Robert Masello - Blood and Ice

But it wasn't easy. As he lay there in the dark, the bed curtains enclosing him like a coffin, he could only think of the dive… and the girl in the ice. Her face haunted him. He rolled over and punched the foam pillows a couple of times, hoping to get more comfortable. He could hear Darryl gently snoring down below. He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate on his own breath, on letting the tension flow out of his muscles. He tried to think of something else, something happier, and his thoughts of course turned to Kristin… to Kristin before the accident. He remembered the time they'd entered a couples-only chili-eating contest, and won first prize… and the time a cop had caught them going at it in a parked car and threatened to give them a ticket… or the time they'd flipped their kayak three times in as many minutes in the Willamette River. Sometimes it seemed like they'd always been taking on challenges, or getting into scrapes, together. They'd been friends as well as lovers, and that was why losing her had opened such an achingly huge hole in his heart.

The events that led to the catastrophe, in retrospect, were so small, so incremental. He kept thinking that if only one little thing had changed, one little thing had been done differently, the outcome would have been completely altered. If they hadn't assumed that the climb on Mount Washington would be such a cakewalk, they would have planned their expedition better. If they'd set out on schedule instead of arriving at the trailhead later than expected, they wouldn't have been in such a hurry to get cracking. If they'd taken the time to study the route diagrams, they wouldn't have wound up on such a treacherous part of the cliff face just as dusk was beginning to fall. And if he had only held her back, just a little, none of it would have happened.

But reining her in was something he hated to do… and something that Kristin would never tolerate even when he tried.

They were dressed for Alpine climbing, in light clothes, and carrying a minimal amount of gear-enough for one overnight on the mountain. And Kristin thought she'd spotted the perfect perch on which they could spend the night-a flat ledge that jutted out like a card table another fifty yards or so above their heads. Michael volunteered to go first, with Kristin belaying him from below, but she said it would be safer to have him do the belaying. “I'm not sure I'm up to stopping you in the middle of a free fall,” she'd said.

But Michael had known that wasn't really it. Kristin always wanted to be the one who forged ahead first, who planted the flag that others would then aspire to reach.

They'd roped up, and Michael had driven a couple of nuts and cams into a jagged seam in the rock that zigzagged its way all the way up to the ledge. The climbing guidebook showed this very seam, though to Michael's eye the real thing looked a lot less direct than it did in the diagram. And the rock, to his consternation, seemed more friable. As he'd hammered in the hardware, flakes and grain of the stone had come away too quickly and easily. He'd mentioned it to Kristin, who was already moving, like a spider, up the cliff, but she'd sort of brushed it off, and he hadn't made a federal case of it. One more thing that he wished he could do over.

It was getting late in the day, but the view was perhaps more extraordinary than ever. For much of the early climb, they'd just been hiking through a pine forest, then scrambling over mild slopes of consolidated pumice. But the climber's trail had disappeared under the snowpack, and for the past couple of hours they'd been working the rock itself, searching for toeholds, finger grips, fissures sufficient to hang on to for a few seconds and catch a needed breath. Even though the temperature was still mild, the air was thinner, and the afternoon sun was sending its long beams over the crests of neighboring Mount Jefferson and Three-Fingered Jack. Far, far below lay Big Lake, and the parking lot where they'd left his Jeep.

A spray of loose stone rattled down the cliffside and Michael looked up, shading his eyes with one hand. He could see Kristin's legs, in stretch fleece shorts, scraping at the wall, then one of her feet catching hold on a tiny protuberance. Of just such little bits of luck were successful ascents made.

“You okay?” he shouted.

“Yep.” Then he heard her hammer driving home a nut.

He adjusted the 10.5 mm rope around his shoulder, and bit into a high-protein bar. He could hear his mother's voice telling him he'd spoil his appetite for dinner.

“There's a seam here, and somebody's already left a hex in it!” she called down. There was nothing like coming upon free hardware.

“You think it's secure?”

He could see her tug at it. “Yeah, it is-must be why they left it.”

And again, a distant alarm bell had gone off in his head; he made it a point never to trust anyone else's work-especially when it was someone he'd never even met. But he did not insist that Kristin replace it. He was anxious, too, to reach that ledge and start setting up for the night; it promised to be a very romantic sunset.

She'd placed another of her own nuts into the crooked seam, and started inching up again. He made sure she had just enough slack, and he could see her groping for a handhold, when suddenly something went awry.

“Damn!” he heard her mutter, and a second later even more of the rock came scuttling down the cliff and pattered on the top of his helmet. Dust blew into his eyes, and before he could do anything to clear his vision, the rope went loose-terribly loose-and he heard a pinging sound-nuts and pitons and hexes popping out of the rock-and Kristin screaming as she hurtled past. Instinctively, he had braced himself, clutching the rope, but the rapidity of her fall was too much-the anchor-pieces he'd hammered in held for no more than an instant before jerking free, the rope around his shoulder had fastened like a tourniquet, and he'd been whipped around, half-blind, just in time to see Kristin swinging headfirst, like a wrecking ball, into the cliff below. Her scream had stopped dead, and even as he felt his shoulder pop out of the socket in a blazing shot of pain, he'd managed, though he still could not imagine how, to arrest his own fall. He'd been dragged to the very edge of the narrow strip he'd been standing on, and lying flat, hanging on to the lifeline, all he could hear was the creaking of the rope and the grinding of the rock that was fraying it.

How long he stayed that way, he could never tell. And he had only the vaguest recollection of looping the rope around a block of stone, then running it through a fresh piton, hammered home with his one good hand. He called down to her, but there was no reply. He dug into his gear, found the emergency whistle, and blew on it as loudly as he could, but the sound simply echoed off the surrounding cliffs.

Before he could even think about hauling her up, he had to attend to his left shoulder, and with no one there to help, he would have to try to knock it back into place on his own. With the rope secured, he considered his options, and the only one looked like a flat wall of stone behind him. He lined himself up parallel to it, then- after taking a deep breath-bashed himself up against it. The arm exploded in pain, but it did not fall back into the socket. He dropped to his knees and vomited the remains of the high-protein bar he'd eaten. When he could stand up again, he wiped his mouth with the back of his right hand, then took another look at the side of the cliff. There was a section where the wall swelled, like a pregnant belly, and he thought that it might be possible, if he could stand the pain, to use that swell to massage the shoulder back. He approached it gingerly, trying to gauge the best way to use it, but he also knew that he had to move fast. Kristin was still swinging at the end of a rope, above a thousand-foot fall to the pine trees below.