Edge of Flight (3 page)

“Wanted to test out your new cam!” Jeb shouts back. “It's bombproof, man!”

“Thanks a lot!” Rusty yells back. I can tell he's not happy about the unnecessary wear and tear on his new gear.

“He's crazy,” I say. Rusty just shakes his head and continues belaying while Jeb pulls the overhang again and tops out the climb.

It takes Jeb a few minutes to set up a belay from the top of the cliff. Then he hauls in the rope. The end of it dangles between Rusty and me.

“Your turn?” Rusty asks, holding out the rope end.

“Are you kidding?” I say. I stick my fist into the crack and turn it sideways. The edges of my hand don't even graze the rock.

“That's not the only way to pull this climb,” Rusty grins. He ties the rope into his harness. “Ready to climb!” he shouts up to Jeb.

“On belay!” Jeb shouts back.

Rusty winks at me. “Climbing!”

“Climb on!” says Jeb.

chapter five

If Jeb is the Incredible Hulk of the climbing world, Rusty is Spider-Man. If Jeb is all muscle, Rusty is all technique. Instead of sticking his fist into the crack like Jeb, Rusty wraps his fingers around one edge of it. Then he leans sideways, so the right side of his body—arm, shoulder, ribcage, leg—is pressed against the rock face to the right of the crack. Staying sideways, he probes the cliff face with his toes for footholds. He finds a chunk of rock to brace his feet against, pushes up, crosses one hand over the other to reach higher into the crack, and slides his body sideways up the wall.

“Cool,” I say.

“Classic layback.” Rusty grins.

Classic layback. Rusty makes it sound easy. He makes it look easy too. Effortless. But I've climbed enough to realize how much skill it takes to find the perfect tension between arms and legs—to maintain that point of balance that keeps Rusty pressed against the wall, not swinging out like a barn door on a loose hinge.

Moving smoothly, Rusty stops only to remove the pro Jeb laid on the way up and clip it on to his harness. Sometimes his footholds are nubs of rock. Sometimes he jams his foot into the crack. But always, he stays with his right flank pressed against the rock face, shimmying up it sideways.

When he reaches the overhang, Rusty stays sideways. He finds a handhold on the underside of the ledge with his right hand, reaches out and grabs the lip with his left. But instead of letting go and dangling like Jeb, Rusty crosses his right leg and jams his right foot into some kind of a foothold on the underside of the ledge. Now he's pressed against the underside of the ledge like a fly on a ceiling. Somehow—I have no idea how—he swings his left leg up and hooks his left foot over the ledge. He takes an overhand swipe with his right arm—like a basketball player doing a J-hook—and manages to grab the trunk of the scrawny tree on top of the ledge. He swings the rest of his body over the ledge just as Jeb yells, “I told ya the tree was on-route!”

“You were right!” Rusty yells back. He stands up, jumps onto the chunky handholds, and in a few minutes, he's topped out the climb.

“Good climb!” I shout.

Rusty's face peeks over the top of the cliff. “Come on, try it!” he shouts back.

I run my fingers along the edge of the crack, testing out the hold. I'm tempted, even though I know it's beyond my skill level. But the rain begins to pour down harder. Soon, the cliff will be soaked and water will stream down the crack like a drainpipe.

“Not in the rain,” I shout.

“Okay. We're coming down.”

I know it'll take a few minutes for the guys to set up a top rope and rappel down.

While I'm waiting, I realize I need to go to the bathroom. Of course, there's no outhouse in sight. This is the one situation in my life where I often wish I'd been born a guy.

I walk into the woods and look for a big tree, a bush or a hillock to give me some privacy in case the guys come back before I'm done. But the knee-high grass, coiling vines and slim, snaky trees aren't ideal. I push farther into the woods, checking that my orange cap is still on my head. I don't want to be mistaken for a stray deer or an undersized black bear.

I listen for gunshots but don't hear any. Maybe the hunters are in another part of the woods. Maybe they've taken shelter from the rain. A few steps farther on, the ground dips down. A steep slope leads to a hidden ravine. I hang on to the trunk of a skinny tree and lower myself down the slope. It's not the most comfortable place for a pee, but at least it's out of sight.

I've just finished answering the call of nature when I hear Jeb call, “Vanisha? Where are ya?”

