Jordan, lines and tackle slung over his shoulders, walked along the creek. The morning air was damp, full of earth and decay and the warning sensations of autumn. Winter would close the mountain soon and he felt desperate to reach the summit before it froze shut.
The water beside him churned and bubbled, washing little red and gold boats along its course. Few of them would reach the river and fewer still the ocean. The leaves would soon waterlog and sink, coating the streambed and nurturing the little ecosystem.
At the fordhook he came upon a little ivy covered stone cottage nestled beside a huge tree hanging over the water. The tree had stood longer, and grown taller, than any other as far as one, even perched on its top most branch, could see. Its mighty crown towered over the woods, challenging all others of its kind to surpass it in greatness. The sky, intolerant of such arrogance, answered the challenge with many a lightning strike. Eight long armed men locked hand in hand would be lucky to wrap its broad trunk, but the punishment of the sky, and the ravages of time, and fire, and sharp-clawed creature, had hollowed it until its outer wall was no thicker than the latest best-selling hardcover. Still the proud thing sprouted every spring. Its few remaining branches bloomed broad, green leaves and the tree lived on in spite of an impossibly dead body.
It was here, between the tree and the creek bank that he found her. “Hello Ali.”
“Hello...” She upturned her palms to signify a question mark.
“Jordan.”
“Hello Jordan, are you enjoying the fall?”
“Which one?” His voice grumbled more than he intended, her question bringing back the bite of disappointment.
She didn’t seem to notice. “I see you have new lines.”
Unconsciously he gripped the rope. “I had to. You cut the old one, remember.”
“So.”
“So? So I had to buy new ones, that’s so.”
Without so much as a grunt she walked away. He stood watching her, unsure whether he was being brushed off, or if she intended for him to follow.
She walked to a wooden door, the top of which slanted down in order to clear the low roof of her small cottage. “Come here,” she ordered more then requested. She opened the door and stepped in, her voice echoed. “I want you to see this.”
As he walked to the edge of a small flowerbed Ali stepped out carrying a long, heavy coil of rope. She dropped a looped end, then began to walk along the creek path, splaying out her line.
He followed slowly, his eyes trained on close inspection; his heart perched on a tightrope walk.
With a slap she dropped the remaining coil. “What do you think?”
He stopped walking and let his eyes move up and down the line, studying each knot, splice, and hasp. His head nodded absently. “I think it’s amazing. Perfect really. I...I don’t know what to say.”
“Pick it up.”
He resisted as if it were a delicate work of art.
“Go on, pick it up. It won’t bite you.”
He bent down, as nervous as if he were about to touch a delicate work of art, and carefully lifted a section of line, paying close attention to the splice there.
“Now what do you think?”
His fingers contacted something very small, minute really; a bit of fray along the line. He turned it over. There, barely visible, was a small, awkward splice. A short section of line had been added, line that didn’t really fit; its diameter was too small, and it was poly, not cotton like the rest. Then, as he looked along the length of uncoiled rope, he noticed many such splices and other discrepancies. The knots weren’t consistent; some were a bit large, and others small. He looked up at her and felt embarrassed. He dropped the line and stood; wiping his hand on his pants as if his discovery had somehow soiled them.
She stood, arms crossed, staring at him. “So what do you think?”
“Yeah,” he said, shifting his eyes from the line. “I think it’s great.”
Anger flared in her eyes. She stomped up to him, setting her nose a fraction of a millimeter from the end of his, which meant she had to lean her tall frame down quite a bit. “Do not waste my time. I’m busy, and I’m behind, and I’m not perfect.” She almost barked as she spoke. Then she stepped back and asked again, her voice firm, but less angry. “What do you think?” She pointed down with her eyes and re-crossed her arms.
He chewed his lower lip, looking the line over. He considered what to say that wouldn’t raise her ire, then relented himself to the truth. “Well, it’s been spliced a lot. And a few of the knots are a little off, just a little though, and the main line is getting kinda frayed.
“Yes!” She stomped up to him and planted a firm, yet harmless smack to the side of his head, brushing his hair up in a tangled wave. “I’m a climber too, and I make mistakes, you just make more than me.” Her eyes dropped down to his line. “A lot more than me. Now why did you buy new lines?”
“You cut the old one?” He asked this time, hoping his change of tone would somehow alter her reaction.
“Did you look at my lines?”
“Yeah.”
“And do you think I just chuck them out every time I hit a snag, or couldn’t get a hasp to fit?”
His face rolled open in a wave of understanding. “You spliced them together; you found other bits and different knots to make what you had work. That’s why some of them are different.”
“Bingo. That’s what climbers do; we make what we have work.”
“How do I learn that?”
“I don’t know.”
His understanding washed away. “I thought you were going to teach me.”
“I can teach you knots, and hardware, and list you every splice I know, but you have to figure out how you’re going to put them together, otherwise you’ll just be copying my climbs and that’s not the way we move up the mountain. Not unless you want to use auto-lines and winches.”
“He did move up quickly.”
“And he’ll fall even quicker, but you go ahead if you want. You won’t be the first I watched take that fall. And that’s the one we don’t come back from.”
“No. I want to make my own climbs.”
“Then go home.” She began to recoil her line. “Take out your old line and start again. Now I have my own climb to make and I don’t have any more time to spare. Come back in a month.”
“A month!” burst from his mouth before he had a chance to contain it.
“A month.” She carried the line and dropped in on her front stoop. “And practice your knots,” she called as she walked in and closed the door.
As he walked home he was surprised to find that the more he contemplated Ali’s words, the more excitement replaced his disappointment. She was a pro, a real climber, and the first that ever took the time to talk to him technique. Suddenly all the books, and videos, and boring lectures were out the window. He was about to enter a whole new world, a world of spliced lines, and ill fitting hasps, and frayed ropes, that in the end run out silky smooth. Suddenly the top of the mountain didn’t seem so far up or so dangerous.
His pace quickened. He hurried for home, eager to drag out his lines and start anew. A fresh hope filled his head and recharged his dreams.