Scene of the Climb (7 page)

Dave bounded under the overhang of rain-drenched moss and leapt up the slippery rock to where Greg peered down. I watched as he leaned over the ledge, looked at Greg and shook his head.

My feet remained firmly rooted to the trail, but they pulled me in Greg and Dave's direction. I was strangely compelled to look, like rubber-neckers who slow past accident scenes on the freeway.

Greg scampered down the rock and rummaged through his pack. “I might have rope.”

Dave turned from his perch and said with a heavy voice, “It's too late, mate. He's a goner.”

My knees locked. Lenny was dead. I hadn't imagined any of it. I had instead, witnessed my first death close-up.

A new wave of tremors washed over my body. Lenny certainly wasn't on my list of people I'd most like to spend time with, but I didn't wish him dead. Gam says death is merely a transition—where our spirits continue on to the next manifestation. To me death seemed brutal and savage. I couldn't see Lenny's body, but visions of his tanned skin and slicked hair sprawled on the rocks below flashed through my mind.

Greg dug his cell phone from a side pocket of his pack and held it in the air, trying to find service. He dialed and positioned the phone in front of him. The speaker reverberated.

An operator's voice came over the line. “911, what's your emergency?”

“This is Greg Dixon. I'm at the summit of Angel's Rest. Someone's fallen. I think he's dead, but we can't reach the body.”

The operator walked Greg through protocol and informed him that an emergency crew was on its way.

I heard her say that under no circumstance were any of us to leave until they arrived.

Greg's voice was steady and calm as she asked him a battery of questions about the accident and victim.

“No, no. Definitely not foul play,” Greg said into the phone as he paced on the trail.

Dave sat slumped at the base of the rock, watching Greg intently as he spoke with the operator.

Wrapping up the conversation with 911, Greg stuffed his cell phone into his pocket. “Looks like we're going to be here a while. Better get comfy.” He motioned for me to come closer.

My feet didn't budge.

Greg chuckled softly and stepped over to me. He led me, shaking, to the rock. “Gimme your pack.”

He tugged my pack off. “Sit,” he commanded. My knees wobbled as I landed softly on the hard, smooth rock. This felt like déjà vu.

Dave wrapped his burly arm around me in a half hug. “Sorry, Meggie. I know you're shook up. We'll get ya down soon.” He squeezed my shoulder as he rose. “I better call Krissy. She's gonna wonder what happened to us.”

He looked around. “Can't believe this. Never had anything like this happen in all my years of producing television.”

Running his fingers through his beard, he went quiet for a moment. I wondered if he might cry. Then he seemed to pull himself together. “Must have left my pack up ahead on the trail. I'll be back.”

Now I noticed his pack was gone. Why hadn't he been wearing his pack if he was hiking to catch up with the others? I played the scene in my mind. Dave had been standing at the base of the forested trail when I faked my fall. Did he have his pack on? I scrunched my eyes, trying to visualize what I'd seen. The soggy rain and my intense fear of heights clouded my memory. The only thing I was sure of was that Dave had managed to arrive at my rescue quickly.

But wait, he must have seen Lenny fall. He would have had to run right past Lenny as he was falling. It had all happened so fast. I'd been so focused on the ground and trying not to sail off the edge that I hadn't bothered to look.

Was it possible Dave hadn't seen Lenny? Or was he lying? He could have easily given Lenny a shove and continued on to me. But why? And why had Lenny been standing on top of the boulder? I never caught sight of him before he fell. He must have been on the far side of the rock.

Questions swirled in my head. None of this made any sense.

The rain stopped and sunlight heated the rocks. Steam rose, making the air humid and thick. I had pulled on Greg's sweatshirt when I thought we were descending. It smelled like laundry soap and felt comforting on my body. Now it was slightly damp, having absorbed the moisture from my wet T-shirt like a sponge. I took it off and wrapped it around my knees.

Greg paced. “Can you remember what you saw?”

I blew out a breath of air. “I'm not sure. I tripped and slid over that,” I said, pointing at the rock protruding over the ledge. “I was so busy trying to stop, I didn't pay attention. All of a sudden I saw something—what I thought was Lenny—fly past me. The next thing I knew Dave was helping me up.”

Greg squinted toward the forest where Dave went to hunt for his pack. “Hmm.”

