Take Me Higher by Pamela Clare

Chapter 22

June 10, 1993

Mitch hikedwith Megs toward the base of El Cap in the pre-dawn dark, wondering whether the two of them ought to be committed. Megs said she needed a challenge, but this was more than that. What they were about to attempt was insane.

No one had free climbed The Nose, and Megs was determined to be the first.

He and Megs had spent the past two months preparing, reading everything they could find about the route, going over every one of more than thirty pitches, looking for ways to outsmart the rock, analyzing their past climbs. They had climbed until their fingers bled, pushing themselves to peak fitness. They had even calculated calories and how much water they would need to drink. Megs believed they could do it, and, after working through every detail, Mitch was crazy enough to agree.

Gridwall caught up to them, Accardo, Baker, Cook, and the others jogging behind him. “You don’t have to do this.”

“Just leave it, man.”

Mitch had said the same thing to Megs last month. They’d gotten into a huge fight when he’d tried to explain the concept of survivor guilt.

Gridwall wasn’t giving up. “We lost Calder. We can’t lose you, too.”

Megs stopped, turned to face Gridwall. “You’re not going to lose us. We’re going to climb clean, and we’re going to stay safe. If we get in over our heads, we’ll bail.”

Gridwall didn’t look convinced. “You should at least be prepared to bivouac with extra food and water.”

But Megs was done talking and had moved on.

Mitch understood Gridwall’s misgivings. He and Megs had only a day’s worth of food and water packed. If they got stuck up there, they were going to get hungry and thirsty fast.

“All right, then.” Gridwall stopped. “If I can’t talk you out of it, I’m going to hike up to the summit of El Cap. I’ll have food and water and a first aid kit waiting for you when you top out. We’ll set someone in the Meadow with binoculars to watch your progress.”

“Sounds good.” Mitch followed Megs.

Gridwall shared his plans with the other dirtbags, and they all turned and started back toward camp.

Twenty minutes later, Mitch stood with Megs at the base of The Nose. Mitch looked up, three thousand feet of stone towering above them. That wall would either make them—or break them.

The plan was for Megs to lead all of the pitches, with Mitch cleaning their gear from the route as he moved. When Megs reached the end of a pitch, she would belay him, and he would return the equipment. If she got stuck, she would wait for him.

They geared up—harnesses, rope, racks—and then it was time to go.

Mitch took up the slack, a nervous knot in his belly. “Belay on.”

“Climbing.”

“Climb on.”

For the first few minutes, Mitch was sure they were making the biggest mistake of their climbing careers. But once they got going, his worries faded, pushed aside by the thrill of watching Megs climb. He was with one of the world’s greatest climbers on what was arguably the world’s greatest rock climbing route, trying to do the greatest thing that anyone had ever attempted here since the original first ascent.

They sailed through the first seven pitches, taking a break to hydrate before working their way up the Stove Leg Cracks, inconveniently wide fissures in the rock that had repulsed more than a few ambitious climbers. The next three pitches flowed together, the two of them taking advantage of fixed bolts and old pitons left by the previous generation of Yosemite climbers. When they came to the ledge at El Cap Tower on Pitch 15, they stopped for lunch, the sun high in the sky.

Megs looked out over the Valley, seeming more like herself than she’d been in a while. “I’ll never get tired of this view.”

He took her hand, squeezed. “Neither will I.”

They didn’t linger, but pushed on for some of the best climbing Mitch had ever experienced, from the Texas Flake to the Boot Flake and on to the King Swing.

Megs used the rope to make an enormous pendulum swing to her left, reaching for the edge of an arete. She missed on her first attempt, and Mitch found himself watching the rope above her, hoping it wouldn’t fray. The second time, she used her shoes to stick it, pulling herself across the rock with minuscule fingerholds until she finally grasped the arete.

Mitch exhaled—and then it was his turn. With his longer reach, he was able to grab the arete on the first try. It only made him admire Megs more.

They set off again, working through each successive pitch—the Great Roof, the Pancake Flake, a couple of crack systems. The rock grew hot from the sunshine, shadows shifting as the sun moved across the sky. Then came Pitch 27.

They had identified this as the crux pitch. If they succeeded here, nothing would stop them. If not, there would be nowhere to go but down. There were no holds, and the existing crack was too small to set protection. Other climbers might have drilled holes in the rock here and hammered in bolts, but that went against his and Megs’ shared ethos of climbing the rock without altering it.

