“No, man.” He shakes his head.
“You’re leading,” I explain my rationale. “If a rock fucking falls, it’s hitting you first.” He’ll climb ahead of me, the more dangerous position between the two of us.
“What if I accidentally kick a rock out?” he counters. “Then it’s hitting you first.”
“Don’t kick a fucking rock on me,” I rebut, detaching my black helmet and shoving it in his chest. My mind is made.
Regardless of how long I’ve known Adam Sully, he’s without a doubt one of the best traditional climbers. Never makes critical mistakes during an ascent. Always shows up an hour early to prep. Brings extra gear, in case his one ratchet piece doesn’t hold up. He’s attentive to his partner and overcomes difficult odds with nothing but a positive fucking attitude.
He’s someone you want on the other end of your rope. And if anyone asked me to fault him, I wouldn’t. I fucking couldn’t. The guy is as good as they come.
Sully reluctantly grips the helmet and trades his bandana for the protective gear. I tie the bandana around my forehead, pieces of my hair falling over the green fabric. Then I finally check my texts.
You on the rock yet? – Daisy
I reply quickly. No, what’s up?
My phone vibrates just as fast.
Do you think it’s too early to buy baby things? – Daisy
Another text comes through before I can respond.
I know it’s definitely too early. But it’d be from Peru… – Daisy
I text back, Get it. I don’t want her to freak out about this. It’ll hurt if we lose the baby, regardless.
Thanks :) Have fun busting your ass on real rock! – Daisy
My lips rise. Have fun in the city, Daisy Meadows. I slip my phone back into my pocket, imagining her grin stretching across her face. She’s in my head for the entirety of the walk, until we reach the base of our route.
We spend about fifteen to twenty minutes fixing our gear and pre-rigging rappels. The steep and sturdy tan slab is full of divots and inconsistent crevices. One of the more challenging multi-pitch trad climbs we’ve ever fucking taken together.
Right before we begin the climb, Sully says, “Your first ascent being a married man. How does it feel?”
I digest my surroundings, no cloud in the bright blue sky, the vastness of our landscape soon to be fucking recognized as we ascend thousands of feet together. I’m in Peru.
I married the love of my life.
I’m about to climb towards paradise.
My gaze drifts towards the sun. I’m alive.
* * *
Ten pitches out of fifteen, everything has gone smooth so far. Sully places pieces into the rock, connected to a quickdraw. I grip an inch hold with two fingers, my toes supporting the majority of my weight.
My green bandana collects most of my sweat, but while I wait for Sully to set a new anchor, I still rub my face with my shoulder. At over a thousand feet ascension, the scenery tries to steal my fucking breath: the Peruvian terrain riddled with peaks and valleys. Colors like melted crayons of red, orange, and green.
Remote views like this are hard to come by, so I make sure to remember as much as I fucking can. After a minute, I peel my gaze off the horizon to check on Sully. He’s careful about his anchors, but as he spends time setting one, his left leg shifts unconsciously between the rock and the rope.
“Watch your fucking leg, Sul!” I shout.
He mumbles a curse, fixing his stance. “Thanks!” Falling in that position would flip him upside-down and smack him into the wall. Headfirst.
My blood pumps harder, my brows pinched, and with my free hand, one focused on the belay, I lift my sunglasses to the top of my head. I inspect Sul again and then me. We’re okay.
The sun has already reddened his nose and cheeks. “It’s a little wet in the shade!” he calls. “It’s going to take me another minute to set this one.”
“What about higher?!” I notice a gap further above his current placement.
He stretches to reach it and winces, his arm-span shorter than mine. He struggles fitting the piece in on the first trial. I wait while he inspects the system we already built between each other.
“I’m going to use a cord to equalize the weight,” he tells me.
We place redundant anchors in case one fucking fails, and building a third one is always a good idea, if he can manage to place the piece.
“Take your fucking time,” I tell him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
While Sully works, his grin stretches above me, and he calls out, “Did Ryke Meadows just make a joke?!”