“What?” I asked, playing with the string on Greg's sweatshirt. “Do you think something's up?”

“I'm not sure—”

“Found it.” Dave interrupted him, reappearing with his oversized pack. He flung it in a pile next to mine and Greg's. A walkie-talkie crackled in his hand. He fumbled with the dial and pushed the side button. “Krissy? Krissy, ya there?”

Static sounded from the walkie-talkie. He tried again. No answer. “Maybe I don't have it on the right channel?” He turned the dial again and shouted, “Krissy, come in. . . .”

More static.

“Are you in range?” Greg asked.

“Should be. I talked to her from there.” Dave pointed below us to the rock garden where everyone waited for me.

That seemed like days ago. I checked my watch. Only a half hour had passed since I'd met up with everyone.

“Maybe I'll hike that a way and give it another go,” Dave said, taking the walkie-talkie with him.

“Come right back, and don't disturb anything,” Greg cautioned.

“Yeah, sure, mate,” Dave said, giving Greg an odd look.

My feet burned with cold. If we were stuck here until the police arrived, I might as well try to dry my socks. I untied my Merrells and pulled the laces loose. I pried the first boot off. My sock was soaked light pink. A blister the size of a quarter bulged on my ankle. Two more had burst on the bottom of my heel and were crusted with dried blood. The other foot was equally tortured. Another blister the size of a golf ball had popped on my ankle. Limp skin dangled as it leaked pus and blood.

Greg caught me trying to rip the loose skin free.

“Geez, Meg—your feet are wrecked. You didn't try to break those boots in today? Didn't I tell you to check the fit?”

Was it obvious?

“Don't pick at it. You'll make it worse, and infect it. Here, let me find you a wrap.”

I watched as Greg extracted a first-aid kit and dry socks from his pack. It was like the Boy Scouts version of a Mary Poppins backpack. Things kept appearing from its depths.

“Rest your foot here.” He directed me to prop my foot on the base of the rock. “This is gonna sting,” he said as he squeezed a mini bottle of rubbing alcohol on my open wounds.

I winced in pain and bit my bottom lip to keep from whining. The surge of adrenaline from having him so close helped.

“Next one,” Greg demanded, as I reluctantly brought the other foot up.

The chilled alcohol stung and sent a tingling pain along my calf. “Let your feet air dry and put these on,” Greg said, throwing thick black ankle socks to me.

“Thanks,” I managed to squeak.

“How'd your feet get wet?”

“Puddle,” I murmured.

He raised his eyebrows, but said nothing.

I wondered if Greg suspected my hiking skills weren't exactly what I'd advertised. Thankfully, we wouldn't be able to hash it out because Andrew startled us.

“Hey! What are you two doing here? I thought everyone was long gone.”

Andrew's cheeks matched his cherry-red sweatshirt, his breathing was labored and the scent of rancid sweat permeated from his pores. A Nikon camera hung around his neck and a video camera sagged on his shoulder.

“Dang, you two don't look so good.” Andrew's eyes flashed to my mangled feet and to Greg pacing on a two-foot square.

“Where did you come from?” Greg asked.

Andrew pointed behind him with his thumb. “Back there. I shot footage of Alicia and Leaf on the main trail. Pretty good stuff actually. Kind of creepy with the rolling clouds. Can't find Lenny though. Either of you seen him?”

I couldn't contain my nervous laughter. It was as if a dam of pent-up anxiety broke free inside me. I giggled like a schoolgirl.

“What's with her?”

Greg pulled Andrew close. He said something under his breath I couldn't hear over the sound of my cackle. Andrew's eyes grew wide. He turned to me with a worried expression. Freeing himself from his camera equipment, he struggled up the rock and gasped.

“Oh, crap!”

Greg nodded.

“What happened? He slip?”

“We're not sure. Probably. The police are on their way.” Greg gave me a hard look—telling me with his eyes to keep quiet.

“Andrew!” Dave scurried over to greet Andrew. He sure had a way of appearing out of nowhere.

“Got Krissy—she's all set. Gonna grab the others at Multnomah and be back in an hour. Hey, Andrew, can I chat with ya for a minute over this way?” Dave summoned Andrew to the wooded section of the trail.

“What's that all about?” I asked Greg.

