without causing the whole thing to tumble to the valley floor. Even if he were to hang onto a tree and climb to the top, he’d still be ten feet from the ledge. With great weather and the right equipment, I suppose it could be climbed. But we’re missing both. I look to the sky and then back down at Paul.
“What should I do?” I ask.
“Tie the rope around the knife and lower it to me. Be very careful; it’s my life on the line.” He laughs. Everything is still a joke to him. In the hospital, I never liked his type.
The snow starts to fall again, not too hard, but it is being blown sideways by the wind, making it more difficult to wrap the rope around the knife. Instead, I make a loop of the rope and pull it against the tip of the blade. I jiggle the tip back and forth until it slices through the rope. Then I wrap the rope around the handle and tie a knot and double it—it’s the only knot I know how to make.
I slowly feed the rope over the edge and gently drop the blade down to Paul. He reaches out and pulls in the rope and the blade and wraps the rope around his forearm. One of his hands must be cold because he’s using his mouth to undo the knot.
“Don’t cut yourself,” I shout.
“That’s a good sign when the philosopher jokes,” he shouts. “Means she isn’t scared shitless.” He pauses for a second and then looks up at me with a smile. “I’m glad one of us isn’t.”
He laughs to himself while perched precariously above death. Somehow I find it inspiring. I clench my fist and kneel down, nervously watching Paul maneuver in his seat.
He frees the knife by remaking the loop and holding it in one hand and pulling the knife out with his mouth. He looks up at me with the blade tight between his teeth like a pirate.
He grabs the knife with his right hand and then places it inside his jacket. He examines the seat and the tree, and I watch his eyes, trying to discern what is plaguing him, what it is he can possibly do to get out of the seat and then up the cliff.
The problem, from my viewpoint, becomes increasingly clear. The seat belt is hooked around a large branch. When cut, it will release the full weight of the seat and Paul. Another branch may hold them both up, but odds suggest he would be free-falling to his death.
“You can’t cut it,” I shout, fearing he hasn’t figured that out.
“I know, but I have to.”
Dusk is blooming above us, and because we are in a valley and the light is diminished, we should be in total darkness in less than an hour.
Then what?
“Tie the rope around your waist. Then cut the belt. I’ll secure myself here and then we’ll walk you up.” That’s me calling down. I’m not sure where the idea comes from—or my bravado and confidence.
He watches me for a moment and makes a decision.
“Find a tree to brace yourself against!” he calls up.
I scan the area around me and choose a pine fairly close to the edge.
Paul moves the rope around his torso with one hand, and it takes longer than you might expect. He fastens a big knot he fits tightly under his armpits. He calls up to me, “Hey, I’m gonna cut this; are you ready?”
“No! Wait!”
I tie the rope around my waist and walk back maybe ten feet from the edge and crawl around a small tree whose branches sprout out a few feet above the snow. I’m careful to keep the rope free of branches that could cause fraying or a cut, but I make certain it’s wrapped well around the tree. I only wish I had enough rope to go around twice. Then I get to my feet and walk to the edge, pulling the rope behind me. I hold up my thumb. He nods and then starts sawing the belt.
It starts to fray immediately, and the shoulder strap snaps free. The seat totters and then dangles in mid-air around Paul’s waist. He is jammed on a branch and lets out a blood-shocking scream. It is the sound of agony itself. He slams the knife down toward his side. Then, snap! The whole seat falls and I am lifted into the air with
“What should I do?” I ask.
“Tie the rope around the knife and lower it to me. Be very careful; it’s my life on the line.” He laughs. Everything is still a joke to him. In the hospital, I never liked his type.
The snow starts to fall again, not too hard, but it is being blown sideways by the wind, making it more difficult to wrap the rope around the knife. Instead, I make a loop of the rope and pull it against the tip of the blade. I jiggle the tip back and forth until it slices through the rope. Then I wrap the rope around the handle and tie a knot and double it—it’s the only knot I know how to make.
I slowly feed the rope over the edge and gently drop the blade down to Paul. He reaches out and pulls in the rope and the blade and wraps the rope around his forearm. One of his hands must be cold because he’s using his mouth to undo the knot.
“Don’t cut yourself,” I shout.
“That’s a good sign when the philosopher jokes,” he shouts. “Means she isn’t scared shitless.” He pauses for a second and then looks up at me with a smile. “I’m glad one of us isn’t.”
He laughs to himself while perched precariously above death. Somehow I find it inspiring. I clench my fist and kneel down, nervously watching Paul maneuver in his seat.
He frees the knife by remaking the loop and holding it in one hand and pulling the knife out with his mouth. He looks up at me with the blade tight between his teeth like a pirate.
He grabs the knife with his right hand and then places it inside his jacket. He examines the seat and the tree, and I watch his eyes, trying to discern what is plaguing him, what it is he can possibly do to get out of the seat and then up the cliff.
The problem, from my viewpoint, becomes increasingly clear. The seat belt is hooked around a large branch. When cut, it will release the full weight of the seat and Paul. Another branch may hold them both up, but odds suggest he would be free-falling to his death.
“You can’t cut it,” I shout, fearing he hasn’t figured that out.
“I know, but I have to.”
Dusk is blooming above us, and because we are in a valley and the light is diminished, we should be in total darkness in less than an hour.
Then what?
“Tie the rope around your waist. Then cut the belt. I’ll secure myself here and then we’ll walk you up.” That’s me calling down. I’m not sure where the idea comes from—or my bravado and confidence.
He watches me for a moment and makes a decision.
“Find a tree to brace yourself against!” he calls up.
I scan the area around me and choose a pine fairly close to the edge.
Paul moves the rope around his torso with one hand, and it takes longer than you might expect. He fastens a big knot he fits tightly under his armpits. He calls up to me, “Hey, I’m gonna cut this; are you ready?”
“No! Wait!”
I tie the rope around my waist and walk back maybe ten feet from the edge and crawl around a small tree whose branches sprout out a few feet above the snow. I’m careful to keep the rope free of branches that could cause fraying or a cut, but I make certain it’s wrapped well around the tree. I only wish I had enough rope to go around twice. Then I get to my feet and walk to the edge, pulling the rope behind me. I hold up my thumb. He nods and then starts sawing the belt.
It starts to fray immediately, and the shoulder strap snaps free. The seat totters and then dangles in mid-air around Paul’s waist. He is jammed on a branch and lets out a blood-shocking scream. It is the sound of agony itself. He slams the knife down toward his side. Then, snap! The whole seat falls and I am lifted into the air with
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