Lighting Out. Daniel Duane

harder than 5.10. Climbing at that level had to be some kind of near-mystical dance, way out west, way up on walls. The picture of Butterfingers in the book looked like a perfect crack on a smooth, dead vertical wall. It looked like fingertips would fit inside, but not well.

      On a broad green tarp by a camouflaged van a short, skinny guy with a long handlebar mustache and ponytail had spread out more gear than I’d ever seen. Nick poured us each another cup of coffee. Then he started putting our gear into our bright new packs while I snuck a few glances—a monstrous white bag stood off to the short guy’s side, and I was sure it meant something. Although empty, it stood upright, about three feet high and cylindrical. Heavy nylon flatcord—or webbing—had been sewn down two sides, under the bottom and up again, forming thick loops above the open top of the bag.

      Then it struck me—a haul bag. A real, Fish-brand haul bag. The genuine article like Dad and Sean must have used on Half Dome. I’d seen pictures of them, and knew they were the only bags durable enough for hauling food and supplies up the great walls on multi-day climbs. Fish was rumored to have tested them by tying them to the back of his motorcycle and driving out on highways for hours at a time. This man was preparing for a big wall—a Big Wall—Half Dome, maybe even El Capitan, “The Captain,” sleeping on ledges thousands of feet off the ground, doing nothing but climbing from dawn until dark, popping open a can of cold beans for dinner and having it taste better than any steak on the ground. A psychotic divorce from the world, requiring clarity of mind through long periods of terrifying quiet. My father had many books about Big Walls, photographs from his recent Half Dome climb.

      Iron spikes called pitons were spread out all around the hero. Twenty or thirty soda bottles wrapped in duct tape stood empty against the red van—water for a week. I couldn’t believe it. I had to stare, look at him closely, try to get some hint of how he could be so calm on the docks before sailing. His hands were already taped. It seemed such a bizarre aspiration, such an insane way to spend one’s time without even the comfort of a beer in the meadow at day’s end.

      A strung-out redhead sat on the ground next to the Big Wall astronaut. He was tense and big-jawed. His wiry hair stuck out on all sides while he chattered away. He had his own pile of equipment.

      “All for sale,” he said to us, smiling with brown teeth, “all of it. Forty-three carabiners, a full free-climbing rack, ropes, slings, a few bugaboo pitons and five or six copperheads. Getting out of climbing.”

      “Why?”

      “My buddy was fully soloing the DNB, like a few days ago, and I was watching him through the binocs when one of his hands just popped off, like a hold broke or something.” He pursed his peeling lips and shook his head. “And I seriously saw him falling. I ran to the base of the cliff and his ankles were up in his hips. I freaked and jammed off for the medics. Those Friends are going for twenty bucks each.”

      10

      Nick pulled khaki shorts over his tan legs and put on a pair of old New Balance running shoes. He took off his polo shirt just long enough to fish out and quickly pull on a white T-shirt—he was never too into people seeing his body. He slammed the tailgate shut and we bounced the truck over potholes and out of the lot. Off to a two-pitch route called Positively Fourth Street to practice lead climbing.

      An hour getting organized. Then, absolutely covered with ’biners, stoppers, hexes and Friends, rock shoes on, harness buckled, chalk bag full, I grabbed the edge of a lieback flake, pulled up about six feet, felt my hands starting to sweat, and greased off. I landed hard on my feet and stumbled over backwards into a bush. I lay for a moment with a branch in my mouth trying to breathe, then rolled over so I could stand up with all the gear. I handed Nick the rack, untied from the rope, and said, “Hell with it. Your turn.”

      He looked away, shook his head, and said something I couldn’t hear. I didn’t ask him to repeat it, and after a minute of looking into the forest and running his fingers through his hair, he laced up his climbing shoes. It took him a while to get them tight enough on his narrow feet. Up off the ground, he started shoving gear into the crack about every two feet, and I didn’t blame him. Who knew if that stuff would hold. And who wanted to find out.

      “You watching me?!” he yelled.

      “What do you think? I got you on belay.”

      “Watch me!” Was this narcissism or paranoia? I could see veins standing out on his forearms and his left leg was pumping in a spasm as regular as a sewing machine. If he peeled I was going to get yanked.

      “Watch me!” He was growling through clenched teeth, his whole body locked in an awkward contortion.

      “Dude . . .” I mumbled, getting worried.

      “Shut up, shitfucker, I’m there.” Suddenly he pulled higher and stopped.

      “Where?”

      “The belay. The anchor.” I climbed up quietly, shaking my head. Not feeling too randy.

      “What?” he said. “You’re leading the next pitch, aren’t you?” He sounded slightly hysterical.

      A corner led fifteen feet up to an overhang, and my hands bled in the crack as I thrashed toward it. Hanging by a hand jammed behind a flake, I could see chalk marks leading left beneath the roof.

      “How’s it look?” Nick asked, squinting under his pre-faded blue cap. I’d have to climb to the left underneath a huge block by shoving my hands in a horizontal crack behind it. My feet were melting in my dad’s lousy, too-tight shoes. I scrambled out a little ways under the roof and shoved in a Friend. At first it wouldn’t fit and my arms burned while I fought with it. Then back right to the corner. Panting, shaking out the forearms. Then, back left a little farther, another Friend. If I flew from underneath I risked slamming back into the corner.

      Back out, past the first Friend, feet slipping around on the smooth granite, neck crammed up under the roof. Past the second Friend and the backs of my hands were getting slippery with blood. I grabbed the outside lip of the roof and was hanging way over backwards out in space no longer breathing and sweat stinging my eyes. My right hand shot over the roof and slapped onto a huge, solid handhold. One pull and I was over. Shrieking. Laughing while Nick looked about in embarrassment to make sure nobody’d heard me.

      “Could do two more pitches,” I said. “Looks casual in the guidebook.”

      Nick sat above the roof with me looking down at the ground.

      “You sure?” he asked. “Shouldn’t we just rappel down?” We were well above the treetops, and they were tall trees. “Seems kind of late,” he said, “doesn’t it? But on the other hand, I mean, rappelling could take a while. We’re not real good at it.” He took the red bandana off his neck—a ridiculous place for it—and put it in his shorts pocket. I racked up without asking any more questions. He got me on belay and I led off. As I climbed above he looked at his watch. The sun did seem low. For nearly two hours I led up dirt-filled cracks that probably hadn’t been climbed in ten years. Soil fell in my eyes as I reached overhead for handholds. Nick periodically shook out his hair.

      “You sure this is a route?” he yelled.

      “Absolutely not.”

      “Beauty.”

      Above a wide ledge covered with loose rocks, I stumbled up a tree-filled gully, but right at nightfall it ran out in a blank wall. Nick followed up and we stood together in the darkness getting nervous. We weren’t really sure what would happen on a cliff at night, hadn’t even thought about it.

      “What the hell?” Nick asked, apparently expecting an explanation.

      “Be stupid to climb in the dark,” I said. I wished I could see his face. “Don’t you think?”

      I looked overhead at the wall, now just a blacker part of the sky, then down below at a tiny pair of car headlights. Probably someone on their way to a steak dinner, maybe a couple with a nice hotel room. Nick leaned against a tree growing from the cliff and looked toward his feet.

      “You