by Jeff Long
"A nightmare of fucking terror," said another of the surfer-climbers.
"So, man?" slurred a foggy voice. "What's the connection with Tony?"
"Damage," said Bullseye. "You run risks, you take damage sometimes. Sharks.
Gravity. Loose rock. Hard wind. Avalanche." He paused, and most everyone filled in the blanks with their own private close calls. There was truth in his words. Bullseye's eyes were bright.
"That's what happened to Tony."
"Bullshit," snapped Kresinski. "The one risk you shouldn't ever have to run is a partner who ditches you."
"Leave it," advised Bullseye. "It's history."
"Oh?" Kresinski's monotone radiated old amusement. "As usual. Our in-house fry-head knows something the rest of us don't." A few uncertain chuckles fed into the stew, hopeful noises. But the showdown wasn't over yet.
Bullseye climbed to his feet, once again boiling mad at this mutation people dignified with a human name. Kresinski. An animal. Frankenstein couldn't have done worse.
Or better. On the outside you had Michelangelo's David, a slimmed-down Schwarzenegger with tendons even that rippled. When he moved, it was like this glorious call to the sun to reach down and touch him, a walking hosanna. Yes, file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (32
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Jeff Long - Angels of Light beautiful. But inside... all Bullseye could picture was a pithed frog, cold, amphibious, dead. The joy and tragedy of life had been aborted. Instead of Beethoven or Joan
Armatrading or a solitary hawk keening over wide space, all Bullseye heard when he looked at Kresinski was vicious noise, the sound of scavengers fighting over a road kill.
"Sit down," Kresinski said.
With an effort, Bullseye straightened. "No."
Kresinski was running his fingertip in a delicate circle around the top of someone's empty wineglass. The glass didn't sing. He quit and looked up at the tall drunk. "Sit down anyway."
"The petty tyrant," Bullseye hectored. "No one wants your fucking psycho-trauma."
"My fucking psycho
-trauma?" Kresinski sneered. Now people did laugh because it was just Bullseye, and you could take him either way.
"The Visor?" A reedy, new voice cut through the hurly-burly. It was Pete Summers.
Pete the Feet. Climbers catalog their rock moves according to type: crack, face, friction.
Friction climbing takes steady feet and a steady head. Pete knew a thing or two about friction, and applied it now. "The Visor's all manky and thin. There's nobody can climb the Visor."
That quickly, the squall blew over. "Wah," confirmed another voice. "I checked the Visor out once, dude. It's way gnarly."
"Way way gnarly," someone else plugged in. More voices attached, Valley talk that had little Page 28
meaning but clearly begged for a cease-fire. Bad vibes hurt their ears. "It's 5.14, that's what it is, man."
"Oh, man, get out. There's no such thing."
"There's a crack," said Tucker, fastening onto the new debate with sullen relief. "I know it'll go."
"No way." But it was friendly.
"Okay." Tucker retired from their skepticism. That in itself was plenty. Fly or die. He didn't care what they thought.
"I want to see this, man. When you goin' up?"
Bullseye sat down, also relieved. His head was spinning.
"After Reno," said Tucker. He'd never seen Reno.
"You ready?"
"Look at him. He's tuned and dialed."
"You amped, dude?"
Tucker resumed his embarrassment.
"Where's my damn burger," one of the surfers shouted. They were back on track. As if listening to an interior music, Kresinski nodded his head rhythmically and stared at John, who shook his head slightly.
Que jodón, he thought. What bullshit. He sat back in his chair. Menopause. That was the problem. We're getting old, but Kreski's
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Jeff Long - Angels of Light getting old and mean. Bad enough to lose your only friend—and Schaller had been lost to Kresinski long before his death on Aconcagua—now menopause was on him, too. At an age when triathletes have barely started serious training, John and Kresinski and Bullseye were eyeball to eyeball with Happy Trails. This year it was Tucker. Next year, who knew what youngster would appear and polish off the state-of-the-art test pieces. Bit by bit, the new generation would chew its way through routes that old-timers had struggled and died upon to create. Climbers call it flashing when a hotshot powers up a difficult route with no apparent difficulty. Tucker had accidentally flashed one of Kresinski's proudest accomplishments, Black Soap, so named for the color and slickness of the rock. Like the four-minute mile, it was supposed to have stood for years to come, untouched.
