Before I was a dad, husband, and surfer, I was a rock climber. Climbing is a great sport; good exercise, great opportunity to get out in nature, lots of chances to meet some very interesting people, and an excellent way to get yourself killed. One of the things that struck me about the sport was the often unyielding callousness displayed by climbers in the wake of other climbers' deaths - the climbing mags have monthly obituaries, and along with the usual niceties, the piece on the fallen climber typically offers up a detailed account of exactly how the guy or gal died ("...took a 300 foot fall off of a 5.10 route, died due to improperly placed protection..." - hell of an epitaph). The guys I climbed with and I used to read the death columns first. The hard truth of climbing is that you learn from others' fatal mistakes. Such knowledge might save your ass. I don't climb anymore - partially because I'm not in any kind of shape for it, partially because I have two living reasons not to take such risks.
James Kim's death was a tragedy. Unless you've been living under a rock, you know the tale: the Kims attempted to take a shortcut through the Oregon wilderness on their trip home, and got stuck on a snowed-in backroad in the middle of nowhere. Kim set out to find help, and perished in the attempt. By all accounts he was a good man; loving husband to his wife and loving father to his two little girls. His wife and kids are very, very lucky to be alive. James Kim died trying to save them. No greater love, the old quote goes, and holds true.
The story is heart-wrenching. And yet, part of me is angry. At James.
Nature is a hell of a teacher. I've been fortunate enough to have been schooled in such places as Denali, Joshua Tree, the Sand Falls at Land's End, and most recently the chilly waters off of California's Lost Coast. The basic lessons are always the same: Realize that nothing is routine. Know the area you're traveling through; the terrain, the wildlife, and above all the weather. Let people know exactly where you're going, and do not deviate from that plan unless it's to turn back. Assume that the worst will happen, and make sure that you have the knowledge and the equipment to get yourself out of a jam. And most important - weigh the cost. Is what you're about to do - attempt to climb that route, dive to that depth, paddle into that wave, take that shortcut - worth a life?
James Kim, by all accounts, did none of those things. He made mistakes that were avoidable, and he died. That's the cold equation that the remnants of the climber in me thinks about: this + this + this + not doing this = widow and two fatherless little girls.
Why am I angry? Part of it to be sure springs from the empathy I feel for him. Experience tells me that when I'm lost, stay put - I'm much more likely to be found than if I'm on the move. Staying put is not necessarily "heroic", as we like to think of it, but experts and history reinforce that it's the best course of action. Emotion, though...if that were me, I'd have been hard pressed to sit there and watch my family suffer and just wait.
But there's another, deeper thought.
A few days ago, I threw my surfboards, tent, sleeping bag, and other essentials into the Xterra and took off; north, to the hinterlands of true Northern California. Just me, all by my lonesome. (Read about it here, if you like.) Without going into detail, something happened on that trip that could've easily gone the wrong way - "the wrong way" meaning me in a hospital, dead, or worse. I didn't think much of it, even after the fact, but it hit me as soon as I learned of Kim's death. I thought of his family. I thought of mine.
Was I any smarter, better, more clever than him? Me, jaunting around unfamiliar territory, prepared for the known (weather, waves, sharks), yet failing to really think about the unknown, and the worst elements therein? I took the trip for entirely selfish reasons - wanting a bit of solitude, and needing to prove something to the world, to myself. I had a great time, and don't regret going, but what if something had happened? Yeah, the odds are low - just as the odds of your chute not opening are low should you decide to jump out of a perfectly good airplane. The price, however...the price is unspeakable.
I'm sad for James, for his family and friends. I'm angry at James for not weighing the cost of driving down an unknown road on an icy winter night. As I think back on my recent adventure, I'm angry at myself for the same reason.
(If you're planning on taking a road trip during the holidays, and you're heading through some potentially troublesome territory, check out the tips in this CNN article.)
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