Mitch forgot to breathe as Megs moved into the pitch, using her knees, her elbows, her shoulders, her butt, her entire body to create the counter-pressure she needed to inch slowly up the wall. No one climbed like that—no one in the world.

What had he done that Megs had fallen in love with him?

It was only after he’d grunted and fought his way up the pitch that he knew they were going to make it.

With just a handful of pitches left and the sun setting, they took a quick hydration and calorie break, put on their headlamps, then set off again.

Mitch knew Megs must be tired because he certainly was, his hands raw, his forearms pumped, his body fatigued from continual exertion. But there was no stopping either of them now, the summit a handful of hours and pitches away.

The sun set. Darkness came over the Valley. They kept going.

Running on adrenaline fumes, they pushed themselves beyond exhaustion and pain, focused only on the rock, the next move, the next piece of protection.

Voices came from overhead, the summit near.

“There they are!”

Megs belayed him to the finish just below the summit so they could top out together. They reached the summit just after midnight to find Gridwall and the other dirtbags waiting for them, along with a few other climbers who’d wanted to watch, a ranger, and a news crew with lights and a big camera.

Cheers. Camera lights flashing. The warmth of the campfire.

“We’re here on the summit of El Capitan, three thousand feet above the valley floor, where just moments ago, climbers Megs Hill and Mitch Ahearn became the first people to free climb The Nose in a day.”

While the reporter continued to speak, Gridwall drew them both into an awkward embrace, tears streaming down his cheeks. “You fucking did it!”

Megs closed the journal,set it down on the bedside table, the words Mitch had written dredging up emotions she’d tried to bury. “You were right. It was survivor guilt. I hated knowing that Dean was gone—and that I had played a role in his death.”

“I know.” Mitch’s gaze went soft. “Not… our... fall… fault.”

Megs crawled into bed beside him, turned off her lamp, and rolled onto her stomach so she could make eye contact. “I still miss him.”

“M-me, too.”

“He would have been so happy for us. Free climbing The Nose was the greatest achievement of our careers.”

It had also been their last climb as professionals. They hadn’t planned it that way. That’s just how things had unfolded.

“I never liked getting all of the credit for it. You climbed every inch of that with me. We topped out together.”

Mitch tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, smiled. “Your … cray… crazy idea. You w-wen… went… first.”

“We were a team. We’ve always been a team.” Then she remembered the question he’d asked himself. “As for why I fell in love with you, that’s easy. You’re incredibly hot. More than that, you stood up for me. When everyone else treated me like ‘the girl who thinks she can climb like a boy,’ you took me seriously. From the moment you told the others to let me take a shot at White Lightning, I knew you believed in me. Plus, you’re a damned good climber—and you fuck like a god.”

If he hadn’t had a headache, she would have suggested they put his God-given talents to use and screw each other to sleep. But she knew he needed rest.

Mitch grinned at that last part, but his grin faded, his expression growing serious. “Why not … Dee …Dean?”

“Why didn’t I hook up with Dean instead?” That was easy. “He wasn’t attracted to me, and I knew you were. He thought of me as a kid. He might have been only six years older than you, but to my teenage self, he seemed old.”

Mitch laughed. “L-luck-y for … me.”

Mitch couldn’t believehow good it felt to see Gridwall, Accardo, and Cook again. They arrived at the house via Las Vegas on Friday afternoon, Gridwall behind the wheel of a rented Lamborghini in lemon yellow.

Like Mitch and Megs, they’d gotten older. Accardo had packed on a few pounds, while Gridwall seemed thinner. Cook, who’d once had a long ponytail, was now bald. Then again, so was Mitch, his hair only stubble, his scar still visible.

“For a man who got his brains bashed out, you look damned good, my friend.” Gridwall drew Mitch into a bear hug. “God, you scared the shit out of me.”

“Good … to see you… Jim.” Mitch had made progress, but speaking was still a challenge for him.

“Where’s your more beautiful half? Megs, honey, there you are. Come give your old Uncle Jim a big hug.”

Megs hugged him, kissed his grizzled cheek. “Good to see you. Thanks for making the trip. Hey, Accardo. Cook, I’m so glad you came. Come inside. I want to introduce you all to someone.”

Kurt and his wife, Jennifer, had arrived about an hour ago. They were spending the weekend in the mountains and would be joining Megs and Mitch and the dirtbags at tonight’s big celebration for Mitch at Knockers.

Kurt stood when they walked into the living room.

Gridwall, Accardo, and Cook gaped at him.

Gridwall held out his hand. “You can only be Dean Calder’s son. I see your daddy on your face.”