“I'm over here,” I call back. “It's okay. I'm just…”

I turn to get a better foothold on the steep slope and see something at the bottom that makes me freeze.

Jeb thrashes through the underbrush toward me. “Vanisha?” He reaches the top of the ravine and makes his way down to stand beside me. Then he stops too.

“Sweet Lord Jesus,” Jeb whispers.

At the bottom of the ravine, someone has planted a field of marijuana.

chapter six

“Let's get out of here,” I say.

“Aw, come on,” says Jeb. “Let's go take a look.”

“Take a look at what?” says Rusty.

“That.” Jeb points at the marijuana patch below.

“Don't be an idiot, Jeb,” I say.

Before I can stop him, Jeb starts off down the slope toward the marijuana field, half running and half sliding in the rainsoaked mud.

“Don't be a party pooper, Vanisha,” he says.

Rusty reaches out and grabs his arm. “Slow down.”

“What for?” he asks.

“Just slow down.” Rusty steps ahead of him and begins picking his way down the hill, pushing aside each twig and leaf. He looks like an animal tracker following a trail. Or maybe an army scout, looking for enemy booby traps.

He's almost reached the marijuana field when he stops so suddenly that Jeb nearly bumps into him.

“What the—?” says Jeb.

“Look,” says Rusty. He points at the tangle of vines and tree branches in front of him.

I can't see anything except dripping-wet greenery. Jeb obviously can't either, because he takes another step forward.

Rusty sticks out an arm to block his way. “Look in front of you, dude.”

I inch closer and see it—a thin metal wire stretched at chest-height through the bush. Raindrops hang from the wire, bulging before dropping off.

“What is it?” says Jeb.

“Don't touch it,” Rusty says. He walks along beside the wire. Jeb and I follow him. It leads to the trunk of a large tree—bigger than the other skinny, twisted trees in this ragged patch of woods. The tree is straight and solid, covered in smooth gray bark. At eye level, the trunk splits, forming a Y-shaped crook. I stare into the crook. Something ugly stares back at me. The barrel of a rifle. The rifle is rigged to go off if someone triggers the wire.

“That would've got you right in the head,” Rusty says to Jeb.

Jeb gives a low whistle. “Thanks for lookin' out for me, brother.” He thumps Rusty on the shoulder. Then he ducks under the trip wire and wades into the marijuana patch.

“Jeb! Are you crazy!” I hiss at him. I don't know why I'm whispering. There's no one else around, as far as I can tell. But there might be guard dogs, or even human guards, hiding in the bushes. A picture flashes across my mind of the two bikers outside the diner last night who were laughing at the deputy. Laughing.

Jeb plucks a sprig of marijuana and sticks it in his hair like a blossom. “If you go to San Francisco…” he starts singing in a loud, goofy voice. “Be sure to wear some floooowers in your hair!”

Rusty turns to me with a disgusted expression on his face. “Come on, Vanisha. If Jeb wants to act like an idiot, that's his problem. I'm getting out of here.”

Rusty and I turn and start hiking out of the ravine. It's not like Rusty to leave anyone in a dangerous situation. But I'm thinking he's just messing with Jeb. He's probably figuring his buddy won't want to stay in an illegal plantation in the middle of the woods alone.

Sure enough, we haven't gone more than a couple of steps when Jeb catches up to us. “Aw, y'all are no fun.”

“Marijuana is for losers, dude,” says Rusty. “I came here to climb. Not fool around with drugs.”

That makes Jeb shut his mouth. He may be a big goof, but he respects Rusty'sclimbing ability. Rusty doesn't need drugs to prove he's cool. He just pulls a flawless climb, like he did today on Chuck's Crack, and it's obvious. He's cool. No argument about it.

Jeb plucks the marijuana sprig out of his hair and tosses it into the undergrowth. He falls into line behind us and doesn't mention the marijuana again. Still, I feel edgy and unsettled as we tramp in silence back to the cliff. The rain beats on the hood of my windbreaker. My shoes squelch on the wet ground.

When we arrive at the cliff face, it is too wet to climb.

“Chimney?” I ask.

Rusty nods. “Chimney.”

We walk a few minutes along the bluff line. Rusty stops and shrugs off his backpack. In front of us, the solid rock wall looks as though it's been cracked open like an egg. The crack, several feet wide, runs from the bottom of the cliff to the top. It is filled with tumbled-down boulders and huge rock slabs.