Worse than his casual ascent, Tucker had done Black Soap without a rope or partner, mistaking it for an easier climb to the left. Upon learning his error, he made the mistake of downgrading the crack from 5.12 to easy 5.11, and when challenged had climbed it again, again without a rope. Kresinski hated him for that. It was no excuse for the malice, though.
Then someone new and female arrived behind John.
"You guys think this is Beirut?" The voice was bass and smoky, Lauren Bacall in silk.
John didn't need to turn, he just read the expressions across the table. Several pairs of eyes walked up and down, from face to chest to hips and back again. Bullseye quit scowling. Tucker lit up.
Liz had finally arrived. He'd heard the expedition had returned that afternoon. He'd heard other things, too. They all had. "You can hear the fireworks clear over at headquarters," she scolded them. John couldn't resist twisting around. She had cleaned up and changed, and her blond hair was still wet from the shower. A park ranger shirt was tucked into clean but frayed blue jeans.
Her face was deeply colored by the wind and sun. John saw her beauty all over again. It had been a solid fortnight since they'd slept together.
"Lizzie," called out Bullseye, always delighted to see her. "Back from the wars."
Already Kresinski was a forgotten fly in his ointment. Bullseye's voice put a smile on Page 29
Liz's face. John kept watching her, waiting for a glance, knowing she was playing with him.
"Come 'ere, come 'ere," Bullseye invited with an outstretched arm behind the circle of chairs.
"Your harem boys await."
Liz began moving in a leisurely circuit around the entire table. She could have squeezed behind two climbers and reached John. Instead she drew out the pleasure of their first touch. Not that they could do much touching here in front of the world, but that, too, was part of the game. The very idea of privacy was titillating, which made their trip to Reno that much more enticing. She'd reach him in her own sweet time.
"Boys is right," Liz mocked them. She let Bullseye hug her and moved on.
"We heard you were back."
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"We heard you brought us a present."
"A present?" She tousled Tucker's black mop.
"Yeah, you know, it goes in your lungs and makes you happy."
It was only a shadow, the momentary look of confusion and then distrust that passed over Liz's eyes. Then she was smiling again. "Sorry," she said. "Just me."
Over beside Kresinski, Tavini stood up without bidding to make room for Kreski's Amazon, the place of honor. It was an old habit from a bygone time. Liz placed her hand on Kresinski's shoulder, a familiar but distant gesture; Kresinski reached up to trap her hand. She was faster, though, leaving him with a handful of his own empty shoulder. He scratched at his shirt to mask the rejection. Tavini cleared his throat at his own stupid blunder and sat down again as Liz moved on toward John. She met his eyes a
nd bit the corner of her lip, but kept it slow anyway. They were dancing. It was just them now. He slid one cheek off his chair, opening a space for her to sit.
"We still on for Reno?" she demanded. It was just for him, and the few who could hear tried not to. Bullseye was cranking up again, something about dragons and yeti and mountains on other planets, and people flung their attention toward his bankable goodwill.
"Maybe."
"Better be," she warned. Her hip nestled down beside him. She was warm and smelled like coconut shampoo. John circled his arm around her to give a hug and she held his hand. They didn't kiss, though. She didn't like to, not in front of this crowd.
Kreski had taken care of that for her. She and Matthew had been lovers for less than a month, long enough for her to learn the hard way. It still hadn't occurred to her that everyone present knew she gave great head. Leaks, Kresinski called his little tales to the gang. Deep background.
Since John and Liz had gotten serious, no one dared to repeat the anecdotes except their author.
