Authors: Steve Gannon
As the first fingers of dawn
were appearing on
the horizon, I started up the chimney. Slowly, my hands trembling, the metallic taste of fear in my mouth, I struggled upward—sometimes with my back against one wall
of the chimney
and feet against the other, sometimes with a foot and hand on each wall, sometimes bridging
the gap with my entire body. Making things more difficult, f
or
much
of my ascent the
chimney
walls flared outward, tending to eject me from the slot.
Somehow I mad
e it to the top of the chimney. I was
just
short of
the summit
, blocked by the final overhang
.
Exhausted, I st
opped. T
he jutting stone roof
hung
just inches above my head. Blood covered my hands. My legs were shaking.
I had
reached the most d
ifficult part of the climb. Though
fatigued
by
the
chimney
ascent,
I couldn’t rest. Worse,
I didn’t have the strength to descend. I had to go on. My options had narrowed to one, and time was running out. Fighting a growing sense of panic, I searched the
rock
ceiling above me.
In the center of the overhang, about two feet from the li
p, I spotted a tapering slit. Although unreachable, i
t appeared
to be just
wide enough for a fist-jam. From
my
top-roped scouting
with Jack
the previous spring, I recalled that a small flake lay beyond the roof on the other side.
Suddenly I saw a way.
It would be an all-out gamble, but it was my only chance.
Quickly, I looped the nylon sling from my chalk bag over a rock horn at the top of the chimney. Grasping the sling with my left hand, I leaned out over the chasm. It was a long stretch, but
using the sling
I managed to get my right hand into the crack above me. I made a fist and locked it in. It felt solid.
But would it hold?
I couldn’t hang much longer.
N
ow or never. Do it.
I released my grip on the sling.
My feet came off the rock. Heart in my throat, I pendulumed over the void,
hanging
by my fist
wedged
in the crack above
me
. As I completed my outward swing I slapped my
free
hand over the edge of the overhang, groping for the flake.
The
fingertips
of my left hand
brushed something, caught . . . and held.
A renewed bolt of terror coursed through me. The flake was loose!
There was no
turning
back. The sling
I had
used
earlier
hung limp and unreachable in the chimney. I felt the skin on my fist beginning to tear.
Slowly, I transferred weight to my left hand.
The flake held.
Not daring t
o breathe, I unclenched my fist, removed my right hand from the crack,
and brought it up to the flake, joining my left.
Please, God, let
the flake
hold.
My legs were useless, dangling hundreds of feet above the
ground
below. Using only my arms, I beg
an pulling myself up. Gingerly
I raised my chin to my hands, being careful not to make any abrupt movement that m
ight dislodge the flake. Then i
n one smooth motion I cracked my left elbow and extended, mantling onto the flake.
Next
I got a f
oot onto the flake and
shifted my right hand to a bombproof hold higher up.
An instant later the flake gave way.
My right hand took my weight. I hung, heart slamming in my chest. An eternity later I heard the
broken
flake shatter on the rocks below. I didn’t move, praying the sound wouldn’t rouse Bellagorski from whatever hole
he had
crawled into.
The camp remained quiet. Breathing a sigh of relief, I got my feet back on the face and continued up, following an easy lieback crack to the top.
As I scrambled to safety, I realized
that I had
never felt so alive in all my life.
B
anks of orange and gold
lit the eastern sky as I began my
descent down the backside of the wall. Minutes later I made my way across the
broken
talus at
the
base, easing stealthily into the shadows
that still blanketed
our campsite.
I found Bellagorski sleeping on the floor of his van. The revolver lay beside him. I picked it up and checked the cylinder. Four live rounds still remained in the cylinder.
“Bellagorski. Get up.”
“Wha . . .?”
“Get up.”
Suddenly alert, Bellagorski sat, his eyes darting like weasels around the interior of his van.
They
froze when
they
spotted the pistol in my hand. “You made it, huh?” he said nervously.
“Yeah. I made it.”
He tried to smile. “Hey, man, I was gonna get you down today. Honest.”
“Sure you were. What’d you do with J.R.?”
“J.R.? Oh, that mutt of yours? Listen, I’m sorry about that. I’ll get you another dog. Just don’t . . . Please, I’ll do anything you want, just don’t . . .”
I had to force myself to ease up on the trigger.
“What are you gonna do?” he asked, staring at the gun. A whine had crept into his voice.
I thought carefully.
Anything I want,
he’d said. Finally I knew what that was. I smiled coldly. “
I’ll tell you what, Bellagorski. You don’t deserve it, but
I’m going to give you the same chance you gave me.”
