On the Trail

Born a Scramblin


 

 



Rock climbing is not my favorite pastime. As if a lack of formal training and official equipment were not impediment enough, a fear of heights is probably the definitive kicker.


But I have the misfortune to occasionally hike with a Scramblin’ Man. Though he’s big and bulky, around rocks he’s part mountain goat. He’s no daredevil—this is a fellow who’d never so much as jaywalk—but he’s got this healthy curiosity regarding what the view from on high might look like.


My standard refrain is, "I don’t mind, I’ll wait down here." That wasn’t always my mantra. It became my mantra after several instances of crawling up after him looking for a series of imaginary hand-holds, then trusting him to pull me to the summit by my wrist. ("Let go and give me your wrist. No, not your hand with the fingertips scraped raw and the bleeding knuckles. I’ll give you an assist if you reach up your wrist.")


I’m not sure why I trust a person whose self-avowed poor vision requires him to wear eyeglasses twice as thick as a bulletproof windshield. Well, he hasn’t dropped me once—not yet.


So naturally when we came upon an unusual outcropping of boulders the size of mini-skyscrapers while hiking along an old road cut, the call to climb chimed loud and clear.


"I bet there are some dynamite ocean and canyon views from up there," Scramblin’ Man said excitedly, and then he was off. Just surveying the scene made me dizzy. While rock-hopping among some of the smaller monoliths I’d encountered a wobbler—a rock the size of my garden shed that pitched and swayed beneath my startled feet. So:


"I’m good right down here," I told the fast-disappearing back end of Scramblin’ Man.


But then my other companion, a dog with either no fear or no sense, embarked on the climb, too. Now I was left feeling quite abandoned and namby-pambyish. So naturally I gritted my chattering teeth and joined the Conga line snaking to the top.


Where the rock surface was not crumbly it was pocked with protruding conglomerates, as loose as a set of rotted teeth. Several of these the dog inadvertently launched in my direction. Yeah, like rock-climbing etiquette meant a whole lot to her—she was fast to follow because Scramblin’ Man had recently shared his tuna sandwich with her.


To give him credit, my nimble companion did wait patiently at the top to call down directions. ("Turn there, squeeze over, fling your arm thataway, don’t put your foot on that loose—oops!") that helped me inch up the rock face, queasy stomach and all. The views were incredible. All the rocks had split as if cleaved by a butcher knife. If you had nerve you could lightly leap across the small deep chasms for sport.


Beautiful panorama or not, after about 60 seconds I needed to sprout wings to feel comfortable and safe or, failing that, return to earth. Scramblin’ Man went first, and scooting along on his bottom, too, so even this was a little high for his ambitions. He seemed a bit flustered and stared down pondering the route a long while.


"Hmm," he said. At this I stifled a major need to cry "Uh-oh!" at the top of my lungs.


"This doesn’t seem like the right way. I think I messed up," he said without alarm. "Oh well." He glanced over his shoulder up at me. "Are you scared?"


"I think I’m gonna throw up. Does that count?"


"Just stay calm and don’t barf in my direction, this is a new shirt," Scramblin’ Man said, bumping and sliding down a bit. "Okay, we’re fine, I’m back on track." He kicked away a few false hand-holds—a bunch of loose rocks and dead branches. "C’mon."


It wasn’t so bad. The anticipation was worse than the reality. Back on the soft, pungent earth we were happily congratulating ourselves when we heard a pathetic whine. We looked around, then up. No dog. We called and called. No dog, just that whine. Had she tumbled into one of the chasms and become trapped?


"I’ll go around and see if I can see her," Scramblin’ Man said and disappeared. The whining was breaking my heart.


"I’m going back up!" I hollered and sprinted up the rock face. The silly dog had leaped from one rock to another and was too scared to leap back. She was also too scared to come to me. Scramblin’ Man appeared from an entirely different direction.


"How do you like that? I just found a totally easy way to get up here. Hey—what are you doing up here? Oh," he said, glancing at the four-footed reason: a cowering dog inching towards, then retreating from, my outstretched hands. "Watch your left foot. You’re making me nervous," he said. "Ease over this way. No, no, be careful!" But the dog needed me, and so I found those wings I needed. I grabbed her and lifted her down then guided her still-spooked self back to terra firma. Scramblin’ Man handed me his empty lunch sack.


"Just in case you still needed a barf bag," he said, before breaking into a rollicking version of "Jim Dandy to the Rescue…climb Jim Dandy, climb!"




Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *