tight space. And he will release his hands, so that he is suspended by just his feet jammed heel and toe into the crack, batlike and sometimes hundreds of feet off the ground, and do it all over again, inching along until he can pull himself over the lip.
The irritation emanating from him is probably due to the fact that his far younger girlfriend appears to be flirting with me, and maybe also because his recognition isn't more widespread. The multitalented, high-altitude climbers are the ones who receive the adoration of the broad population of armchair climbing enthusiasts. Like Messner, Beckey, Bridwell, and Viesturs. The specialists are largely ignored. And Heller, nearing forty, has to be in decline from the height of his powers.
The girl interrupts before he has a chance to answer. “Wait a sec—I've seen
you
somewhere—you're Something Burns, right? There was some article 'bout you in a climbing mag a few years back. Alaska?”
I smile, pathetically pleased myself to be recognized for something other than the deaths of three gang members. It was another life entirely and a good one. An article was published after I summitted an unclimbed alpine face with two close friends in Alaska. The trip was terrifying at the time, it seemed like an epic of ancient Greek proportions, but like most alpine trips it improved with time and hindsight. Whenever I look closely in the mirror I remember it. My cheekbone was smashed by a chunk of weather-loosened granite the size of a dinner plate, forever marking me with the pale scar that runs from under one eye to my upper lip. And a day later one of my friends took a long dive and broke his ankle when the rope finally caught him, slamming him against the wall. I rappelled off the mountain with him, cut two leg-holes in the bottom of my pack, and staggered out across the glacier with him on my back, his arms wrapped around my neck. It earned me minor hero status in the climbing community for a short time. The magazine expressed it as a self-sufficient contrast to the usual European tactic of calling for a rescue after the slightest injury, like a hangnail. The magazine published a feature article with photographs.
“My first name's Antonio, but everyone calls me Anton. For some reason Tony never stuck.”
Heller sort of grins at me, his mouth twisting with what I guess is bitterness or envy, and says, “I remember that. Haven't heard about you doing anything new since then, though.”
When I look at his face I see the jaw muscles still flexed under his tight skin. The words are too pointed to be friendly, the smile too mocking. I'm disconcerted by his apparent and immediate dislike for me; likability and a sense of cool are what have made me successful as an undercover investigator.
“I'm Lynn White,” the girl says, squeezing my upper arm with her own small, tough hand. “And over at the table are Chris and Brad, and some other guys on a road trip through here.”
I turn and give them a small wave. None of them gets up or acknowledges me with anything other than a brief look. The wiry one she pointed out as Brad resembles the County Attorney, Nathan Karge, although Brad wears blond dreadlocks. He has the same coldly handsome features. I figure he must be the son, the one who was with the girl four nights ago when she fell off the cliff and died. The funeral was just yesterday but it looks like he has finished mourning—I watch as he laughs and sprays beer from his mouth.
Lynn says to Billy, “Saw this guy up at Vedauwoo today. He was soloing on Crankenstine.” Then to me, somewhat proudly, “Billy climbed that once with a broken ankle. Did the whole damned thing with just one foot.”
I'm impressed and say so. “It scared the hell out of me today. With both feet.”
Billy doesn't say anything, so Lynn goes on, “Billy's been here for just three years but he's already put up more than twenty routes that are 5.12 or harder.”
I try again to be polite and say, “I
The irritation emanating from him is probably due to the fact that his far younger girlfriend appears to be flirting with me, and maybe also because his recognition isn't more widespread. The multitalented, high-altitude climbers are the ones who receive the adoration of the broad population of armchair climbing enthusiasts. Like Messner, Beckey, Bridwell, and Viesturs. The specialists are largely ignored. And Heller, nearing forty, has to be in decline from the height of his powers.
The girl interrupts before he has a chance to answer. “Wait a sec—I've seen
you
somewhere—you're Something Burns, right? There was some article 'bout you in a climbing mag a few years back. Alaska?”
I smile, pathetically pleased myself to be recognized for something other than the deaths of three gang members. It was another life entirely and a good one. An article was published after I summitted an unclimbed alpine face with two close friends in Alaska. The trip was terrifying at the time, it seemed like an epic of ancient Greek proportions, but like most alpine trips it improved with time and hindsight. Whenever I look closely in the mirror I remember it. My cheekbone was smashed by a chunk of weather-loosened granite the size of a dinner plate, forever marking me with the pale scar that runs from under one eye to my upper lip. And a day later one of my friends took a long dive and broke his ankle when the rope finally caught him, slamming him against the wall. I rappelled off the mountain with him, cut two leg-holes in the bottom of my pack, and staggered out across the glacier with him on my back, his arms wrapped around my neck. It earned me minor hero status in the climbing community for a short time. The magazine expressed it as a self-sufficient contrast to the usual European tactic of calling for a rescue after the slightest injury, like a hangnail. The magazine published a feature article with photographs.
“My first name's Antonio, but everyone calls me Anton. For some reason Tony never stuck.”
Heller sort of grins at me, his mouth twisting with what I guess is bitterness or envy, and says, “I remember that. Haven't heard about you doing anything new since then, though.”
When I look at his face I see the jaw muscles still flexed under his tight skin. The words are too pointed to be friendly, the smile too mocking. I'm disconcerted by his apparent and immediate dislike for me; likability and a sense of cool are what have made me successful as an undercover investigator.
“I'm Lynn White,” the girl says, squeezing my upper arm with her own small, tough hand. “And over at the table are Chris and Brad, and some other guys on a road trip through here.”
I turn and give them a small wave. None of them gets up or acknowledges me with anything other than a brief look. The wiry one she pointed out as Brad resembles the County Attorney, Nathan Karge, although Brad wears blond dreadlocks. He has the same coldly handsome features. I figure he must be the son, the one who was with the girl four nights ago when she fell off the cliff and died. The funeral was just yesterday but it looks like he has finished mourning—I watch as he laughs and sprays beer from his mouth.
Lynn says to Billy, “Saw this guy up at Vedauwoo today. He was soloing on Crankenstine.” Then to me, somewhat proudly, “Billy climbed that once with a broken ankle. Did the whole damned thing with just one foot.”
I'm impressed and say so. “It scared the hell out of me today. With both feet.”
Billy doesn't say anything, so Lynn goes on, “Billy's been here for just three years but he's already put up more than twenty routes that are 5.12 or harder.”
I try again to be polite and say, “I
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