“What do you mean?” he asked,
his
eyes still glued to the gun. He honestly didn’t know what I had in mind.
I glanced at the wall. “I did it,” I said. “Now it’s
your
turn. I’ll even give you a break. I won’t shoot at you while you’re up there.”
Relief flooded into his face. He looked away, trying to hide it, but I knew what he was thinking as clearly as if
he had
spoken aloud:
If you did it
,
his eyes said,
it’ll be easy
for me.
I watched him climb. He finessed moves that had nearly stopped me, moving up
on
minuscule holds with unerri
ng accuracy, following my chalk
mark
s
up the wall. I knew
he would
follow
my chalk-trail
all the way into the slot, and when he saw my sling hanging at the top of the chimney,
he would
figure out what I’d done.
T
o surmount the overhang
, he would
lean out on the sling and
attempt the dynamic crux move, just as I had. He wouldn’t even hesitate.
After
he had
passed the first bolt, I went looking for J.R. I found her under my Jeep. From the marks in the sand, it appeared she’d dragged herself there.
But how?
She had been
dead when I’d left her.
Or had she?
Hoping against hope, I peered under the car. She was lying on her side beneath the engine. Her ribs rose and fell. And again. I couldn’t believe it. She was alive!
Heart in my throat, I started the Jeep and
carefully
pulled forward.
As
gently as I could, I scooped her
up and laid her in the back.
I had to get her to a vet, and fast. Then I remembered Bellagorski. Looking up, I
saw
that he was already approaching the second bolt.
Shaking my head in amazement
, I slid behind the
steering
wheel and jammed the
Jeep
into gear. But as I began driving off, something held me.
I stopped the car. Although part of me wanted to leave Bellagorski to his fate, another part realized that I had
reached a moral crossroad
s, a crux as real as the one I had
just climbed. I sat without moving for what seemed a very long time.
J.R.
was panting
weakly in the back
, having trouble breathing
.
She didn’t have much time.
Slamming my ha
nd against the steering wheel
, I twisted off the engi
ne. “I’m sorry girl,” I said.
I stepped out, walked to the rear of the Jeep, and pulled out my climbing rope. “I’ll get you
fixed up, I promise,” I added, gently stroking her head. “But there is something I have
to do first.”
Bellagorski spotted me as I
was hurrying
past the rock face toward the backside of the wall. “Hey, hotshot,” he called down. “Where’re you goin’ with the rope?”
“I’ll t
ie it off at the top,” I called up. “You’ll be able to reach it from the chimney
, before you reach the crux
.”
“Go to hell,” he
yelled
. “You think I’d trust a rope you put up for me?
Not a chance.
Besides, I don’t need your help. If
you
climbed this, it can’t be that tough.”
“You don’t understand. The crux move is imposs—”
“I don’t want to hear your lies, pussy.”
“But—”
“I ain’t listening to one more word of yours. Get lost.”
“Fine,” I yelled back
, again thinking of J.R. She needed help, and fast. “When the time comes, though . . .
remember I offered.”
“
Screw
you, asshole.”
“Same to you, Bellagorski,” I said softly. “Same to you.”
Although I probably set a speed record for leaving the park, the sun was already well up when I reached the main road. As I drove, the snow-covered peak of San Gorgonio slowly came into view
, and shortly after that
I could make out
the
haze hanging over the horizon
near Palm Springs. In the back
J.R. was
still
having trouble breathing, but she was alive. Somehow I knew she was going to make it.
As for Bellagorski,
I figured he was
probably
reaching the top of the chimney
right about then
. I pictured it in my mind.
He sees
my
sling, spots my chalk and blood in the
fist-jam
crack above. He pauses. Then, with a confident grin, he
grabs the sling and
leans out
over the drop
. He jams his fist into the crack, just as I
had
.
He lets go of the sling. His feet come off the wall. He swings out over the void, hanging from his fist-jam.
I lied when I said I was giving him the same chance he gave me. The flake above the overhang
is
no longer there. It broke off when I stood on it, shattered into a thousand pieces on the
boulders
below. Without that flake, the
crux
move
is
impossible.
He swings, slapping for a hold that’s no longer there. His hand scrabbles, searching
, searching
. . .
It finds nothing.
He tries again. His fingers claw the rock.
Again he fails.
In desperation, he attempts to get his feet back on the wall.
To his horror, he finds he cannot.
He tries to hook the sling with his
foot
. . .
It’s out of reach
.
He
hangs. T
he skin
begins
tearing from his
fist. D
eath
stares
up
at him
from the abyss. Slowly, inexorably,
the
icy fingers of panic tighten around his throat . . .