Clear to Lift (12 page)

“You're welcome.” I decide he doesn't need to know how much I'm still struggling with that decision. “How is he?”

“They've sedated him, and they're taking him for a head scan. So we'll just have to wait,” he says, hanging his head.

“Will, I'm so sorry. You and Jack seem very close.”

Will draws in a deep breath, holding it for several seconds, before releasing it in a long, slow exhale.

“He's my best friend.… Actually, more than that. Like a father.”

Exactly what I sensed during the rescue.

“Did you find out what happened?”

“Based on what Thomas and Kevin saw, he was climbing V-Notch, just like he does every year. He's more than capable. They think it might have been rockfall that caused him to slip.”

“Should he have been climbing alone like that?”

“Depends on the route and the conditions, I suppose. But there's a risk no matter what you do.” Will pulls a metal carabiner from the handle of an equipment bag, and mindlessly begins opening and closing the gate.

“But he's so accomplished.”

“Yeah. That's one thing you learn early in this business. No guarantees, not even for the best.”

I pull my water bottle from my helmet bag and offer it to him. “Water?”

He hooks the carabiner back on the equipment bag, then takes the bottle and, several long gulps later, hands it back. “Thanks. Thirstier than I thought.”

“I should think so, with what you had to do today.” I take a quick drink, then hand the bottle back to him.

Rather than drink this time, he spins the bottle in his hands, while looking out the cabin and into the forest—an absent stare, his expression wrapped in a patchwork quilt of worry. I'm sure that as he turns over the events of the day in his mind, it will only get worse. Maybe talking would help. I know it helps for me.

I take a chance, trying to sound upbeat. “Have you known Jack long?”

“Sixteen years.”

“How did you meet?”

He takes another drink before answering. “Are you sure you want to hear this?” he says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. A glimmer of a smile actually escapes from him, which piques my interest even more.

“Yeah, I wanna hear.”

“Okay, you asked for it.” He shifts to face me more directly. “When I was fifteen, I was with my family on vacation in Yosemite. I had read about rock climbers and mountaineers, studied everything there was to study, watched videos, you name it. I knew this was what I wanted to do. But uh, my father had different ideas.

“He was Special Forces, Army, and after he got out, he built his fortune as an arms dealer. His whole life was guns—
is
guns—buying, selling, collecting, shooting, hunting. So it became my life, too. Gun shows, shooting ranges, competitions, hunting trips. He traveled around the world, and often I went with him. Hell, you show me any weapon—rifle, pistol, shotgun, no matter the manufacturer or the country—and I'll tell you anything you want to know about it.
Anything.
I'll take it apart, put it together, clean it, fire it. I was forced to learn it all. To learn the trade, so to speak.”

He pauses. “Have I bored you yet?”

I sit, rapt. “Absolutely not.” I shove the coiled climbing rope that lies in front of me into the far corner, and stretch my legs straight, my toes touching the base of the hoisting mechanism.

“We even have a guesthouse in the backyard that he converted into a gun vault. It houses an arsenal.” He shakes his head, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Anyway, it was a
given
I would cut my teeth in the military, follow in his footsteps. But it was never what I wanted. And he never heard me.…” Will pauses again, dropping his eyes. He focuses on the carabiner that he's just plucked off the equipment bag a second time, opening the gate, closing it, opening, closing. Click. Click. Click. Click.

“When I finally got up the nerve to tell him I wanted nothing to do with the military or his guns or any of it, that it was the outdoors I loved, the climbing, the mountains, he erupted, which is putting it mildly.”

I pull my feet in toward me again, crossing my legs, completely absorbed.

“I almost fell over when he announced we were going to Yosemite for vacation that summer,” he says, looking up. “I thought, finally, he's acknowledging what I'd like to do. Maybe offering an olive branch. But when we got there, I realized he had no idea this was rock-climbing Mecca. In his eyes, it was just a camping trip. So I took matters into my own hands, snuck off, and hiked my way to Lembert Dome. I didn't even know the name of it at the time. I just knew I wanted to climb it. So up I went.