"Me," Bullseye was bragging. "I'll say it out loud. I'm the guy. Okay? I voted for Ronald Reagan. And while you were still peeling Elmer's glue off the kindergarten floor, I was votin' for Richard Milhouse, too. Yeah."
"No, you weren't," a wasted surfer sputtered, uncertain if he was being goofed on.
"Yep." Like a Baptist preacher, he netted them in. "Ever hear of the pucker factor?"
Among climbers, the pucker factor is that degree to which one's anus squeezes shut on horrific rock moves. "Well, that's what it was. Sometimes you have to go with your instincts, and my instincts said, vote Dick. I won't say I knew about, you know, Watergate or, hell, Cambodia or that guff. But I will say, damn it, I smelled absurdity.
And in absurd times like that... like these... you gotta go for the absurd. Absurdity cancels itself out."
"What?" yelled a defiant surfer.
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"Look," Bullseye explained. "Follow me on this. If God can create anything, can He create a set of barbells so heavy He can't lift it?" That was one of his standard file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (35
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Jeff Long - Angels of Light paradoxes, guaranteed to discompose the mellowest West Coast child. Bullseye was back in the saddle.
"What?"
"You want a beer?" asked John. He had his lips by Liz's ear.
"I don't know. I'm pretty beat." Ordinarily that was code for sex, affection, and sleep, in repeating order. This time she meant it, though, John could see the exhaustion under her tan.
There'd be time for all the extras in Reno. What he really wanted was to hold her close and wake up to the distant roar of the Valley's falls. On very quiet mornings before traffic started up, you could hear the thunder of Yosemite Falls syncopated with Bridalveil Falls' lighter pitch. By walking in different directions, you could tune the instruments and find that exact place where they made music.
"Are we still going in the morning?" Tucker asked across the table. He sounded groggy, overdosed on the bedlam.
John turned to Liz. "Crack of dawn?"
"That's what I came hoping to hear."
"Wait a minute. The Kid's going along on your honeymoon?" Kresinski broke in.
"Hey, leave him with me. I'll baby-sit for you." John closed his eyes. Long ago they'd decided Kreski must have been a kamikaze in his past life. His talent for destruction was matched only by his charisma.
"Oh, now, Matthew," Liz addressed him. "Don't be a pill."
"I'm goin'." Tucker stood up. He fingered his toothbrush.
"We'll wake you up," said Liz.
"Night, Tuck." The tequila had ruined what discretion Kresinski occasionally let show. It was definitely time to leave the restaurant, John decided, before Kreski got unbearable.
Making good his escape, Tucker stepped high and around a tangle of legs and chairs.
He muttered to pave his exit and pulled on his rust-colored Gore-Tex parka. It bore four Gore-Tex patches, each blue, each impeccably stitched on. No rural carpenter took better care of his tools than Tucker did of his few possessions. His crampons were sharp as cats' teeth, his ropes received frequent checks for weak or frayed spots, his climbing shoes had leather panels painstakingly hand-sewn to the canvas.
"You baggin' it?"
"The Kid's takin' off."
"Watch out you don't dream about Whitney, man. Get your boxers all gooey."
"G'night, Tucker," Katie breathed to herself in the far corner.
Tucker would have traded anything for invisibility, even his collection of old Silver Surfer comics. Not at all resigned to his high-profile send-off, he made for the door.
He tripped and bumped a dinner table. Tourists were spurning him, too, heads turning at his awkward passage. The catcalls trailed behind like a string of tin cans.
Just as he reached the green exit sign, a breadball bounced off his head and more file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (36
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Jeff Long - Angels of Light laughter ejected him into cold black freedom.
"So how'd it go?" Bullseye asked Liz.
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"It was a long haul," she said. "Deep snow and storms." Evasion. If not for the rumors flooding Camp Four, the climbers might have respected her brevity. They had to know, though.
"Come on, Liz," Pete coaxed. "You find the airplane or didn't you?" John felt her tense up.
"We found a wing. Even saw the tail. But everything's locked in solid ice." She paused. "There were no survivors, we know that now."