I have no time to counter. I detect loose rock—tumbling along the wall—headed straight for us. “ROCK!” I scream at Sully, a hundredth-of-a-second too late. These situations that can claim your life—they happen with persistent thrust, unable to brake. To stop.
I’m at the mercy of forces beyond me.
The boulder, the size of a watermelon, slams on his head. The crack of his helmet nearly vibrates the rope, and his muffled grunt echoes against the wall. The momentum instantly jerks him from his footholds. He falls quickly with the boulder.
Two more massive chunks of loose rock follow the first.
I react instantly, my reflexes working in fucking overtime. Light on my feet, I jump backwards, off the wall, timed with his descent. His weight is being added rapidly to the rope.
The first boulder grazes my arm like being dragged across asphalt. Burning.
Sully raggedly cuts through ten feet of air above me. My jump softly catches Sully’s fall but in doing so, it rapidly—so fucking rapidly—yanks me back into the uneven rock face. I can’t stop.
My right leg smashes into a curved, jutted rock, bearing the fucking brunt force. I scream through my teeth, my throat scorching. The impact like a steel gavel tenderizing meat and bone.
Water squeezes out of my eyes.
I shift all of my weight to my left foot.
Fucking. Fuck.
Fuck.
My drenched bandana no longer keeps sweat from my face, beads dripping down my fucking temples. The second boulder crashes against the rock wall, higher than us, and skids off, launching over my body and Sully’s.
Sul is pulled to a stop five feet above me, his last piece he placed catches him along with my belay.
“Sully!” I call. “Fuck. Sully!”
He torpidly shakes his head, leaning back in his harness, fucking disoriented. When he turns his sun-beaten face towards me, a stream of blood oozes beneath his helmet and down his forehead. With a quaking hand, he gives me a half-hearted thumbs-up.
&nb
sp; And then the third boulder barrels downwards, faster than anything else, and bowls straight into his gut. Fu—the force and added weight instantly wrenches me against the wall again, my right leg and shoulder slamming back.
I clench my teeth, a wince cutting through me, and I breathe heavily through my nose. “Sully!” I shout with half a breath. I listen to his noises—the worst sound I’ve ever heard in my fucking life. Strangled, gurgled. Like being submerged and drowned.
“SULLY!” I scream, needing to reach him. Escape the fucking belay. The minute I think it, the boulder slips off his chest and aims right for me. I attempt to slide out of the way, but my right fucking leg lingers behind.
The loose rock sideswipes my battered limb. I’m almost torn off the wall, but I hang on with pinched fingers. Motherfucking—I scream through gritted teeth again. I scream aloud, rage and frustration fucking dousing fear, my pulse pounding in my neck. I shut my eyes tight, pain flaring from my calf to my knee to my fucking thigh.
I blink my eyes open and see straight down. Over a thousand feet. From the bottom.
Then I look up and nausea assaults me. Sully’s limbs hang lifelessly by his side, barely able to support his neck. He’s choking.
“SULLY!” I scream. Hold on. I have to find a fucking way up to him that doesn’t kill us both. Lowering him to me—not an option. He would bounce along the rough angles of this rock face, injuring him more.
I can’t see the topmost piece of protection. I can’t ask Sully how it looks. He can’t respond. That anchor sustained Sully’s fall and the weight of loose rock.
If our last piece fails us, we’re both dead. Slicing through air.
“SULLY!” I shout again, my throat dry and raw. Fucking say something.
I just listen to him, choking.
I work fast, as fast as I fucking can, my fingers moving at rapid pace. “Hold the fuck on!” I call. I escape the belay (not the harness) while fixing the rope to a new anchor that I build. After securing another fucking back-up anchor in case that one fails, I ascend the somewhat vertical rope using a prusik, my muscles on fire, my head hammering.
I’m drenched in sweat, my hair, my face, my fucking shirt. I scream each fucking inch I pull myself up this fucking rope. My right leg shrieks in livid agony, and I breathe heavier. I breathe harder. Than I ever have before.