Page 1 of Free Fall #1

Dan

M y earliest memory is of eating rocks.

I was six years old, sitting on the driveway leading up to our trailer, putting handfuls of gravel in my mouth.

I remember the grind against my teeth, the metallic taste, the dirt coating my tongue.

Once they were slick with saliva, cleaned of whatever dust made them taste so appealing, I spit them out again.

I remember the dark, gray wetness spattering against the pale, dry rocks, followed by the sensation of being smacked on the back of my head.

“You little idiot! What’s wrong with you? Mamaaaaa!” a temporary “sister” screamed for my foster mother. “He’s doing it again!”

It wasn’t my first time.

And not my last either. Though this mouthful isn’t voluntary.

Hanging against a rock wall on the western side of Lower Cathedral Rock, over three hundred feet in the air, I spit out a bunch of tiny gravel pieces.

“Dan? You okay?”

I give a thumbs-up to Peggy Jo. She gazes worriedly down at me from where she’s climbing higher up the wall, her GriGri acting as a self-belay device.

“Fine. Just got a mouthful of dirt.” I kick off the wall in front of me, swinging out over the exposure, enjoying the morning breeze. “Hell if I know how, though.”

“Climber above,” she says, peering up. “Kicked some shit down. Some got on me too.”

“Ah.” That explains it. I’d been in a precarious position on the pitch when suddenly a shower of dirt and gravel hit me and I lost my grip. The jerk of the rope had hurt as my GriGri engaged, but it’s always a reassuring pain.

“They okay?” I ask.

If the climber above sent that much crap raining down on us, it’s likely they’ve lost the wall too. Probably they’re fine. Simul-climbing with self-belay systems on a route like this one is reasonably safe for experts like me and Peggy Jo, but freak accidents can happen.

“Still moving. All’s well,” Peggy Jo says, cupping her hand over her eyes to get a better lock on the wall above and the climber and their belay partner. “You sure you’re good?”

“Yup.”

“Well, come on then. We got a lot of ground to cover this morning. The sun’s only going to get hotter and the rock slippy-er.”

Slippy-er.

I’m not sure that’s a word, but I learned ages ago not to give Peggy Jo—or anyone—grief about whether their sentences make grammatical sense or if their word choices are actually in the dictionary. It just makes people mad, and disgruntled people don’t want to help me achieve my goals.

And I really want to achieve my goals, whether that’s climbing this rock, the next rock, or getting a decent shower before bedding down in my van for the night. As much as I don’t like it, my personal concept of success involves other people.

Maybe that’s part of why I prefer to free solo. Then it’s just me, the rock, and the sky. No one else matters at all.

The rest of our ascent goes well. It takes some doing since we chose to simul-climb instead of belay each other, but it’s nowhere close to hard for me.

Each piece of rock is gone over three times so we can free the anchor at the bottom of the rope.

It’s child’s play for me, but given how Peggy Jo is huffing and straining, I’m not sure another outing like this is in our future.

I’ve been climbing with Peggy Jo since I was fifteen years old, and she’s getting to an age now where I wonder if she’s starting to slow down. Maybe this “easy climb”, one we’re both familiar with and didn’t use to trouble her in the least, is her way of starting to admit that to herself—and to me.

Although, Alex Honnold’s mother climbed the Easy Rider route on El Capitan at age sixty-six, and I think if Peggy Jo stays fit and doesn’t get injured, she could do that too.

She’s only sixty now. She’s limber, strong, and tough.

She just needs to train more regularly again to keep up her stamina. I’ll bring that up to her.

The chiming of our clanking cams and carabiners bounces off the rock, an ever-present “birdsong” as we make our way up.

At the top, the view is nice. My muscles don’t even burn; that’s how easy the climb is for me, but when Peggy Jo sighs, I suddenly wonder if there’s another reason she’s taken me up such easy pitches.

One I might like even less than the idea that she’s slowing down. Maybe she wants to talk with me.

I take a long swallow of water and steel myself for it.

“So…” she begins.

Ugh. I knew it.

“I’ve spoken to Henry…”

I wipe sweat from my brow. It’s more from the sun that’s shining hot and bright than from exertion. From the looks of the wide open sky, it’s only going to get warmer.

“Did you hear me?”

I shrug. If Henry’s talked to Peggy Jo, it’s probably not great news. I avoid his calls typically. He insisted a few years back that I set Peggy Jo up with financial power of attorney for a reason. This one, I guess.