He stopped pacing and sat next me. “Listen,” he said in barely more than a whisper. “Pretend like I'm checking out your feet. Don't look at me.”

I resisted a nod and stared studiously at my aching feet.

“Something's not right here, Meg. I don't know what it is. Leave it to the police. I don't want you asking questions or talking with
anyone
other than the police about what you saw. Got it?”

“Sure,” I replied, keeping my gaze on my toes. “You think Lenny's death isn't an accident?”

He shushed me as Dave and Andrew made their way toward us. “Maybe,” he whispered.

It felt like an eternity until the police arrived. I couldn't help checking my blisters every couple of minutes. Greg caught me twice and shook his finger at me. Why hadn't I painted my toes last night? I thought, glancing at my toenails cracked with mint-green polish. Not so appealing.

Dave tried to distract me with tales from his escapades in Australia.

“'Member that time, Andrew, when that croc almost chomped off your arm?” He laughed and leaned back on the rock like it was an armchair.

Andrew chuckled and nodded his head.

“Yeah, well, I think ya learned your lesson about sticking your arm near a croc-infested creek, right-o?” He nudged Andrew in the ribs.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Wait a minute. The only reason my hand was remotely close to the water was because you wanted a tighter shot.”

This caught my attention. “Uh, did you guys film in Australia? I thought the show was Race the States?”

“Nah,” Dave said. “That was a couple years back. Different project.”

“A different project that took six months and never got off the ground,” Andrew said with an edge.

Dave ignored Andrew's gripe.

Greg asked, “Did you bring a notebook, Meg?”

“Of course.” I nodded in reply, motioning to my backpack.

“Mind if I borrow a couple pages?”

“Nope—help yourself.”

He tore paper from the notebook, grabbed my ultrafine-point Sharpie, settled on the rock next to me and wrote furiously.

“What ya doin?” Dave asked, peering over Greg's shoulder.

Greg waved him off. “Nothing. Jotting notes on the climb while they're still fresh in my head.”

I suspected this wasn't the truth, but based on Greg's warning I said nothing.

The sound of emergency vehicles wailed in a distant echo below us. Hopefully the police would be here quick. It was nearing 3:00. Greg had a welcome party planned at headquarters at 7:00. Surely he'd cancel though.

Another hour passed before a crew of search and rescue volunteers packed on the summit with us. I counted five, all clad in black-and-white checkered flannel shirts. Their heads were helmeted with headlamps secured on top. Their backpacks bulged with glow sticks, survey tape, batteries, compasses, altimeters, maps, rope and duct tape. Identification badges and orange rescue whistles hung from carabiners attached to their packs. These were the Crag Rats. I'd read about them in my research. In fact, if I could impress Greg with this first feature, I was hoping to pitch him on doing a story on the Crag Rats.

The Crag Rats defined Oregon mountain men. I sucked in my stomach and threw my shoulders back, in response to their weathered good looks. They smelled of sunscreen, sweat and sexiness with their tanned skin and shaggy beards. The book I'd read about them touted the fact they were avid lovers of the backcountry, skiing and mountains. Yep. Confirmed.

They shouted hellos and offered big, burly hugs to Greg, who greeted each of them by name and a clap on the back (apparently he knew them). Greg motioned a boyish-looking member over to attend to my cuts and scrapes, while the rest of the Crag Rats surveyed the scene.

My rescuer carefully lifted the bandages Greg had applied and said, “Greg did a bang-up job. As always.” He took my bruised elbow in his arm and instructed me to bend it left, right, up and down. “Looks good.”

Next, he examined the gash on my right thigh. It must have passed his approval because he pulled a packet of Advil from the side pocket of his pack and told me to swallow two. “It'll help with the swelling.”

Dave and Andrew hung back, giving way to the highly organized volunteer group. The team leader barked out orders as the Crag Rats readied themselves for the climb to Lenny's body.

Once anchors had been set, the first responder rappelled down the canyon. He swung his body off the side of the rock face with ease and disappeared over the side of the cliff. His rescue radio crackled confirmation of what I'd expected.

Lenny was dead.

Oh my God. Lenny was dead. I'd just witnessed someone die right in front of me.

The team leader radioed to the sheriff at search base (the trailhead parking lot). “Got a deceased male here. Going to begin recovery mission. Looks like our best option is to lower him. Call the medical examiner.”

