by Rich Foster
Suddenly he was seized by the dry heaves. Wave after wave wracked his body and he began to sob. “I’m going to die on this fucking rock,” he repeated. He was teetering on the edge of sanity. He tried to fight the panic and angst that threatened to carry him away off an emotional abyss. “No, no, no! I don’t want to die!” he screamed and pounded the rock with his fist.
The paroxysm of grief passed. He felt weak. The effort had attacked and sapped his energy reserves. He drifted off to sleep. High above the gorge a vulture eyed the prone figure on the rock and circled. But Alan stirred in his sleep and the bird winged away.
“This is worse than dead man’s hill,” a soft voice stated. It was clearly spoken and somehow carried above the constant roar of the falls.
Alan looked up to see a young boy of seven. The boy stood nonchalantly on the edge of Alan’s rock, looking down over the edge of the falls. His hair was a tousled brown with pale blue eyes. He wore well-worn coveralls and a straw-hat looking like Twain’s description of Tom Sawyer.
“Ralphie?” Alan gasped.
Alan rubbed his eyes, squeezed his head, “Ralphie?” he repeated. Ralphie glanced casually of over at Alan, shoved his hands in his pockets, walked over and sat down near him.
“We’re dead! We’re double triple dead!” said Ralphie.
“You’re not real!” Alan firmly said, “You’re imaginary! I made you up when I was a kid.” “I made you up after my brother…” he paused and didn’t finish the thought aloud.
Alan wondered if he was losing his mind but crazy people didn’t usually know they were crazy. “I’m hallucinating. I am here alone,” he thought. He felt cold. It seemed Death was breathing on him. Then the dream broke and he awoke shivering.
The canyon had darkened. He assumed the sun had moved behind the rim, but when he looked up he saw it as a bright spot in thickening cloud cover. Soon, it was gone from sight. He turned to get his jacket. Upon his rucksack sat the squirrel, placidly nibbling his remaining granola bar, its foil wrapper shredded at the animal’s feet. Any pity Alan felt for the squirrels of this world died instantly! He lunged at the beast sending the pack sprawling. The nuts and one candy bar slid out and into the water. He dove for them and caught them before they were completely lost in the flowing water. “You son of a bitch!” he screamed, abandoning his long held views of non-violence. Given the opportunity he would have gladly killed the hapless creature. But the squirrel bounded away, easily scaling the cracks and nooks of the cliff face. Alan threw one rock at him before the squirrel disappeared over the rim, and then he was alone. Damn! Damn! Damn, he ranted stomping his feet and wasting needed energy until he collapsed winded on the rock.
The squirrel was gone and so was Ralphie. The dream had been so real that he now suffered from a lingering loneliness. He salvaged what pieces he could of the granola bar and tucked them in next to the bag of nuts and wet candy bar. He put on his jacket and sat with his back against the rock in a daze. Emotionally he was spent. He closed his eyes and began to drift. Soon he was floating in a sea of well-being. Lilly drifted past, an un-embodied thought. Ralphie smiled knowingly at him, his freckled face somehow like a smiling Buddha. Alan felt knowledge coming to him; the knowledge of good and evil, life and death, the answer to the insoluble problem of being it was almost within his grasp.
The first drop of rain on his face woke him up. He was lost and confused. There was a thought he struggled to hold onto, but it slipped away like sand through his fingers and was gone.
The sky was dark as if it were almost dusk. Yet it was only slightly past two on his watch. He strained to see down the canyon, but it dissolved in the gloom. He wiped another raindrop from his cheek, and then there was another and another. The rocks were rapidly being wetted on their entire surface. He stood up and looked around as if he expected there to be a place to get out of the rain.
He was bewildered, still befuddled by sleep.
“What you gonna’ do if the river comes up?” Alan heard Ralphie ask.
Alan spun around. In the dim light he saw Ralphie sitting in the dead tree trailing one toe in the water. He rubbed his eyes and as they refocused, what he thought was Ralph, resolved itself into a cluster of branches and deep shadows.
