Sam checks his watch. “We made good time. It’s only twelve thirty.”
The climb is easy at first, and I have no trouble finding hand- and footholds. I pull myself up, slide to the left, and pull up again. The granite is cold and dry beneath my fingertips. I’m moving quickly through the route.
About a quarter of the way up, I see a good spot to take a break, and I wedge my hand into a large crack and find an equally large space for my toe. I let my arms slacken a bit.
I look for Sam. He’s ahead of me, and he seems to be maneuvering the rock well. I see his fingers grip the edge and watch him pull himself onto a ledge to rest. He’s only about ten feet higher, and I can see the sweat glistening on his forehead and dripping down his cheeks. He wedges himself into a position where he can free one hand, and he lifts the edge of his T-shirt and wipes his face dry.
It’s time to move, so I chalk up my hands again and reach up for a hold. It’s barely enough to grip on to, and within a few seconds, my knuckles are turning white and my forearms are burning. I see a better grip only inches away and swing my body around so I can grab on to it, rising to a ledge that’s wide enough to stand on. I stop and catch my breath.
The summit is farther away than I expected it to be, and it’ll be slow going from here. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s been months since I climbed outside, and even though this was supposed to be an easy route, I’m starting to think the free solo climb was a bad idea. When I chalk my hands, my arms are shaking with fatigue.
I start back up the rock, and a little while later I see Sam reach the summit. I stop and consider my last few moves while he stands there, doubled over and beaming down at me.
“Dude, my mom climbs faster than you do.”
I tighten my fingers around the hold with one hand, freeing the other one to flip him off. Sam lets out a loud laugh, and returns to sweating and panting. I’m waiting to feel the euphoria I usually experience at this point of the climb, but each move feels harder than it should be. I’m going to be insanely sore tomorrow.
I’m almost there. In just one or two more strategic, well-thought moves, I’ll be at the top. I take one more deep breath and lock my eyes on my next hold. I make my move, then the next, and suddenly I’m gripping the shelf.
I breathe. My fingertips dig into the granite.
“Jesus, it’s about time.” Sam takes a swig of Gatorade and checks the time on his phone. “It’s already one o’clock. Get up here, would you? I’m starving.”
As I pull myself up, I feel the edge break in my hands. Dust and bits of rock tumble down into my eyes, and I grope blindly, reaching up for anything to hold on to. My right hand falls away and I grab the rock harder with my left, but it just slips off.
Sam reacts immediately, dropping his Gatorade and falling to his stomach. His hand juts out over the edge, but by then I’m nowhere near it.
My cheek skids against the surface and my hip hits something sharp. My shoulder slams against a boulder and that slows my momentum, but only temporarily. My already-raw fingers burn and sting as they claw at the granite.
I hear Sam yell from the summit.
I’m waiting for my body to shut down so I don’t have to endure the pain of the crash. Suddenly, I feel my hip connect with something hard and I stop fast. I’m lying in a crumpled heap on the ledge I’d been standing on earlier, and it’s wide enough to keep me secure, but I scramble to find something to hold on to anyway.
“Stay there,” Sam says, and I laugh. He disappears from the edge and I keep laughing, but I’m not sure why. Maybe because it keeps me from thinking about how fast my heart is racing and that my legs feel rubbery.
A couple of minutes later he returns to the shelf, flattens his chest against the rock, and slaps a coil of blue rope by his side. He feeds it over the edge and I watch it fall, dancing and squirming its way toward me. When I look up, I see Sam. His face is drawn, his eyes are full of panic, and his hands are shaking violently as he guides the rope down.
I tie the rope to my harness. Sam yells, “Hold on,” and then he’s gone for a full minute. I picture him tying the rope to the anchors at the top and feel the slack disappear. He returns and looks over the edge. “Okay. You’re on belay. I’ve got you!” He gives me a thumbs-up and drops to the ground again. He’s trying to sound stoic, but I can hear the worry in his voice.
I start climbing again, taking my moves a lot more slowly, thinking through each one more than I usually do. I try not to think about falling again. I don’t look up, but I can feel Sam working to keep the rope taut.
I’m only a few feet from the top when Sam drops to the ground again, and when I’m close enough, he lowers his hand. This time, I grab it and let him pull me to the surface.
Neither one of us says a word as we collapse back on the sun-warmed rock and stare straight up at the sky. I don’t even remove the rope from my waist. I just lie there. Eventually, I bring my hand to my face. My cheek is throbbing and my arms are covered in deep scratches. My right hip hurts when I try to sit up, there’s a small gash on my shoulder, and my fingers are caked with blood.
“You okay?” Sam asks and I nod. I don’t look at him, but his voice still sounds a little shaky. “Give me your pack.” He holds out his hand and I slide it off, but the strap grazes the cut on my arm. I cringe. He rifles through my stuff, and when I look up a minute later he’s dumping Gatorade onto an In-N-Out napkin. “All the water’s at the bottom,” he says as he hands it to me. “This will have to do.”
I wash the dirt off my face and clean up my arm. Without saying a word, I hold my hand out to Sam and he tosses me the rest of the Gatorade. I dump a little more on a clean corner of the napkin, take a big gulp, swish it around in my mouth, and spit out a mouthful of dirt.
“Well at least you crushed your face and not the burgers,” Sam says with a laugh. He reaches into the bag and pulls out his Double-Double, then tosses the bag to me.
I down another Gatorade, Sam takes a big bite of his burger, and neither one of us speaks as we stare out at the view. I take a few bites, but when I start thinking about what might have happened, I feel my stomach tighten up and my appetite disappears.
What if I had fallen to the bottom? I didn’t think about doing it over—it all happened too quickly—but I could have. What if I’d locked in on a time before we started up that rock, closed my eyes, and brought myself back? What would have happened if I’d saved my own life? Could I even
Out of nowhere, I think about something I once said to Anna. As I was envying her deep roots in Evanston and a normal life she couldn’t wait to leave, I told her that, aside from my parents and my sister, everyone I knew back home was somehow temporary. Now I feel guilty for saying that. I watch Sam mowing his burger and wiping sauce from his face, and I can’t stop picturing how he dropped to the ground and reached over the edge for me.
Sam’s not temporary. He never was. And it occurs to me that, while I can’t tell him my biggest secret, perhaps I shouldn’t keep so many of them from my best friend.
We finish our burgers and I toss my backpack—now much lighter, since it’s filled with nothing but trash— over the edge. I use the top rope to rappel down to the bottom, and Sam follows me.
We pack up and head down the path to the next rock. It turns out to be a lot more technical, and when Sam offers to lead, I accept immediately. We climb two different routes. At dusk, we start the half-hour hike back to the Jeep.
We’re walking single file and almost at the end of the trail. “Sam,” I say to his back.
He lets out a “huh” that’s barely audible.
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”
He keeps walking and doesn’t turn around.
I take a deep breath. “I wasn’t backpacking in Europe last spring.”
He flips his head around and gives me a quick nod. Then he turns back to the path.
“I was in Illinois.”
“Oh…”
“Living with my grandmother.”
The fact that I can’t see his face makes this easier.
