touch down in Denver. As we roll to the gate, I tap the protective medal around my neck.
I am one of the first people off the plane. I see Gloria waiting for me, her expression contorted in sorrow.
“Your face looks bad,” she says.
“It kind of hurts,” I say, and the tears come.
We hold each other tightly for a time, right at the gate, then finally gather ourselves and trudge out to my pickup. By midnight we are home.
THE NEXT MORNING, I listen to the answering machine’s forty messages—there’d been stories in the newspapers.
Finally, I pick up the phone to do something I’ve been dreading and dial Daryl Price’s number. A man answers.
“Hello, Daryl?” I ask.
“No, this is Daryl’s dad.”
“Mr. Price,” I say in a monotone, “this is Jim Davidson.”
“Hello, Jim,” he says wearily. “How are you?”
“Oh, okay, I guess.”
It feels awkward. Every word seems wrong. I ask him if they want to get together.
“Yes, yes,” he says. “We’ve been wanting to hear from you.”
We agree to meet later that afternoon.
DARYL’S HOUSE IS only a few blocks from mine. I’ve never met him—or Mike’s parents. I know I owe it to all of them to explain what happened, to answer their questions, to express my sorrow. Gloria and I step out into the sunshine; I need her with me. I have no idea how I’ll be received, or exactly what I’ll say.
After a ten-minute walk, I find myself standing on Daryl’s doorstep, nervous, scared, dreading what lies ahead. Will they blame me for Mike’s death? Will they be angry?
The door opens. I see Don Price, a stoic man with a powerful presence.
“I’m Jim Davidson,” I say.
After meeting Donna and Daryl, we all sit down in the living room. Gloria sits on my right, holding my hand.
“We just want to know what happened,” Donna says in a soft Oklahoma accent. “If you don’t talk about it, you’ll never be able to live with it.”
I start the story from the beginning. Only a few sentences in, my hands—and my voice—tremble badly. Donna gets up and moves over to sit next to me. She reaches over and takes my left hand, holding and patting it while I talk for the next hour or more about the climb, about the fall, about Mike’s death. Donna never lets go of my hand, an act of kindness and grace I know will stay with me always.
I consciously shorten the story of my own survival, skipping over big chunks. This isn’t about me—it’s about Mike. After I finish, Don and Donna both tell me they understand that it was difficult to tell it. I go to the bathroom and splash water on my face.
When I return, the Prices ask me to help them pick out Mike’s best slides for his memorial service. They ask about Mike’s camera, and I tell them I’ve already dropped off the film for developing and will be glad to go through the Rainier slides with them and explain everything if they’d like.