“It seemed innocuous enough, big and rounded, but as I climbed, I slowly drifted left, the rock getting steeper and steeper. My foot slipped, and on this slab, there's just nothing to grab on to. I was able to get pressure back on my foot, press into the rock, but then I froze. I was over two hundred feet above the ground, not able to move up or down. I clung there for hours, watching the sun drop. My muscles ached, my calves cramped. I thought, what an idiot. The shortest climbing career ever recorded.”

The wind swirls, sending golden aspen leaves spinning into the cabin. I grab one by the stem and begin twirling it between my fingers.

“Normally, this dome is crawling with climbers, but on that day, it was blistering hot, and I had no one to yell to. Then I heard a voice above me telling me not to move, which, of course, wasn't a problem,” he says, chuckling. “A man rappelled down, so smooth, so confident. ‘Need some help?' he asked. I'll never forget the smile on his face. ‘My name's Jack,' he said. ‘Hang on just a second. I'll get you hooked up and we can get you down from here. Sound good?'

“He was never judgmental, never spoke down to me. He offered me a ride back to the campground and delivered me to my parents, who had just called the rangers to report I was missing. So there I was, having just experienced the scariest moment of my life, happier than I'd ever been to be in the company of my father, and you know what he did? He lit into me like I'd stolen something. All in front of Jack, too.”

He stops, pressing his lips, also taking the opportunity to stretch his legs straight. He crosses his feet where mine used to be, near the hoist. “I'll never forget what Jack said to me after my father stormed off. He said, ‘Will, I just want you to know that the route you tried is normally a three-pitch climb, done with ropes, gear, and rock-climbing shoes. But you … you did it with nothing more than sneakers and guts. And, just so you know, you were at the crux of that climb. One more move, and it would have been free sailing to the top. The fact that you even attempted it shows the spirit of a great climber. If you ever want to learn how, give me a call,' he said, and he handed me his business card before leaving.

“I was banished to my tent for the rest of the trip, but once inside, I pulled out his card. It said he was a guide at the Yosemite Mountaineering School.”

Will suddenly blinks out of his memories, focusing on me. “And yeah, that's about it.”

“What happened next?”

“The short story is that I graduated high school early, left home, and traveled back to Yosemite. I called Jack, he took me under his wing, and the rest is history.”

“Sixteen years, huh?”

“Yeah. He taught me everything, got me a job at the mountaineering school, and we became climbing partners. I've been around the world and back again with him, and he's always been there for me. When I broke my leg in a freak fall, he stayed in my hospital room. He's rescued me on more than one occasion, I'm embarrassed to admit. But that's the thing with him. He's just always been there.”

“That's an incredible story,” I say, with a deep pang of remorse.

My father was never there. And it's not just that he missed my birthdays or gymnastics meets or school plays. There wasn't any support at all. Nothing monetary. No child support. No gifts. Nothing.

Add to this, no photos, no images, no memories. I can't remember what my father looked like. And this lack of imagery, this … just lack … has only grown more profound as I've gotten older. I remember feeling this so acutely as I stumbled into my teenage years, that age when we search for our identities, separate and independent from our parents. Except, I never had that starting point with my father. That baseline.

Sure, I asked for pictures. Sure, I thought about searching for him, but those quests always started and stopped with my mother, whose pain of recollection always stopped me in my tracks. I couldn't hurt her more than she'd already been hurt.

I swallow. “Jack sounds like an incredible guy.”

“He is. He really is. I know if he wakes up—
when
he wakes up—he'll want to thank the pilot personally, who was gutsy enough to fly up to get him.”

I look down to my lap. Gutsy? No.

“Can I tell you a secret?” I say.

“Of course.”

The cell phone at his waist vibrates. He glances at the screen, then shuts it off, returning his attention to me. “Sorry. Go ahead.”

“I uh, I wasn't gutsy. I was nervous as hell. Even scared.”

“You'd never know it.”

“Ha. At least I fooled one person. But I have to say, after today, I imagine that doughnut would taste pretty good right now.”

