Stepping Stones

by Steve Gannon

  As I was loading the last of my climbing gear, Bellagorski reemerged from his van. He started toward me. He had a gun.

  With a flick of his wrist, he motioned me away from the Jeep.

  I didn’t move. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Shut up.” Once more he motioned with the pistol, then pointed it at me. I moved.

  “Put on your climbing shoes,” he ordered.

  “Why?”

  “Get ’em on,” he hissed, speaking with difficulty. His mouth was a mess. I had broken some teeth.

  I sat in the dirt, removed my boots, and pulled on my climbing shoes. As I began lacing them, J.R. lay beside me, acting confused. “It’s okay, girl,” I said quietly, wishing it were true. She thumped the ground a couple times with her tail.

  After I had laced my shoes, I stood and faced Bellagorski. “Now what? You gonna shoot me?”

  His tongue flicked across his puffy lips. “Don’t think I won’t,” he warned, his eyes shifting to the towering rock wall behind me. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Seconds ticked by, seeming like hours. I stood, sweat gathering under my arms. I suddenly realized that I knew nothing about Bellagorski—not his first name, or where he lived, or even a phone number. Nothing. And right then, he looked capable of anything, even cold-blooded murder.

  It wouldn’t be the first time, he’d said. I remembered the shovel, wondering whether he would have stopped with the first blow. I held my breath, expecting at any moment to see the gun jump in his hand and feel the stab of a bullet tearing into my chest.

  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. “Maybe 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 had 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 leveling the pistol at my chest. At that moment if 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, and 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 seventy-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. And 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 gunshot 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 also knew that rushing the climb could 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. Blasts 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 knew he was around, and for 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 began 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 plummeted with the setting of the sun, and the 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 never 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.

  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, for much of my ascent the chimney walls flared outward, tending to eject me from the slot.

  Somehow I made it to the top of the chimney. I was just short of the summit, blocked by the final overhang.

  Exhausted, I stopped. The jutting stone roof hung just inches above my head. Blood covered my hands. My legs were shaking. I had reached the most difficult 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 lip, I spotted a tapering slit. Although unreachable, it 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.

  Now 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 to 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 began pulling myself up. Gingerly I raised my chin to my hands, being careful not to make any abrupt movement that might dislodge the flake. Then in one smooth motion I cracked my left elbow and extended, mantling onto the flake. Next I got a foot 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.

  Banks 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 th
e 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 unerring accuracy, following my chalk marks 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. To 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.