“He says at this rate you’ve got, at most, a year of cash left before that trust fund is gone.”

I frown. “Money is meaningless.”

“Until you need to replace something on the van or you want food in your belly. Come on, Dan. All he’s suggesting is that the time has come to look into sponsorships, writing journal articles, speaking engagements, that sort of thing.

Your reputation is strong enough now. The community will vouch for you.

Even if they think you’re odd, they’re going to admit you’re one of the best.”

“I don’t climb for money.”

Peggy Jo sighs. “Fine, but you can’t climb without food, gear, gas…”

I wrinkle my nose in distaste. It’s true, but I don’t want to hear it.

Worrying about things like that is a distraction.

Distractions slow you down or fuck you up, and free solo enthusiasts can’t afford either.

A distraction at the wrong time can be life-ending.

I’d ended up with a mouthful of dirt earlier, hadn’t I, all because of some other climber’s distraction.

Up until now, I’ve been lucky to have the trust fund—weird as it was to receive initially—but I’ve never felt attached to it.

The money’s always felt unearned and undeserved.

“He can talk to me about it again when I’ve sent the route.” I scratch an itch behind my ear. “For that, I only need a few months.”

Peggy Jo glances at me sharply. “You’re still determined to do it this October, huh?”

“I am.”

“You’re insane.”

I shrug. I hear that a lot. No one has attempted what I’m going to do and it’s arguable no sane person would. So, yeah, maybe I am out of my mind. “We’ll see.”

“The weather isn’t even optimal for it. August and September, the wall’s still too hot for reliable training.”

“I’ll send it in late October or early November. It’ll be fine.”

Peggy Jo’s expression grows grim. “Are you planning on dying in the attempt?”

“No.” Though it can’t be ruled out, and designing my life around some nebulous future, jumping through hoops to get sponsorships or speaking engagements—both of which I’d suck at—when I’m not even sure I’ll make it to Christmas seems arrogant.

Better to live tightly focused on the present. Better to plan for no future at all.

“Then you’re gonna need money.”

“I’ll deal with it after.”

Peggy Jo groans, throwing her hands at the sky in frustration. “Sometimes I wish I’d never taken you up on that first wall.”

“I’d have found someone else to do it.”

“I know you would have.” Laying her arm across my shoulder, she squeezes me.

Her fingers are chalked up, warm, and familiar.

She’s one of the only people who ever touches me—aside from the men I hook up with.

I’m not fond of the backslapping, hugging culture of climbers, and they’ve all learned from my cringes that I’m not interested in hugs or in them.

But Peggy Jo never holds back. She treats me like a mother would.

Ha. A mother.

Like I even know what that means…

“Henry said you have a year of money left if you’re lucky . Look, I could place a few calls. A sponsorship would be the easiest to get. All you’d need to do is agree to use sponsored gear and allow some photos to be taken while you’re climbing with it, and—”

“I don’t want to do that.”

“You don’t want to do what you love? Paid for by a company with nothing to lose but cash? And your picture splashed over a major advertisement for some teenager to see and be inspired by?”

I shake my head. “The last thing I want is teenagers looking up to me.”

“Why? You looked up to Alex when you were younger. That’s what started all this, remember?”

“Of course, I do. But this is my journey. Mine. It’s important that I keep it that way.”

“I know you’re fiercely protective of your climbing experience,” Peggy Jo says. “But I don’t understand. Climbing should be a communal thing. You make it as private and solitary as you can. Where did I go wrong?”

She uses her arm still around my shoulder to shake me slightly. “I got you into this to give you community and friends, and you just…” She throws up her free hand.

I extricate myself from her hug. “I’ll make more friends when I’m finished achieving my goals.”

“You’ll never be finished, so you’ll never have any friends.”

“You act like no one likes me,” I say. “I have some friends.”

“Who?” She tilts her head, a dare in her eyes as if I’m lying.

“I have you, and Lowell, and Rye.” I count out three fingers. “And I’m on speaking terms with plenty of climbers. It’s not like they shun me. I’ve even climbed with some of the bigger names a couple of times.”

I haven’t climbed with Alex Honnold, though.

The worst thing I can imagine is getting to know the guy.

There’s no way he’ll be everything I want him to be, and I’d rather not be disappointed.

I know enough from his books, interviews, and the documentaries and clips I’ve seen of him anyway. That’s all I ever need to know.