He surprises me—and himself, I think—when he breaks into laughter, and I can't help but join him.

“You could eat anything in this hospital café right now and it would be gourmet fare, trust me!” he says.

Oh, that feels good! Letting the pressure out, the tension, all of it. Sharing it with someone who understands. Who was right there with me, doing something equally scary, equally gutsy.

His eyes return to mine, holding there, and our laughter slips into silence.

“You are … amazing,” he says, his voice low.

Maybe it's that I'm tired or that he's tired, I don't know, but neither of us seems to have the energy to look away.

“You're amazing, too,” I say, and all the while, strange curly-Q things wind around my insides. Something new. Something foreign. Something I've never felt before.

The door to the helipad slams open. “Hello, children!” Boomer trumpets. “Trading stories of your heroics?”

The spell broken, Will and I look away.

“God damn, Vanilla! I'm gonna have to find another name for you. Beanie gave me the skinny. Told me everything.”

“Sir, it wasn't—”

“The hell it wasn't!”

“See?” Will says, smiling at me.

“And good news for
you,
sir,” Boomer says to Will. “Jack, that son of a gun, is awake.”

“What?”

“Passed the docs on the way up here,” Boomer says.

Anxious, thrilled, Will looks set to spring. He starts to move past me, but stops. “Thank you,” he says. His eyes hold mine for several long seconds, before he jumps out of the cabin and bolts to the rooftop door.

 

14

Boomer accelerates on the snow-covered, four-wheel-drive-only road, winding deeper into the Owens River Valley. It's been a week since Jack's rescue on North Palisade Peak, and the weather has undergone yet another radical change. The outside air temperature is back to single digits, and heavy snow has fallen for the last several days, finally tapering to a stop early this morning.

We've just finished a full day of training at the Mammoth Lakes airport with the Mono County SAR Team. And now? I'm crammed into a vehicle, driving to I-still-have-no-idea-where.
Another
bumpy truck ride with Boomer. But at least I'm
inside
the cab this time. I sit next to Tito Vasquez—one of two new pilots who checked into the squadron last week. He's given me several quizzical looks during this drive, none too sure about this next bit of “training” Boomer has planned for us.

And because Boomer borrowed a truck with an extended cab, in the seat right behind us we're joined by Danny Davis, new pilot number two. Both Danny and Tito have come from East Coast H-60 squadrons, and believe it or not, look even more out of place than I did when I arrived.

Just stand by, guys. Stand by.…

Next to Danny in the backseat, Hap and Beanie. And squished at the end, Petty Officer Mike “Sky” Simmons, another of our rock-solid crew chiefs. At five feet, five inches tall, Sky is our basketball team's phenom point guard, quick as a whip, and with a forty-inch vertical to boot.

Sky, Hap, and Beanie have been regaling Tito and Danny with the highlights from the Mount Morrison rescue. I've been watching our new pilots, and their mouths have remained open for most of the recounting.

“Damn, I just wish I was there!” Sky says.

“I don't know, Sky,” I say. “It was pretty risky.”

“Risky?” Sky says. “Nah, ma'am, no way. That was one
sexy
rescue scenario. I'm jealous as hell I wasn't there!”

Sexy? That description positively never entered my mind.

Rounding another set of hills—we moved out of view of the highway miles ago—Boomer slows, and I see the steam. It rises in plumes from various spots on the ground that remain conspicuously absent of snow.

A few cars are already here—Will's blue truck is one—and Boomer pulls over, just as the other vehicles in our caravan do.

“We're here!” Boomer announces.

“Where?” I ask.

“The hot springs!”

“Hot springs?”

Prior to briefing, Boomer told us to wear our swimsuits under our flight gear, but without telling us why. I've dreaded this moment all day, thinking surely he's cooked up some crazy polar-bearing, let's-jump-in-a-frozen-lake kind of deal. So I'm beyond happy as I look through the rising steam to … Will?

And not just Will. Will in swim trunks. A man sculpted like an honest-to-goodness, no-I'm-not-exaggerating Renaissance statue.