Alan stared at the river as it poured over the falls. Unconsciously he backed away until he was pressed against the rock. Terrified he looked left and right. There was no place to run.
If it rained, the river would rise! Compressed by the gorge, he realized, very little rain would be required to inundate his rock. Alan took a few small pebbles. He placed the first just above where the water lapped the edge of the rock, then three more each about one inch higher than the last.
It started as a sprinkle, but soon became a rain. The surface of the rock became completely wetted and before long water from the canyon walls rolled across it. He sat huddled against the base of the gorge wall trying to be sheltered as the rain turned into a steady downpour.
A silent voice in his head began to mumble, you’re going to die! Thunder reverberated off the mountains and down the canyon. A flash of light filled the sky, and was followed by a thunderous crash that made Alan jump like a spastic. Above the gorge the clouds pulsated with lightening as the front was pushed and compressed over the mountains. The thunder rolled down the hills clearly audible over the din of the falls. Down the canyon, he could see the long ragged edges of the clouds, as they were pulled earthward by the descending sheets of rain. It must be pouring up between the mountains, he thought! He looked at the river with fear, fancying that he could already discern a rise. He knew each drop, every rivulet, all the run off was collecting, gaining strength and setting out to attack him. It would spill over boulders, cover the banks, grow and get fat and then attack the gorge. It would rise up and sweep him away, no mater how hard his grip.
He was on the edge of loosing control. For a moment he considered trying to lash himself to the tree trunk. It had certainly survived many a storm, but he realized he would inevitably drown. Alan had an irrational desire to through himself off the precipice. Better a swift and sure end, than waiting for the torrent that must surely be approaching from the hills. Then he began to laugh, a high maniacal laugh. Losing control of his fears he pictured himself mangled and scoured clean of both clothes and flesh by the gravel and rocks in that torrent!
Alan was suddenly back in Sunday school. It was an old wood building. The church possessed the white clapboard and tall steeple of a Christmas card. He could smell the stuffiness of the room and the dampness of wool drying on a winter’s day. He heard the children singing the old chorus, “and the rain came down and the floods came up, the rain came down and the floods came up.” He could smell his Sunday school teacher’s cologne. The smell of Old Spice was forever entwined with Alan’s early spiritual memories. And he could see Mr. Wilson pointing his bony finger at him and five other gangly youth, peering over his pince-nez, saying, and “God helps those who help themselves.” It proved to be some of the best advice he ever received from religion.
The memory and the hysteria passed. But his nerves were almost shot. He was cold, hungry, and afraid. By force of will he pulled his emotions under control. At times the rain fell in torrents and then would abate, only to surge again. He checked the pebbles by the stream. He felt relief. The first pebble was half an inch above the water, and then he realized that actually the first stone was underwater and the river was steadily rising toward the second.
“Damn it! I will not die here!” he declared aloud. He turned and looked at the gorge wall. He visually tried to follow the route the squirrel had scrambled and his will almost failed him. Water was descending the rock in solid rivulets. He followed its flow looking for crevices he could follow. It seemed impossible however, after studying it he decided that perhaps, the rock was not as un-climbable as he assumed. But questions remained. How far could he ascend? If he got above the river, without refuge, how long could he survive soaked in the cold? How long would it rai
n? How long would the river run high?
He forced these questions from his mind and dealt and focused on the present. He hurried to the dead tree, where by putting his body weight into it, he broke off a smaller branch. Laying the stick across a rock he broke the dry wood into one-foot pieces by stomping on it. He pushed the sticks into the pocket of his jacket and then put on his rucksack. At the base of the rock he picked up a fist size bolder and then turned to the exfoliation crack in the rock. The granite felt cold as he ran his fingers into a crevice it was narrow and deep but didn’t permit a toehold of any kind. Alan took one stick from his pocket and put the end into the narrow crack. Using the rock as a hammer he pounded it into place. Soon it was firmly wedged. He put his foot on it and hopped up. By jamming his fingers in the crack he caught his balance. The stick held! He dropped lightly back to the ground and quickly began placing another stick and then another into the crack. Soon his sticks formed a rudimentary ladder as high as he could reach.
