Jill Sorenson - Freefall

The last two miles of the path were the most challenging. He didn’t want to exhaust her before the climb, so he let her walk in front of him. This way she could set her own pace, rather than struggle to keep up.

Her other physical attributes were just as fine as her face. She had an athletic build, taut and toned, but not skinny. She was curvy in all the right places. Her cropped jogging pants clung to her slender thighs and cute ass. She had long, graceful arms. If she climbed with as much gusto as she did everything else, they’d have no problems reaching the summit.

Sam wasn’t looking forward to the ascent. He didn’t partner anymore. Not with men at his skill level, not with women at any level. The idea gave him hives. He didn’t want to hold Hope’s life in his hands.

Angel Wings rose in the distance, a massive wall of pale gray granite. This angel had dirty wings, feathering high into the sky. Mighty Valhalla stood directly across from her. Both monoliths had smooth faces, ribbed with cracks and handholds, etched by ancient glaciers. It was the stuff of climbers’ dreams.

Hope stopped and flashed a smile, more genuine than the one she’d offered earlier. “Which route did you take up Valhalla?”

He fell into step beside her, following her gaze to the wall. There were five or six charted routes with fixed pitons. Climbers could follow a trail that had already been blazed, or strike out on their own. “North Arete.”

The smile fell off her face. “You free-soloed North Arete?”

“Yes.”

“That’s impossible.”

He didn’t argue. It was the most difficult route on Valhalla, and a challenging free solo, but hardly impossible.

“It hasn’t been done. Not even in the daytime.”

“I did it.”

She squinted into the distance. “How?”

He rotated the elastic band on his wrist, uncomfortable. A climbing feat didn’t exist without a witness, so there was nothing to brag about. Glory and record-breaking no longer appealed to him. “Never mind.”

But clearly, she did mind. “You free-soloed a 5.12 route in the middle of the night? Are you crazy?”

“Maybe.” Probably. Yes.

“Next you’ll tell me you BASE-jumped off the top.”

He smiled at her horrified expression. “That’s illegal.”

“So is backcountry hiking without a permit,” she said, her dark eyes flashing.

“I don’t free-BASE,” he said. Some young daredevils were combining free-solo climbing with BASE jumping. Sam wasn’t tempted. He liked the freedom of climbing without gear; the sensation of falling just made him nauseated.

“I’d arrest you in a heartbeat if you did.”

Oddly, this conversation thrilled him more than the risky climb. He pushed the limits because he felt dead inside. Although he still had some capacity for fear, he’d lost his sense of self-preservation.

What he’d retained, in overabundant amounts, was concern for others. He couldn’t belay a partner without anticipating a fall. His intense anxiety interfered with his love for the sport. He didn’t want to be responsible for another climber. Often, he didn’t trust the gear. Solo-climbing had become his only solace.

Partnering with Hope would be excruciating.

“Why did you report the accident, instead of checking it out?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You could have climbed up to investigate the crash.”

“Before contacting park authorities? That’s against rescue protocol.”

“You’re a rule-breaker. We’ve already established that.”

He scowled, guilty as charged. “I was afraid of what I’d find.”

“Survivors?”

“Corpses.”

She tilted her head to one side, deliberating. “I suppose you saw a lot of those in San Diego.”

He didn’t want to talk about it. “Have you ever done a 5.11?”

“Yes,” she said, moving her attention from him to the wall. “I’ve climbed this one.”

“Which section?”

“South Ridge.”

“With a partner?”

She nodded.

“Okay. I know that route, too.”

They checked and rechecked the gear. He gave her a pop quiz on ropes and knots, pleased to find her proficient. Most of the prep was second nature to him. He could tie an eight in his sleep.

At noon, they were ready. It was the hottest part of the day, near ninety degrees on the rock face, but a pleasant breeze drifted through the canyon. Sam did the lead climbing and Hope followed, steady as it goes. Although she was a natural athlete and a fair climber, he couldn’t relax while she was in motion. Every time she reached for a new handhold, he held his breath. Disaster seemed imminent. Images of her plummeting to her death swarmed his vision. He saw frayed ropes, broken harnesses...cracked skulls.

Melissa’s ashes.

Sam knew better than anyone else that climbing was mental. The sport required intense concentration, a quiet mind and a positive outlook. Fear would literally kill you on the rock face. If he didn’t rein it in, he might endanger Hope.

Luckily, he was experienced enough to know the difference between foreboding and phobia. Climbers were a superstitious lot. They followed their instincts, weighing risks in a fraction of a second. Only a fool ignored his internal warning system. But Sam’s reaction was based on psychological trauma, not the situation at hand.

Hope could do this.

Besides, abandoning the effort would have grave consequences. She’d have to find another partner, maybe even wait until morning. While any possible survivors battled the elements on top of the mountain after the temperature plummeted.

Sam tried to tamp down his fear, but it wasn’t easy. He didn’t get scared that often, and he wasn’t accustomed to dealing with it. He’d become soft, in a way. Apathetic. Caring about life or death required effort.

Oblivious of his struggle, Hope continued to climb. She was confident, but cautious, spending too much time thinking about every move. Time dragged out into an eternity. He had to bite his tongue to keep from criticizing the flaws in her technique. She wasn’t an expert and it showed.

A few years ago, Sam had been an easygoing partner who enjoyed initiating newcomers to the sport. Now he was quickly frustrated, his body humming with impatience. The type of climber he used to loathe.

To her credit, Hope stayed positive and kept a smile on her face. He began to suspect that she was doing it just to annoy him. When she made a minor misstep and almost lost her grip, he swore up at the sky.

His negative attitude made an impact on her near the top. She came to a wide gap about ten feet away from her last placement. A fall from this distance could be dangerous, whether the gear held or not. Even during short drops, climbers could get tangled in ropes, crack their heads against the rock and break bones.

If the gear failed, death was certain.

Her footing looked off as she stretched out her arm. He muttered another curse, and she must have heard it, because she spooked. Instead of committing to the reach, she second-guessed herself and faltered. Her questing fingertips found no purchase, and her foothold crumbled.

With a sharp cry, she tumbled backward, her arms and legs flailing. Her harness caught and held, jerking her body roughly.

Sam braced himself against the rock and listened for the sound of gear popping, his blood thundering in his ears. To his intense relief, the protection bore her weight as she dangled in midair, a thousand feet from the ground. He held the safety rope, her last lifeline, clenched in his trembling hands.

She grasped the rope that attached them, staring up at him with frantic eyes. He let out a slow breath, his heart hammering against his ribs. They’d get through this a lot easier if she didn’t look down.