"What kind of plane?" They were persistent.
"A small one. Twin propeller. A Lodestar, I think." She didn't know they already knew that much and more.
"Any of your bozos freeze?" Kresinski changed tactics.
Liz decided to take offense. "You know, Matt, there's rangers who'd bury you for that remark."
"Bring 'em on, Liz."
"So you never found out what they were carrying?" Sammy probed.
"Negative." She was lying. Everyone knew it. "I guess we'll find out in early summer when the lake thaws out."
"What about those bales of high-grade sinsemilla?" Kresinski asked. A conspiratorial sobriety dropped squarely upon the two tables. For the first time all evening, the other diners enjoyed silence.
"What?" Her voice was small.
Kresinski trained his eyes on her. There was not a thing John could do. Besides, like the others, he felt the Valley belonged to them. The Valley and the mountains surrounding it. "The weed, Liz."
She didn't answer.
"You're so cute when you're modest." Kresinski paused. "Liz, we know."
Liz sat in total stillness. Suddenly everything felt much too close.
"You found the first of twenty-one bales. They were airlifted by a navy helicopter in two sling-carried loads. The rest lies at the bottom of a lake. Why cut a high mountain lake open if you can just wait until spring thaw?"
All she could manage was, "Who told you?"
Kresinski's eyes moved from her face to her breasts. "You did."
"What?"
"Which lake?" Kresinski demanded.
"I didn't tell you anything. I just got down."
"And here we all are. One happy tribe."
Finally, Liz caught her breath. "You can quit flexing now, Matt."
"No big deal, Lizzie," Bullseye assured her. "We're just citizens. We'd like to help the file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (37
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Park Service and related agencies clean up, you know, an eyesore." He was offering her a bridge out of the ugliness, bless him, and she took it.
"I bet you would." She tried to laugh.
Connie arrived with another trayful. Kresinski cheerfully snaked one big arm around her waist and nuzzled the side of her bosom
. "When you got mammaries in a uniform," Bullseye once expounded for their benefit, "any uniform... they're called a bosom." Connie tsk'ed her suitor, not unhappy with the flirtation. Then she saw Liz and understood. "Stop it," she said.
"I'm just glad to see you," Kresinski said. "You were gone so long."
Only the goofy and stoned missed the point of his satire. Liz blushed.
"You want to get your hands off me, Matt?" Connie said.
Kresinski looked up and kissed the underside of one breast. She pushed his head away.
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"Jesus," Liz softly cursed. "Why does there have to be only one restaurant in this valley?"
"Ignore him," said John.
"Yeah. Right."
"Well, let's go then."
"No. Damn it, I've been thinking of a hot meal for thirteen days."
"All right," John soothed her. "I see an empty table over by the door."
"No. I'm eating my supper in this restaurant." She set her palm flat by a beer stain.
"At this table."
Kresinski wouldn't let Connie go, not without a scene she didn't want. The climbers had seen Kresinski's women come and go, and occupied themselves with small talk and setting appointments with each other to climb this or that tomorrow morning once the sun had heated the south-facing slabs. "Leave me alone, Matt." Kresinski's arm stayed bunched around her hips.
Kresinski didn't just burn his bridges, he demolished them beyond recognition. Connie pinched his hand, which only inspired a cold smile. "I mean it," she warned, near tears. "Come on, Matt,"
she pleaded softly.
At times like this, in the gentle moments gone brutal, the Camp Four clan saw Kresinski's craziness and wondered about their own parts in the puzzle. For most of them, big walls and multicolored granite were the only things worth climbing on twice, and Yosemite was a sort of world capital. Kresinski confirmed that over and over with his unfailing returns from far-flung mountains in places most people only see in
National Geographic.
Other locals, most notably John, had climbed throughout the planet's cordilleras, but none returned so loudly or brazenly as Kreski did, nor did anyone have his heavy-metal gift for wrapping a mountain or wall or even a mere forty-foot crack in such hairy-assed terms. They liked that about the