The rain continued to fall. Alan balanced on the first stick and began to climb. At the topmost stick he hooked his leg over it while standing on the one below with his other foot. Precariously balanced he was able to wedge another and then another stick in the wall. However, soon the crack opened up wide enough that his sticks were too small in diameter to lodge in place. Looking down he was surprised that he had already ascended fifteen feet. Carefully, he climbed down. Choosing another limb off the tree he kicked it violently. When it snapped off he almost went sprawling into the water. He broke the branch into more crude climbing pitons and returned to the wall.
By the time he was twenty feet above the river the crack was wide enough to jam the toe of his shoes into the gap. The edge of the exfoliated rock began to round over so the climb was not quite so vertical. This had the advantage of making it easier for him to grasp the rock with his fingers and not slip. This advantage was offset by the fact that the fault line led around toward the exposed face of the gorge wall above the falls. Soon there would be nothing below him if he slipped.
He looked around hoping to find another, less threatening route. But the crystalline granite offered only a smooth, un-climbable face. The dusky light was growing noticeably darker. He wedged his toes in as deep as possible, reached up with one hand, and pulled himself up. Slowly he continued his ascent. Rainwater trickled down his face. Even with the hood of his jacket pulled tight around his face the chill water found its way down his neck and his arms.
The next time he looked down a wave of vertigo passed over him. He was well out on the face above the falls. If he slipped now it was a one hundred-fifty foot drop into what appeared to be a steaming cauldron of fury. A phrase from Macbeth ran through his mind, “boil and bubble, toil and trouble.”
His legs began to shake. They were like taught rubber bands that vibrated against the rock; his leg muscles were in tetany. Swept by another wave of vertigo he clung to the rock face. He forced himself to breath deep; he willed his legs to relax.
“I will not die here!” he asserted in the teeth of the storm. “I may die, I may die soon, but I will not die here!”
Alan forced himself to move. At this point, he knew he would be unable to climb down. During his ascent he had made a couple lunging moves that would leave him helpless to find the same toe hold on a descent, especially in the dark.
Chaffing against the granite his fingers were rubbed raw. Water streamed down his face as the rain increased its strength. It was increasingly difficult to see. He would try to wipe his face on the sleeve of his jacket but it did little to dry his eyes.
Twice he slipped. His body convulsed as though an electric shock had hit him as the muscles tensed. The second time he was certain it was over. Blindly seeking a toehold he kicked with his foot. It slipped again and again. His fingers were losing their hold on the crystalline lump they grasped. He thought, “This piece of rock is the last thing I will ever see.”
Then his boot found the ledge and his grasp strengthened. “I will not die here,” he gasped to himself. “Not here!”
The crack he was following petered out. Above him the slab ended in a point where it turned back down. Pressed against the wall he searched for a place to continue. He had hoped for a ledge large enough to huddle on but he was disappointed. Above he could only see dark shadows. The faint afternoon light was fading fast. Soon it would be impossible to see, but it would also be impossible to stand where he was all night. He scanned the rocks for a course forward but the rain and light made it impossible to see more than a few feet. He thought of trying to back down, when he had an idea. It was desperate but he thought it might work.
Alan slipped the rucksack free from one arm and then wedged his forearm in the crack. He fumbled through the pack with his free hand, emptying what would fit into his pockets, including his gloves. Then he tucked the bottom edge of his jacket into the waist of his jeans. The rest of the items he packed into the marsupial pouch his jacket formed. The thermos was cold against his chest, but he knew he would need the water it contained later. He held the empty pack with the arm he had wedged in the rock. The arm ached, and he tried to take some more weight off with his toes. Using his free arm he worked his belt loose, pulled it from his pants, and looped it through the rucksack straps. His numb fingers fumbled at working the buckle closed.
