Native Air by Jonathan Howland

Author:Jonathan Howland
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Green Writers Press
Published: 2022-03-15T00:00:00+00:00

Midmorning we drove to nearby Lake George and walked a mile to the Dike Wall, a short, steep granite cliff where Pete and I had climbed once or twice and one I’d have forgotten about altogether except it was cited in the papers when John Bachar took his fatal fall here in 2009. A tragic loss, to be sure, but also ridiculous—like Al Capone getting arrested for tax evasion. Through the pines we could see people projecting and top-roping, and as we approached someone belaying at the base called out a greeting to Will. The climber lowered just as we reached the crag, and, seeing Will, said, “We’re set now.” But as she was untying her knot she took notice of Will’s plastic boot. “Oh no. You okay?”

“That’s what we’re here to see,” Will said. Though he didn’t mean it, it occurred to me this was a contest of two liabilities—his foot, and my climbing.

“Joe,” he said. “Natalie and Rafe.”

Then Will was on a sport route. He hadn’t even asked me to belay, indulging some tacit arrangement with them that after a warm-up he’d put a rope on their project. He had slipped his feet into climbing shoes, not bothering to tie them, though the left couldn’t get much more snug on account of the swelling. Even this easy route was more overhung than not, with big gaps between good holds, but Will climbed with his body well away from the cliff, placed his toes purposefully, and made bold, certain gestures as though repeating a series of steps in a habitual dance. In just minutes he was back on the ground, reattaching the boot and getting caught up with his neighbors.

“You, Joe?” he said.

“I don’t want to hold things up.”

“Take a turn. Then I can set them up,” Will said.

I changed my shoes and tied in. With my feet on a cinderblock-sized stance, I leaned into the cliff with my palms flat against the smooth stone. I felt entirely unsuited to the task. Will was belaying, but talking with them, so he didn’t immediately see how flummoxed I was.

“Wait, Joe,” he said. “It’s deceptive, the start. Step way left,” he pointed. “The rampy thing. You get a sidepull for the left hand.” He had moved closer to indicate the foothold, a half-inch edge so rounded and oblique I’d not registered it. But with more than a little effort I made the moves in just the sequence Will had described, and in moments I had two hands on a generous incut above the cavelike overhang that had thwarted my first attempt. My left foot straddled the small dike below the magical sidepull, and I pawed at the cliff with my right toes for something to lever onto. I wasn’t desperate, but I couldn’t hang here forever, so I surrendered to a thin edge and pulled upward. The cliff flew by, the rope went taut, and with a single soft bounce I was back at the bottom, nearly knocking Will over as I gained my balance.

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