I believe he would have been 38 this year. But sadly it's been two years this coming February 27th since he died. I think about him every day; I thought about him even more today. And of course I thought of his parents too; as their only child, his loss for them is something I cannot comprehend. I've got many images of Mike, as do Guillermo and Ross. And probably more than that now, we have images of his vacancy in the places we spend without him. I've always believed, and often written, about how the absence of someone or something is, in it's own way, a presence. I chose these images - today, tonight - as I looked through my slides.
The first photo is from the first climb G, Mike and I did together. It was June 1998 and we raced down from Edmonton to Washington, raced into Rainier, and up the Liberty Ridge on the N.Face. Amidst stories of parties pitching it out, we went ultralight...3 of us in a 2 person tent, one picket, 2-3 ice screws, and a single 9mm rope (which we only used on the glacier approach and right by the top of Liberty Cap). My life was a mess, having realized, right before leaving, that my marriage at the time was crumbling worse than Rainier's shitty rock. It's a large route, and I was carrying a lot more in my heart than I was in my pack. But at this moment, just after leaving the bivouac at Thumb Rock, I went ahead into one of the supposed crux sections of the route, a narrow couloir. I felt great in that hour or so as the sun finally caught up with me not long after emerging from the couloir onto the ridge crest. I turned back to see Mike following below me. I could see his grin - the climbing was wonderful - and could feel his support, and also Guillermo's; just sharing that space together in that moment was all I really needed. Other parts of the climb were great, others exhausted me from altitude combined with lack of sleep and emotional turmoil. But this moment buoyed me. It is still one of my most precious memories from all of my years in the mountains.
We made a ridiculously rapid descent of the Emmon's glacier via bum sliding over gaping crevasses...followed by another amazing bumslide of the Interglacier. At the base we stopped for a rest and these are the pictures. On the left, Mike has his eyes closed. On the right, G looks like a young boy (Catherine says he looks better with his beard!).
And now G has his eyes closed! I think I look pretty wonderful for someone whose life is in the toilet and hasn't slept for 60 hours. But I'm haunted by this picture for one simple reason...that is, that Mike took it. This is his view, through his eyes with my camera. When I see this and any other photos I have where Mike used my camera, what I'm seeing is his own frozen moment. These are his eyes, how he saw us that evening, and all of our lives were changing forever. That he's gone now makes it even more special.
This last shot shows Mike at the top of the first pitch of Iron Suspender in CMC Valley, behind Yamnuska, in May of 1999. This was my first climbing trip after breaking my heel. We all had the pseudo-aid bug and it was exciting leading up there on those old Billy Davidson rivets, passing through that era in Canadian Rockies limestone history. It was a goofy trip, we got yelled at by a guy who was trying to sleep in at Yam meadows (Guillermo woke Mike and I up by saying, "Let's not lay around like we've been on a booze bender...it's time to get rad, on the IRON SUSPENDER!!!"), played with portaledges, fumbled around, but it's also one of my favourite memories. That year, 1999, remains like no other in my life for its incorporation of discovery, strength, recovery, romance, achievement. And Mike and G both played a major role in that.
Thanks Mike; I miss you. Happy Birthday.
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