Freefall. Jill Sorenson
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smiled at her horrified expression. “That’s illegal.”
“So is backcountry hiking without a permit,” she said, her dark eyes flashing.
“I don’t free-BASE,” he said. Some young daredevils were combining free-solo climbing with BASE jumping. Sam wasn’t tempted. He liked the freedom of climbing without gear; the sensation of falling just made him nauseated.
“I’d arrest you in a heartbeat if you did.”
Oddly, this conversation thrilled him more than the risky climb. He pushed the limits because he felt dead inside. Although he still had some capacity for fear, he’d lost his sense of self-preservation.
What he’d retained, in overabundant amounts, was concern for others. He couldn’t belay a partner without anticipating a fall. His intense anxiety interfered with his love for the sport. He didn’t want to be responsible for another climber. Often, he didn’t trust the gear. Solo-climbing had become his only solace.
Partnering with Hope would be excruciating.
“Why did you report the accident, instead of checking it out?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“You could have climbed up to investigate the crash.”
“Before contacting park authorities? That’s against rescue protocol.”
“You’re a rule-breaker. We’ve already established that.”
He scowled, guilty as charged. “I was afraid of what I’d find.”
“Survivors?”
“Corpses.”
She tilted her head to one side, deliberating. “I suppose you saw a lot of those in San Diego.”
He didn’t want to talk about it. “Have you ever done a 5.11?”
“Yes,” she said, moving her attention from him to the wall. “I’ve climbed this one.”
“Which section?”
“South Ridge.”
“With a partner?”
She nodded.
“Okay. I know that route, too.”
They checked and rechecked the gear. He gave her a pop quiz on ropes and knots, pleased to find her proficient. Most of the prep was second nature to him. He could tie an eight in his sleep.
At noon, they were ready. It was the hottest part of the day, near ninety degrees on the rock face, but a pleasant breeze drifted through the canyon. Sam did the lead climbing and Hope followed, steady as it goes. Although she was a natural athlete and a fair climber, he couldn’t relax while she was in motion. Every time she reached for a new handhold, he held his breath. Disaster seemed imminent. Images of her plummeting to her death swarmed his vision. He saw frayed ropes, broken harnesses...cracked skulls.
Melissa’s ashes.
Sam knew better than anyone else that climbing was mental. The sport required intense concentration, a quiet mind and a positive outlook. Fear would literally kill you on the rock face. If he didn’t rein it in, he might endanger Hope.
Luckily, he was experienced enough to know the difference between foreboding and phobia. Climbers were a superstitious lot. They followed their instincts, weighing risks in a fraction of a second. Only a fool ignored his internal warning system. But Sam’s reaction was based on psychological trauma, not the situation at hand.
Hope could do this.
Besides, abandoning the effort would have grave consequences. She’d have to find another partner, maybe even wait until morning. While any possible survivors battled the elements on top of the mountain after the temperature plummeted.
Sam tried to tamp down his fear, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t get scared that often, and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with it. He’d become soft, in a way. Apathetic. Caring about life or death required effort.
Oblivious of his struggle, Hope continued to climb. She was confident, but cautious, spending too much time thinking about every move. Time dragged out into an eternity. He had to bite his tongue to keep from criticizing the flaws in her technique. She wasn’t an expert and it showed.
A few years ago, Sam had been an easygoing partner who enjoyed initiating newcomers to the sport. Now he was quickly frustrated, his body humming with impatience. The type of climber he used to loathe.
To her credit, Hope stayed positive and kept a smile on her face. He began to suspect that she was doing it just to annoy him. When she made a minor misstep and almost lost her grip, he swore up at the sky.
His negative attitude made an impact on her near the top. She came to a wide gap about ten feet away from her last placement. A fall from this distance could be dangerous, whether the gear held or not. Even during short drops, climbers could get tangled in ropes, crack their heads against the rock and break bones.
If the gear failed, death was certain.
Her footing looked off as she stretched out her arm. He muttered another curse, and she must have heard it, because she spooked. Instead of committing to the reach, she second-guessed herself and faltered. Her questing fingertips found no purchase, and her foothold crumbled.
With a sharp cry, she tumbled backward, her arms and legs flailing. Her harness caught and held, jerking her body roughly.
Sam braced himself against the rock and listened for the sound of gear popping, his blood thundering in his ears. To his intense relief, the protection bore her weight as she dangled in midair, a thousand feet from the ground. He held the safety rope, her last lifeline, clenched in his trembling hands.
She grasped the rope that attached them, staring up at him with frantic eyes. He let out a slow breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. They’d get through this a lot easier if she didn’t look down.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She moistened her lips. “I’m okay.”
“Reach out to the wall.”
Her gear was keeping her safe, not his gaze, but she seemed reluctant to look away.
“I’ve got you.”
After a short hesitation, she straightened, focusing on the rock face. She let go of the rope with one hand and touched the wall with the other. The tip of her shoe found an overhang, and her fingertips gripped a small fissure. She flattened her belly against the sun-drenched surface and paused there, as if soaking up its spirit.
After a moment of communing with the climbing gods, she made her way up. The final push went by in a blur. Before he knew it, they were at the summit. With Sam’s help, she scrambled over the edge.
He studied their surroundings, breathing hard. The top of Angel Wings was jagged, with dips and crags, like the surface of a tooth. He couldn’t see the remains of a plane, but there were hints of its trajectory. Burned-up bits of fuselage marred the landscape.
Sam pulled up their haul bag while she rested, her shoulders trembling from fatigue. The elation he usually felt after a climb was tempered by worry. They had a new obstacle to meet: searching for survivors.
“That was close,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“My fault.”
“You’re a difficult partner.”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Yes.”
He searched her face, wondering why she’d overestimated him. Then he realized that she was judging him by his performance in bed, which had been a hell of a lot more generous. Until he threw her out.
A flush crept up his neck at the backhanded compliment. He drank water from his pack, flattered and