Writing Samples
CLIFFHANGER by “Doc” Sanborn
Fifteen feet below the cliff's top, the rock face presented a malignant convex surface, and that caused my current dilemma—reaching over the hump for a handhold tended to push my toes off their precarious foothold. Leaning back to stabilize my footholds put any handholds just out of reach.
“Remember, three points of contact.” Tom's voice drifted up from forty feet below, where he belayed me.
I fought the urge to look down. As a newbie rock climber with only seven climbs under my belt, anything higher than fifteen feet still seemed vertiginous.
My left hand reached up and caressed the rock, seeking a small lip of rock or a finger-width crack. Nothing. Only a small patch of rock tripe. I stretched as far as I could, and there, at the pad of my middle finger tip, I felt the thin outer edge of a small cup-shaped depression. I couldn't stretch far enough to get my fingers over the edge—but the smallest of jumps, an upward lurch of my body should be just enough for me to grab it.
A frisson of fear flickered up and down my spine as I psyched myself up for the move. I took a deep breath and hurled myself upwards, left arm flung up, hand hook-shaped to grab the tiny edge. My fingers stabbed into the depression and instantly clamped shut like a lobster's claw. I hung there like a man dropped from the gallows. My nanosecond of prideful victory—coupled with relief—was cut short by a faint crunching noise. The rock broke away in my hand, and fast as an eye-blink, down I went.
Tom had wisely taken up the slack, so my fall was only five feet. Most of that was due to stretch in the Goldline nylon rope.
“Falling,” I called, after the fact and half in jest.
“I see that,” said Tom. “Try a little over to the right. You might find more to hang onto. Just make sure it's solid, cuz there are some crumbly areas.”
“Now you tell me.” I spider-walked ten feet to the right and commenced to climb again. Indeed, there were more holds to work with and I gained ten feet—then the holds ran out. No more ridges, lips, or nobs. Only smooth rock. So frustrating. Only ten more feet to go, and no discernible way to get there.
My feet ached in my new climbing shoes, intentionally bought a size too small to eliminate any looseness between foot and rock, and to maintain rigidity when edging. My knees developed a slight tremor. My forearms and fingers ached from desperate clutching. I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.
“Take your time,” Tom hollered. “There's no rush.”
I knew he was trying to be helpful by cautioning me against any rash moves—like I'd just made. However, time was also my enemy as it inexorably sapped my strength. I didn't want to lose face by quitting, and I didn't want to fall off—again.
I swept my hands slowly over the rock above me. Upon closer examination, I discovered here and there a sparse sprinkling of minute edges, but only a tease, nothing to really get a grip on. A couple arm lengths to the right I spied a rougher surface, and what appeared to be crevices and thumb-sized holes.
“Slack,” I yelled.
Tom let out rope as I crawled to the right.
I found some finger holds when some kind of insect darting about my head distracted me. Then there were two, then three. Another landed on my hand and stung me. Bees, wasps, hornets—oh my. More swarmed out of a crevice, the air hummed. Within a heartbeat everything had changed.
I panicked. Without thought, caution, or three points of contact, I scrambled up that rock face like a mad monkey. I grabbed handholds that weren't there, swam up vertical surfaces, and slithered over the top. Unclipping the rope from my carabiner, I fled down the path that ended at Tom's side.
“Holy crap!” Tom exclaimed. “You trying to break a record?”
“Naw. I just got bored hanging around up there.”
Published in The Florida Writer, December issue, 2018
Fifteen feet below the cliff's top, the rock face presented a malignant convex surface, and that caused my current dilemma—reaching over the hump for a handhold tended to push my toes off their precarious foothold. Leaning back to stabilize my footholds put any handholds just out of reach.
“Remember, three points of contact.” Tom's voice drifted up from forty feet below, where he belayed me.
I fought the urge to look down. As a newbie rock climber with only seven climbs under my belt, anything higher than fifteen feet still seemed vertiginous.
My left hand reached up and caressed the rock, seeking a small lip of rock or a finger-width crack. Nothing. Only a small patch of rock tripe. I stretched as far as I could, and there, at the pad of my middle finger tip, I felt the thin outer edge of a small cup-shaped depression. I couldn't stretch far enough to get my fingers over the edge—but the smallest of jumps, an upward lurch of my body should be just enough for me to grab it.
A frisson of fear flickered up and down my spine as I psyched myself up for the move. I took a deep breath and hurled myself upwards, left arm flung up, hand hook-shaped to grab the tiny edge. My fingers stabbed into the depression and instantly clamped shut like a lobster's claw. I hung there like a man dropped from the gallows. My nanosecond of prideful victory—coupled with relief—was cut short by a faint crunching noise. The rock broke away in my hand, and fast as an eye-blink, down I went.
Tom had wisely taken up the slack, so my fall was only five feet. Most of that was due to stretch in the Goldline nylon rope.
“Falling,” I called, after the fact and half in jest.
“I see that,” said Tom. “Try a little over to the right. You might find more to hang onto. Just make sure it's solid, cuz there are some crumbly areas.”
“Now you tell me.” I spider-walked ten feet to the right and commenced to climb again. Indeed, there were more holds to work with and I gained ten feet—then the holds ran out. No more ridges, lips, or nobs. Only smooth rock. So frustrating. Only ten more feet to go, and no discernible way to get there.
My feet ached in my new climbing shoes, intentionally bought a size too small to eliminate any looseness between foot and rock, and to maintain rigidity when edging. My knees developed a slight tremor. My forearms and fingers ached from desperate clutching. I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.
“Take your time,” Tom hollered. “There's no rush.”
I knew he was trying to be helpful by cautioning me against any rash moves—like I'd just made. However, time was also my enemy as it inexorably sapped my strength. I didn't want to lose face by quitting, and I didn't want to fall off—again.
I swept my hands slowly over the rock above me. Upon closer examination, I discovered here and there a sparse sprinkling of minute edges, but only a tease, nothing to really get a grip on. A couple arm lengths to the right I spied a rougher surface, and what appeared to be crevices and thumb-sized holes.
“Slack,” I yelled.
Tom let out rope as I crawled to the right.
I found some finger holds when some kind of insect darting about my head distracted me. Then there were two, then three. Another landed on my hand and stung me. Bees, wasps, hornets—oh my. More swarmed out of a crevice, the air hummed. Within a heartbeat everything had changed.
I panicked. Without thought, caution, or three points of contact, I scrambled up that rock face like a mad monkey. I grabbed handholds that weren't there, swam up vertical surfaces, and slithered over the top. Unclipping the rope from my carabiner, I fled down the path that ended at Tom's side.
“Holy crap!” Tom exclaimed. “You trying to break a record?”
“Naw. I just got bored hanging around up there.”
Published in The Florida Writer, December issue, 2018