His fingers involuntarily peeled from the ledge, and he immediately slammed into the wall, a glancing blow with head and shoulders, spinning now, out of control. His mind went blank, and the instant narrowed down still further to a jumble of detailed sensory impressions: the looming dark wall, a glimpse of the canyon floor far below, the world aspin, the tension of the rope at his midsection, his splayed body position, and at the apogee of his swing, out in airy space, the odd feeling of a body’s mass dangling on a rope.
He righted himself as he swung back towards the wall and arrested his swing by grabbing a protruding corner. He fixed a tenuous position on the wall’s face where he took stock of damages. His abraded shoulder was bleeding over a large area, and raw skin was sensitive to the touch. His head throbbed from striking the wall. Bruises dotted his body. But he was still in one piece, and as he tenderly flexed his limbs, he realized he would have to finish the climb.
The terrible vision persisted. Climbing now required that he act in spite of the vision, that he deal with what he now knew were illusions as if they were real. The realization frightened him, and he closed his eyes and turned his face away from the wall. Adrenalin poisoned him, making even the easiest moves seem difficult, dicey. His legs trembled again under the strain of his weight on the toes, and fear incapacitated him for endless minutes.
The rope brought him back to his senses. Gradually, as if awakening from a deep sleep to morning sounds, he became aware of the patient tension at his waist. He opened his eyes to see the line still in front of him, coursing up and over his route. The sight instilled a measure of calm and the return of a tentative will. Slowly, carefully, he freed one limb, placed it, moved; then the other, as if learning how to move all over again. It was dangerous work, stepping from pinhead to pinhead, while all around the infinite pit waited for the slightest misstep. His vision still burned away the surface dross. He knew now that he was far beyond nonchalance and ignorance, beyond easy unconscious movement over depth. Renewed action was a miracle and a revelation for him.
He moved upwards cautiously and slowly, the rope persistently tugging at him. The face climbing was moderate, acceding to a tentative effort, much to his relief. But the face climbing ended abruptly at the base of a second crack. His heart contracted again. The second go-around. It never failed. Nothing ever disappeared until it was mastered. The crack would demand a total commitment.
He vacillated for some time, mired in apprehension, but again the rope held him steady and encouraged the attempt. His indecision coalesced into a reluctant resolve. Again, he committed.
The terrible vision deflated instantaneously and withdrew into nothingness. A Power took hold of him, took hold of his actions and flawlessly guided him upward. He set and moved on alternating hand jams rapidly and efficiently, while his feet found easy toeholds in the crack. In a graceful, rhythmic swing, he loped up the crack, moving on marginal finger locks, holds that normally would have meant certain failure for him, moving as smoothly as if he was wedded to the rock and knew every detail of it. He marveled at what his body was doing, marveled at the sudden strength and skill it displayed, marveled at the beauty of rapturous kinesthesia. An onrush of overwhelming joy washed over him on the basaltic wall, a joy profound and far-reaching. Yes, the depths were still there, and yes, still visible, but now there was no such thing as falling. It was in one’s nature to walk on the depths; there was nothing to fear. There was only Depth and the rapturous Power. It was all so clear, so beautifully easy, the way it should have been all along, the way he sensed it would be every time he pierced through to the heart of the action.
He began to laugh as he climbed. He stopped momentarily on the vertical wall, freed one hand, untied the rope at his waist, and with silent thanks, pushed it away from him. The rope hung still against the wall for a moment, then snaked upwards rapidly, disappearing over the rim.
He climbed alone and unencumbered the last few feet of the pitch, reveling in his joy and savoring the Power. He crested the route in an apogee of rapture, overflowing, seeking to share this ecstasy, seeking his unknown belayer.
The belayer was gone. He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked around on the lonely rim, his senses newly alive, his joy gently subsiding. A slight puzzlement crossed his features. The rope lay neatly coiled at the base of a tree off the rim. He regarded it for some time before it became clear what he was to do. In a gentler exhilaration, he picked up the rope, swung it over his shoulder, and began to walk along the canyon rim, listening to the voice of the wind. He stopped on its command, uncoiled the rope at his feet, and found an anchor nearby. Standing as near the edge as he dared, he let the rope sail out into space, and after a long, time-suspended moment, heard the snap of the far end of the rope against the wall below. With practiced efficiency, he clipped a carabineer and belay plate into the rope. He seated himself and braced his legs against a boulder. A sharp pull on the rope worked at his waist. He gave three sharp tugs and smiled when the thought crossed his mind. What the veterans had not told him.
There was terrible vision and a failure of faith, and beyond it, rapture, bliss, joy.
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