With precision, the Crag Rats geared up with ropes and harnesses. They lowered a litter basket to recover Lenny's body. One by one they bounded over the side of the cliff.

My young rescuer waved them off and radioed to base camp. He would descend with us. Either he wasn't needed in the recovery effort or he thought I was in bad shape.

After forcing my injured feet back into my boots, he pulled me to my feet and grabbed my pack. I turned, thinking he was going to help me hoist it onto me. Instead, he wrapped his rescue pack around his chest and threw mine on his back. “I got this. You watch your step.”

As we descended, I glanced quickly at the recovery effort below. I could make out the Crag Rats' black-and-white shirts in the mix of bramble and rock. What an impressive crew. These guys actually volunteered to put themselves in harm's way.

My rescuer stayed right in front of me. Dave and Andrew followed. Greg brought up the rear.

I bombarded my personal Crag Rat with questions all the way down. Who were these men, how did they train, why did they put themselves in danger?

“We're the first ever mountain rescue team in the United States,” he explained. “The group formed in the 1920s and named themselves after the crags in Mount Hood.”

“Crags?” I asked.

“Yep.” He laughed. “We have a couple mantras we follow. The most important being
protect the rescuer first
. If it's not safe, we're not going to climb, or we're going to find another route.”

“But you raced here, knowing Lenny was already dead,” I said.

“Things are never what they seem. We're always going to respond. At heart we're really a bunch of adrenaline junkies. We have to harness danger and use it to our benefit. I can't tell you how many times we've been called out for a heart attack that turns out to really be a bad case of indigestion. You never know what you're going to find.”

I wanted to keep him talking because the compelling story of the Crag Rats was distracting me from the terrifyingly gorgeous panoramic view.

“Is it hard to race out to a scene like this for nothing?” I asked, limping along.

He shook his head and responded in a solemn voice. “No, that's our other mantra:
these things we do that others may live.
If there's even a small chance of finding someone alive, it's worth any effort.”

The Crag Rats' dedication left me humbled and feeling wimpier than ever. If they could risk life and limb to rescue (or in this case recover) strangers, I could suck up the courage to get myself down without a panic attack.

Dave, Andrew and Greg lagged behind. I took the opportunity to quiz the rescuer on the cause of Lenny's death.

“You've seen a lot of falls, right? Do you think it was an accident?”

“Hard to say. The medical examiner will have to do an autopsy.”

I slid over the loose gravel trail, inched my head near his shoulder and said in a low voice, “Do you think he could have been pushed? I saw it happen. It didn't look right. His body cartwheeled off the boulder.”

He shrugged and said, “Maybe. Could have been the way he slipped. Happens more than you'd think.”

Going down was worse—much worse. It didn't help that each step sent pain searing up my feet. It was impossible to land without inflaming my blisters. Plus, on the descent we had to hug the right side of the trail, which dropped straight off. Between the agony of my raw ankles and the fear that I'd fall off the cliff, I'd be lucky if I made it back to the parking lot before dark.

Greg caught up to us. I couldn't let him think I was naturally this slow. I lied. “Sorry I'm slow. Kind of tender on my leg.”

“Take your time. We're not in a rush.” He stood with his hands on his hips. I glanced behind me to see him watching me gimp.

Just past the deer trail where I thought I saw someone earlier, Andrew and Dave stopped to remove a GoPro mounted in the trees. Someone had been out there earlier. Maybe it was one of them adjusting a camera.

We continued downward through heavy tree overhangs and winding switchbacks. I lost my footing a couple times, but arrived on the valley floor unscathed. We ducked under caution tape roping off the trailhead and crossed the street to the parking lot. It was a buzz of activity. A sheriff's car blocked the entrance.

“I'm going to need statements from each of you,” a khaki-clad police officer wearing a tan hat said as he approached us. His silver-starred badge flashed on his chest, labeling him as the sheriff. If I had to guess, I'd say he was about Gam's age.

Greg stepped forward and greeted the sheriff, “Hey, Bill, give me a minute, okay?” He pointed his thumb at me and said, “I want to get my staffer here in dry clothes.”

Was there anyone he didn't know?

“You got it, Greg. How about I start with you two,” the sheriff said, looking at Dave and Andrew.