The Chimney.

chapter seven

The entrance to the Chimney is hard to find if you don't know where to look. But Rusty has been here many times before. He drops to his hands and knees where a massive rock slab lies diagonally across the crack. Beneath it is a small, triangular gap. Rusty crawls through the gap, pushing his backpack ahead of him. I follow. Jeb brings up the rear.

Inside the Chimney, the ground is dry and sandy. There is enough room to stand. The smell of damp stone fills the cool air. We're sheltered from the rain. I look up but can't see the sky. The Chimney is filled with boulders like a vertical obstacle course.

Rusty turns to me. “You first?”

“Sure.” I jump atop the first boulder.

I'm not roped in, but it doesn't matter. Any kid who has ever scrambled up a rocky hill could climb the Chimney. The first boulder leads to another, then another, zigzagging upward like a crazy stone staircase built for giants.

About halfway up the Chimney, a massive rock ledge seems to completely block the route. But I remember in one corner, a sloping slab of rock leads to a hole through the ledge. I crawl up the slab, first on all fours, and finally squirming on my belly, as the slab angles closer and closer to the rock ledge. At last, I wriggle my head and shoulders through the hole, flip over and haul myself on top of the ledge.

Not much farther now to the top. I scramble up a boulder, which leads me to another, smaller, rock ledge. I can see where the Chimney ends and the tree branches of the forest begin. I feel the rain and smell the earthy dampness of wet leaves.

The Chimney is narrow here. The rock walls are so close together, I can stand in the middle and press one hand against each wall. But there are no more boulders to climb. The next part is pure chimneying.

I press my back flat against one wall and raise my legs so my knees are bent and my feet are jammed against the other wall. The rocks are wet, but my shoes have good traction, and I'm wedged in so tight, I can't fall. Straightening my legs, I scootch my back higher up the Chimney wall. Then I walk my legs up the opposite wall and scootch my back higher again, working my way to the top.

I climb out of the Chimney and onto my knees on the damp forest floor. When I turn to look down, Rusty is standing on the ledge below.

“You climb like my granny!” he calls up.

“Let's see you do it!” I shout down.

Rusty spreads his arms and presses his palms against the Chimney's walls. He springs up and plants his feet against the walls too. Then he clambers up, like a boy climbing a door frame. In only a couple of seconds, he's standing beside me.

“Sweet,” I say.

Rusty shrugs. “It works.” He peers down the Chimney. “Wonder where Jeb got to.”

I look down. No sign of Jeb. “Maybe he's stuck in the hole in the big ledge,” I say. “Too many marshmallows last night.”

“Marshmallows aren't fattening if you eat 'em quick,” says Rusty.

I shake my head. “You just go on believing that.”

“Hey, Jeb! Ya moron!” Rusty shouts in the friendly insulting way guys can talk to each other.

From inside the cliff, we hear Jeb. “Down here!”

“You stuck?” Rusty shouts.

“Naw. C'mon back in here, y'all. I found somethin'.”

“It better not be another drug plantation,” I mutter.

Rusty shrugs and lowers himself into the Chimney. “Come on.”

We climb down but reach the soft sandy ground at the bottom of the Chimney and still don't see Jeb.

“Where are you?” Rusty calls.

“Over here!” Jeb's voice sounds as if it's coming from the depths of the cliff. Like Jonah in the belly of the whale. Living in the South is turning my mind biblical.

Rusty pulls his headlamp out of his backpack. As an ambulance attendant in training, Rusty always travels fully equipped. He's even got a first-aid kit in his pack. It's fully stocked with gauze bandages, alcohol wipes, emergency snakebite serum and all kinds of other stuff.

Rusty scans the Chimney with his headlamp until it lights up a tunnel that leads deeper into the cliff. “Jeb?”

“In here.” His voice comes from the direction of the tunnel. So we drop to our knees and begin to crawl through it.

At first, Rusty's headlamp shows only the sandstone walls of the tunnel. They are carved into curvy shapes, as though a river flowed through here thousands of years ago. Then suddenly the beam widens and diffuses. We are in some kind of a cave.

“Jeb!” calls Rusty. His voice echoes in the emptiness.