If Jeb is the Incredible Hulk of the climbing world, Rusty is Spider-Man. If Jeb is all muscle, Rusty is all technique. Instead of sticking his fist into the crack like Jeb, Rusty wraps his fingers around one edge of it. Then he leans sideways, so the right side of his body—arm, shoulder, ribcage, leg—is pressed against the rock face to the right of the crack. Staying sideways, he probes the cliff face with his toes for footholds. He finds a chunk of rock to brace his feet against, pushes up, crosses one hand over the other to reach higher into the crack, and slides his body sideways up the wall.
“Cool,” I say.
“Classic layback.” Rusty grins.
Classic layback. Rusty makes it sound easy. He makes it look easy too. Effortless. But I’ve climbed enough to realize how much skill it takes to find the perfect tension between arms and legs—to maintain that point of balance that keeps Rusty pressed against the wall, not swinging out like a barn door on a loose hinge.
Moving smoothly, Rusty stops only to remove the pro Jeb laid on the way up and clip it on to his harness. Sometimes his footholds are nubs of rock. Sometimes he jams his foot into the crack. But always, he stays with his right flank pressed against the rock face, shimmying up it sideways.
When he reaches the overhang, Rusty stays sideways. He finds a handhold on the underside of the ledge with his right hand, reaches out and grabs the lip with his left. But instead of letting go and dangling like Jeb, Rusty crosses his right leg and jams his right foot into some kind of a foothold on the underside of the ledge. Now he’s pressed against the underside of the ledge like a fly on a ceiling. Somehow—I have no idea how—he swings his left leg up and hooks his left foot over the ledge. He takes an overhand swipe with his right arm—like a basketball player doing a J-hook—and manages to grab the trunk of the scrawny tree on top of the ledge. He swings the rest of his body over the ledge just as Jeb yells, “I told ya the tree was on-route!”
“You were right!” Rusty yells back. He stands up, jumps onto the chunky handholds, and in a few minutes, he’s topped out the climb.
“Good climb!” I shout.
Rusty’s face peeks over the top of the cliff. “Come on, try it!” he shouts back.
I run my fingers along the edge of the crack, testing out the hold. I’m tempted, even though I know it’s beyond my skill level. But the rain begins to pour down harder. Soon, the cliff will be soaked and water will stream down the crack like a drainpipe.
“Not in the rain,” I shout.
“Okay. We’re coming down.”
I know it’ll take a few minutes for the guys to set up a top rope and rappel down.
While I’m waiting, I realize I need to go to the bathroom. Of course, there’s no outhouse in sight. This is the one situation in my life where I often wish I’d been born a guy.
I walk into the woods and look for a big tree, a bush or a hillock to give me some privacy in case the guys come back before I’m done. But the knee-high grass, coiling vines and slim, snaky trees aren’t ideal. I push farther into the woods, checking that my orange cap is still on my head. I don’t want to be mistaken for a stray deer or an undersized black bear.
I listen for gunshots but don’t hear any. Maybe the hunters are in another part of the woods. Maybe they’ve taken shelter from the rain. A few steps farther on, the ground dips down. A steep slope leads to a hidden ravine. I hang on to the trunk of a skinny tree and lower myself down the slope. It’s not the most comfortable place for a pee, but at least it’s out of sight.
I’ve just finished answering the call of nature when I hear Jeb call, “Vanisha? Where are ya?”
“I’m over here,” I call back. “It’s okay. I’m just…”
I turn to get a better foothold on the steep slope and see something at the bottom that makes me freeze.
Jeb thrashes through the underbrush toward me. “Vanisha?” He reaches the top of the ravine and makes his way down to stand beside me. Then he stops too.
“Sweet Lord Jesus,” Jeb whispers.
At the bottom of the ravine, someone has planted a field of marijuana.