Alan pulled his forearm free. It was numb and clumsy to move. With tingling fingers he put the loop formed by the belt over the point of the rock, the rucksack dangled like a makeshift boson’s chair. Grasping the point of the rock with both hands he pulled himself up, lifted his legs into a curl and worked them over the rucksack. Soon he was sitting on the sodden pack. He eased his grip on the rock to see if the pack would hold his weight. Relief flooded him as the pack held. He worked at the drawstring on his hood. He was like a child trying to tie a shoelace; the strings would slip from his fingers. After some struggle he coaxed his raw stiff flesh into knotting the pull strings around the belt loop. It was a crude but effective safety strap in case he dozed off. With his face firmly held against the rock one last effort was required. Awkwardly, he managed to work his hands into his gloves then he shoved his arms in behind the belt strap and curled against the rock. After the climb, it was almost comfortable. Exhaustion sent him drifting off into a fitful and jerky sleep.
He awoke to hear the thunder. But it was a continuous roaring thunder that never abated but increased. In the dimmest of light he could see the white of the falls. Then it exploded. A wall of floodwater careened out the mouth of the gorge. The roar was deafening. It seemed a hundred times louder than the falls had been before. A mass of violent white-flecked water shot out from the rock face three times further than before. It’s mass filled the gorge below him. He could see the water flow went from canyon wall to canyon wall. Sounding like the spillway of Hoover dam, it thundered far below his feet.
CHAPTER SIX
The night passed in inches. Time was confused and he drifted in and out of coherent thought. It was much like being feverish with the flu. Ralphie and a parade of people littered his thoughts. Someone was shaking him. He trembled violently as the dream faded and the cold roused him from sleep. His legs were numb from where the pack dug into his thighs. He shifted his body weight to put the pressure elsewhere and hoped the leather straps would not stretch and give way. Pain rippled through his fingers as he worked them, slowly bringing back the circulation that had been cut off. The rain stopped. Dawn came slowly. Yellows and pinks edged the large gray clouds that filled the sky. He drifted back to sleep.
The storm passed. When Alan awoke, sunlight lay against his face. He reveled in its warmth and in the fact he was still alive. Opening the top of his jacket he worked the thermos out. Though the water was only tepid it felt steaming hot to his numbed lips and gave some warmth to his belly, which ached from lack of food. Sucking on his fingers he thought of his home, of Lilly, of hot running water, of refrigerators full of food, and steaming cups of coffee.
And then he
laughed. Cold and wet, dangling above a torrent, which could mean certain death, he laughed. It wasn’t hysteria but a real, gut-busting laugh, as he thought about people claiming to “find peace in nature.” Anyone who said they loved nature must not have ever seen it. It was easy to love a natural world framed by thermo-pane glass, or one flooded in sunlight on a summer’s day. But this nature, the real nature, nature that was in your face and attacked your body, no one could love. Respect it or defy it maybe, but love it never! Like a hero in a Greek tragedy, facing certain defeat Alan found the strength to laugh at the fates.
He could see patches of blue. The front was finished passing through. The clouds became large white balls of cotton surrounded by blue. He tried to put his gloves back on. One glove almost escaped him but he saved it with a grab that sent him rocking on the stone face. In morning light his position was more terrifying than before. A brown mass of water tumbled out the canyon mouth and shot over the edge. The old tree trunk had been swept away. Below his feet, the bottom of the falls was in tumult, a fine spray rising above it. The granite was wet and water still streamed down its face. He saw a log shoot out over the falls and cartwheel slowly to the river below. It disappeared in the maw of the whitewater below and then shot up shattered into two pieces.
Above him the cliff looked un-climbable, unless you were desperate. But, about eight feet above the end of the crack he had been climbing a small stout pine clung to the rock face. In the dark he had not been able to see it. The pine was three to four inches in diameter. The roots were exposed. They curled out from the rock and turned back in, seeking cracks to hold on to. To the right he saw water spilling out from a dark v-shaped shadow in the rock. From his vantage point he couldn’t see into the gap, but he hoped there was a fissure or climbable route above.