Authors: Steve Gannon
At last he spoke. “
I’m gonna
give you a chance
to learn something about yourself
,
hotshot,
” he said coldly, still glancing at the wall. Then he grinned, his eyes
as
hard as diamonds. “Climb it.”
I looked at the rock face. It rose almost vertically from the desert floor for most of its five-hundred-foot ascent. Nothing broke its surface for the first two hundred feet; then a system of cracks led to a slot that continued to just below the summit, ending an overhanging roof. As far as I knew, the wall had never been climbed. Jack and I had made two abortive runs at it earlier that summer, and after those attempts
I had
begun to suspect
that
it couldn’t be done—at least by us. One thing I did know: To attempt it unroped would be suicide.
I shook my head. “No way.”
Bellagorski’s grin
got even uglier
. “M
aybe I didn’t make myself clear
. I’m not asking you. I’m
telling
you.”
“Or you’ll shoot me.”
“You don’t think I will?”
I didn’t answer. By then sweat h
ad soaked through my shirt. My
arm was throbbing from the shovel blow. We stood, our eyes locked. Then Bellagorski lowered his gun and shot J.R.
She squealed once and crumpled to the ground. I knelt beside her, my ears ringing from the blast.
He had
shot her through the back. Her teeth bared in pain, she began to convulse, whimpering pitifully as her life spilled
out
onto the sand. “No, no, no,” I whispered, my vision blurring. I held her head in my lap, powerless to keep her from slipping away.
The shot echoed across the valley, returning again and again before dying away. I rose, choked with hate for the man before me. Bellagorski
laughed
, once more lev
eling the pistol at my chest. At that moment i
f I’d had
Bellagorski’s
gun
,
I swear I would
have blown him away without thinking. But I didn’t have the gun.
He
did. And if I didn’t do what he wanted, I knew
he would
use it on me.
Before an ascent, the minutes spent at the base of a climb are always a nervous time for me. Uncoiling the rope, going through the equipment rack, studying the rock, a
nd referring to the guidebook, if there is one,
usually gives me a chance to settle down and get the proper mindset. Because the sum total of my equipment now consisted of climbing shoes and a chalk bag on a sling, I didn’t even have that.
“Get moving,” Bellagorski snarled.
I looked up. The stone seemed to rise forever. For a sickening instant I had the impression
that
at any moment
it might
come crashing down upon me. Briefly I considered trying to run. A field of boulders offered shelter to my left, but to get there
I would
have to cross sevent
y-five yards of open desert.
I’d never make it. Reluctantly, I placed my hand on the wall.
It felt rough. As were most of the granitic formations in the area, it was composed of quartz monzonite. The large crystals embedded in it were
tough
on hands and equipment, but ideal for
friction
climbing.
I started up.
Progressing quickly, I ascended on seemingly impossible flakes and nubbins. Because of the coarse nature of the rock, they were more than adequate . . . at first. About forty feet up I reached the initial bolt Jack and I had placed for protection on our
previous
attempt. I regarded it longingly, wishing I could clip in. Searching the
rock
face above, I spotted the second bolt. Higher up was a third, the final one we’d placed. Neither Jack nor I had made it
much
past that third bolt.
I
held
no
illusions
about my ability to complete the climb. Nonetheless, I hoped that if I could progress past the third bolt without falling, I had a chance of reaching the crack system
higher up. A
nd from there
,
the vertical chimney above it. If I made it to the chimney, I planned on wedging myself in and waiting for help
to arrive
. But first I had to get there.
Above the first bolt, the climbing increased in
difficulty
. I kept going, but fifteen feet below the second bolt I froze. I couldn’t go on. My right leg, which at that point was supporting most of my weight, started trembling.
Relax
,
I told myself.
If you think this is bad, wait until
after the third bolt.
Thanks for the encouragement. I needed that.
Would you rather go down and face a bullet?
No.
Then climb.
I chalked my hands and climbed—moving carefully, trying not to think about the ever-increasing drop beneath me. I passed the second bolt.
As near as I could judge,
I had
been on the face about three quarters of an hour when I reached the third bolt. By then our camp lay far below. My red Cherokee, its hatch still open, sat
like a toy
in the morning sun. I could see Bellagorski lounging in a folding chair by the fire
ring
, watching me. He still had the gun in his hand. I could hear him laughing.
“You’re committed now, hotshot,” he hollered up, his voice rising through the clear desert air.
I knew what he meant.
I had
been trying not to think about it. Face climbing is a delicate, deliberate process of moving a single hand or foot in turn, carefully exchanging handholds for footholds, always moving up. Climbing
down
is generally more difficult. For one thing,
you can’t
always
see
where you’re placing your feet. For another,
what works on the way up often fails miserably on the way down. In fact, past a certain
technical
difficulty it’s
impossible
to down-climb
a
route you’ve just ascended.
And you’re way past that point now
, my
internal
voice
reminded
me.