The sheriff escorted Dave and Andrew to his patrol car while Greg and I made our way over to where his black BMW Roadster was parked. He beeped his key chain and the trunk popped open. He pulled out a yellow climbing fleece, handed it to me and said, “Head over behind those trees, take off your wet shirt and put this on.”

I limped to a clump of trees and stripped out of my wet shirt. Greg's fleece was warm to the touch. It felt soft on my damp skin, and smelled like a new car and pine trees. It hung to my midthigh and my hands disappeared in the sleeves. I hugged myself as I limped in the direction of the sheriff.

“Meg! I heard what happened. It's crazy! How are you?” Krissy's voice called out. She rushed from the far side of the parking lot where the van was camped.

“They said Lenny's dead? I can't believe it.” Krissy tucked an icy-white curl that had escaped from her bun, behind her ear.

“It's true,” I said, still hugging Greg's sweatshirt around my body. I shuddered, but not from cold as I said, “I saw him fall.”

Krissy gasped. She took her petite hands and rubbed my arms as if to help warm me. “I'm sorry. That must have been awful. Come on, I've got tea in the van.”

Warm tea sounded wonderful. I let Krissy lead me away from the commotion of the sheriff's interviews. We climbed in. Krissy quickly hit a button that automatically shut the doors.

“Here, this'll help,” Krissy said, turning the key in the ignition and shooting me a concerned look. Heat blasted from the vents, funneling humid air in my face. I shrugged my hands out of Greg's sweatshirt and held them in front of the vents as if warming them over a campfire. Krissy clicked on my seat warmer. Within seconds my buns were toasting too.

“Now you're looking a little better,” Krissy said. She reached behind to the backseat and grabbed a stainless-steel thermos. Unscrewing the cap, steam erupted from the top. She poured the boiling water into the lid that also served as a cup. “Hold this,” she said, offering me the cup.

She leaned over my legs to open the glove box. It was crammed with papers, tissue, maps and gum wrappers. What a mess.

Krissy dug around until she found a tea bag. She shoved all the loose contents in, slammed it shut and stuck the tea bag in my cup.

Minty herb-infused steam reached my nostrils. The scent reminded me of Gam's kitchen. For the first time in the last four hours I took a deep cleansing breath in. I took a sip of the burning tea. The hot liquid trickled down my throat and warmed me from the inside.

“I think we can turn this down now,” I said, closing the heat vent in front of me. I noticed tears of sweat forming on Krissy's face. Her glasses were fogged up. I couldn't believe she hadn't said anything.

“You sure?” she asked, before turning the van off. “I know if I get cold after a long run I need a while to warm up.”

“I didn't know you were a runner.”

She screwed the lid tightly on the thermos. “Not anymore. I used to. A little.”

I raised my tea glass in a half toast. “This is all I need now. Thanks again. I didn't realize how messed up I was.”

“I can't blame you. I think I would have gone fetal had I seen someone fall to their death, even if it was Lenny,” she said with disdain.

Light rain hit the windshield. I took another sip of tea.

“You wanna talk about it?” Krissy asked. “Either way's cool. I thought it might do you good to talk about it while it's fresh.”

That reminded me; I needed to talk to the sheriff. Of course that meant leaving the safe haven of the van just as I was finally starting to feel dry.

“I think I better go talk to the sheriff,” I said, resting my empty tea cup on the dashboard. “Might as well get it over with. Thanks for the tea.”

I stretched my back as I stepped out of the car. Every inch of my body ached. All I wanted to do was crawl into bed.

“Where did you sneak off to?” the sheriff demanded as I approached his car.

“I—I—I didn't. I went to change and Krissy offered me tea,” I stammered.

“Go easy on her,” Greg said, winking at me. “The kid's had the shock of her life today.”

Kid? Did he think of me as a kid?

“I'll take it from here,” the sheriff said to Greg. He turned to me and tipped his hat. “Sheriff Bill Daniels, miss.” A sky-blue patch on his left chest read
HOOD RIVER COUNTY SHERIFF
with Mount Hood stitched in white and green.

“It's starting to rain. Why don't we have a seat in my car?” Walking around the car, he opened the passenger door and waited for me to sit before he closed it.

“Full name,” he asked as he pushed the driver's seat back and pulled out a small notebook.