Kurt shook his hand. “And you’re Jim Gridwall. This is my wife, Jennifer.”

When the introductions were done, they shared a decade worth of news over a lunch of Vicki’s Chicago-style deep-dish pizza that Megs had ordered from Knockers.

Gridwall had six grandkids that he shared with his ex-wife Elaine and had earned a fortune from the rock climbing gear company he’d founded back in the 1980s. Accardo lived in the suburbs of Chicago and had become an accountant. Cook had gotten into snowboarding and created his own line of snowboards.

It did Mitch good to see his friends so happy on this side of life. “Who … would think… dir…dirt… b-bags would… do … so well.”

Megs offered to give them a tour of The Cave.

“Why do you call it The Cave?” Accardo asked.

Megs grabbed her parka. “It’s basically an old firehouse with a bay for our rescue vehicles. Lots of gear and high ceilings.”

They walked down to Team headquarters to find all of the Team’s members present, gathered, no doubt, to meet some true legends of climbing.

Megs made the introductions. “This is Gabe Rossiter, one of our tenured members. Rossiter, I don’t have to tell you who these guys are.”

Rossiter, who’d kept climbing after losing a leg in a terrible fall, shook their hands, a broad smile on his face. “I’ve watched all of the Lords of Stone videos. I probably have them somewhere.”

Sasha, who had been the most excited about meeting the dirtbags, beamed when Accardo told her they all knew who she was.

“It’s good to know there’s a new generation kicking ass out there,” he said.

The dirtbags all knew about Conrad and his exploits, of course.

“The Triple Crown, man.” Cook shook his hand. “You must have balls of steel.”

When they learned that Conrad, Taylor, Hawke, O’Brien, Moretti, and Belcourt had helped rescue Mitch, Gridwall shook each man’s hand. “You saved my brother. Thank you.”

They mingled in the operations room for a time, smiles on everyone’s faces. Then Megs gave Kurt, Jennifer, and the dirtbags a tour, explaining how the operation worked, how they maintained the quality of the equipment and the discipline necessary to take on high-risk rescues day or night anywhere in the state at any time of year.

“Holy shit!” Gridwall stared at the walls around him, pointing. “You’ve got a fortune in gear hanging in here. That’s some of my company’s stuff. This must have cost hundreds of thousands of bucks. Check that out. What’s that?”

“It’s a special belay device created by Belcourt. He’s a mechanical engineer.”

“I’m going to have to talk with him. Where do you get the money for all of this?”

Mitch answered this time. “Dona… donations.”

“Donations? From the public?” Accardo looked like he couldn’t quite grasp that.

“No,” Megs quipped. “From the Gear Fairy.”

Cook picked up a first aid kit. “This was because of Dean’s death, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” The smile left Megs’ face, her gaze fixing on Kurt. “Your father died in part because there was no one prepared to undertake a rescue in bad weather. No one had the staff or the technical expertise. We decided we needed to fill that gap. It was the best way we could think of to honor his memory. We got donations wherever we could, bought this old firehouse, and began searching for volunteers.”

She spoke the words without emotion, but Mitch knew how hard it was for her to discuss Dean’s death. The way he’d died had haunted both of them.

“Volunteers?” Gridwall seemed confused. “They don’t get paid?”

Around him, Team members laughed, amused by his reaction.

“No one gets paid—not me, not Mitch, and not our volunteers. Every penny we receive goes directly into equipment, training, and operational expenses. We’re a nonprofit if you want to write us a fat check.”

More laughter.

“How do you survive?” Accardo asked.

Leave it to the accountant to ask that question.

“We live frugally off capital gains on our retirement accounts.”

Kurt had listened quietly, standing off to the side with Jennifer. “How quickly are you able to reach people?”

Conrad answered this time. “That depends on a variety of factors—time of day, weather, where they are, whether it’s a simple trail rescue or a technical rescue. Our average response time is under two hours. We got to Mitch a little more than two hours after he was injured, and he was on the Western Slope.”

In that moment, it hit Mitch in a way it hadn’t before. The rescue team he’d worked with Megs to create, equip, and train had saved his life.

As they left The Cave in groups of twos and threes, everyone talking, Kurt and Jennifer made their way over to him and Megs.

“Mitch, I want to thank you for keeping your journal. I hope it was okay with you that Megs read some pages to me—entries that involved my father.”

Mitch smiled. “Fine… with me.”

Kurt’s next words hit Mitch square in the chest. “If it’s not too much to ask, I really want to know whatever you can tell me about how my father died.”