I
reached the spot where I’d peeled on my attempt
with Jack
the preceding spring. Far above I could see the crack system leading to the chimney. It took every ounce of will I possessed to venture on. Instead of climbing directly toward the cracks as I had
on my earlier attempt
, I traversed left
across the face
before continuing up, trying another approach. It worked. Twenty minutes later, climbing better than I ever had in my life, I reached a tiny ledge just below the first cracks. Pausing to catch my breath, I considered the best way to proceed.
Suddenly the rock wall
exploded
beside me
!
Flying shards of stone stung my face, momentarily blinding me. A split second later I heard the sound of a
gun
shot thundering up from below.
My concentration broke. I felt myself toppling backward! For a heart-stopping instant I teetered
on the edge of eternity
. I held my breath, a small nubbin pinched between the fingers of my left hand, my right windmilling behind me. The tiniest gust would have taken me screaming into
the void
.
Oh, God, if I
ever
get out of this, I’ll never climb again.
Somehow I held on, willing myself back on the rock.
“What’s takin’ so long
up there
?” Bellagorski shouted. “Get a move on!”
Heart pounding, palms sweating, I clung to the rock. Slivers of stone had cut my face. I wiped my cheek against my shoulder, smearing my shirt with blood.
Don’t think about the drop. Don’t think about another bullet slamming up from below.
Don’t think about anything. Just
climb.
I had to get moving. If I didn’t, Bellagorski might start using me for target practice again.
But
I al
so knew that rushing the climb c
ould kill me as surely as a bullet. Trying not to hurry, I chalked my hands and started out once more.
An excruciating series of moves
finally
brought me to the first finger-crack. For the first time since beginning my ascent, I began to think I might actually make it off the rock alive.
Don’t let up. Not yet.
A few yards higher the crack widened, allowing me to jam my hands and feet and proceed in classic crack-climbing style, like a monkey scrambling up a rope. Higher still the crack widened even more. Soon I could jam my forearms
, knees, then my entire body. Before long I
entered the chimney. Squirming
, heels and elbows digging
, back pressed against the rock, I inched my way upward.
At last, trembling with exhaustion, I reached a small boulder wedged in the slot. I could rest. I’d made it.
Once
I had
stopped shaking, I surveyed the remainder of the climb.
I had
entered the bottom of a three-sided chimney that terminated in an overhanging
roof, seventy-five feet above me. With the exception of
surmounting that overhang, there appeared to be no way out. But that didn’t concern me. I had no intention of proceeding farther. I was safe, solid, and sheltered from gunfire from below. All I had to do was wait for help.
I waited.
Hours passed. The sun rose higher, beating
upon the rock. B
lasts of heat reflected off the sides of the
rock
chimney, turning my haven into a Dutch oven. I felt as though I were being roasted alive, basted in my own sweat. Crouched on my precarious perch, I searched the arid landscape below. The desert floor
shimmered
in the sunlight,
waves
of heat rising over the Joshua trees that dotted the barren valley for as far as I could see. I wiped my eyes, straining to pick out a point of movement, a flash of color, a trail of dust on the horizon—anything that might
mean help was on the way
.
I saw nothing. And as the hours dragged on, and insistent thought began plaguing me:
What if help doesn’t come?
No. That couldn’t be, I told myself. Someone had to have heard those shots. Sooner or later a ranger would show up.
And
what
if one doesn’t
? Without water, how long can you
last up here? A day? Two?
Later that afternoon I edged out far enough to peer down at our campsite. J.R.’s body was gone. So was Bellagorski. His van hadn’t moved, so I kne
w he was around, and f
or the rest of
the day I shouted myself hoarse,
trying to taunt him into shooting
some more—
possibly attracting attention
with the sound of gunfire
.
He never showed himself.
After the sun went down, I wedged myself in and slept fitfully for a few hours. I dreamed I was crawling down a dark, narrow tunnel, the sides so slick I could barely inch forward, yet too tight for me to retreat. I kept going, praying the shaft would open up. Instead, it continued to constrict. Soon my body completely blocked the light coming from behind, plunging me into darkness. Then, as though it were somehow alive, the tunnel beg
an to squeeze, trapping me in an
inky blackness that filled my eyes and nose and mouth, smothering me
like a shroud, burying me alive . . .
I jerked awake, a scream on my lips. My head throbbed, my body ached,
and
my mouth
felt
as dry as dust. The temperature had plummete
d with the setting of the sun, and t
he night air couldn’t have been much above freezing. Shivering, I wrapped my arms around my knees and thought long and hard. I knew I might be able to survive another day without water, but by then my strength would be gone. Much as I hated to admit it, I accepted that help would probably ne
ver come—not in time, anyway.
I was going to have to finish the climb.
I spent the rest of the night gazing at the swirls of stars
slowly wheeling
in the desert sky, trying not to think about the vertical expanse above me. It was the longest night of my life.