The sun peeked up over the top of the ridge as we walked along the bottom of the big granite wall. The sky was cold and blue, and my breath condensed in soft white clouds. It was still cold, but with the sun up, the day would quickly grow hot.
The granite wall was enormous, a gray slab towering straight up. I had to bend backwards to see the top. At the start of the climb, a thin crack in the face slanted up and to the right. White chalk left by old climbers outlined the crack like a scar. I ran my hand across the hard, rough rock.
I cinched my harness tight around my waist and checked my protection rack. My collection of wedges, hexes, and camlocks jangled on its web loop.
The route would be two pitches to the top, with a belay point on a big ledge halfway up.
"Ready?" I asked.
She began to uncoil the rope. "OK," she said.
* * *
The first time I saw her, she was naked. It was in the gray dim light just before dawn, and I made a trip down to the river to fill my water bottles. I followed the dusty path down through the rocks and low brush. Birds in the fir trees chirped like maniacs.
I came around a bend in the trail and there she was, facing away from me, standing knee deep in the river. She stood at the edge of the heavy current, and the fast-moving water swirled and sucked around her legs. She stood firmly, looking upstream. Her light blond hair was cropped evenly at shoulder length. Her bare butt was clenched defiantly.
But it was not her nakedness that struck me hardest. It was not unusual to see naked people in the river. A few hundred feet upstream was "The Tub," a deep, still pool where long-term campers often bathed, usually _au naturel_.
Instead, what struck me hardest was her bare back. The triangular shape of her upper body. Her muscular shoulders and V-shaped torso. She _looked_ like a climber.
I stood and watched for a few moments. I could not figure out what she was doing. Could she be trying to ford the river? But the current was too deep and fast, she would never make it across. Could she be bathing? But The Tub was a much superior place to get cleaned up.
She turned her head and I think she saw me. But she did not make another move. She did not even confirm my presence. She simply turned her gaze back upstream.
I turned around and went back to my campsite.
* * *
The "climbing rope" is misnamed. A climber always climbs rock, never the rope itself. The rope serves as emergency protection, a guard against falling. The only time the rope is used is to stop disaster.
It is the lead climber's responsibility to anchor the rope during the climb up. He does this by periodically wedging various pieces of protection into cracks in the rock, and attaching the rope through carabiners and webbing.
The lead's partner, the belayer, sits on the ground with the other end of the rope. If the lead climber falls, the belayer must hold the rope fast. A belayer must be vigilant. An unprepared belayer may have the rope yanked suddenly out of her hands.
It was my job to lead. It was her responsibility to catch me in case of a fall.
Our roles set, we prepared to climb.
I tied the rope into my harness while she tied a belay line around the thick stump of an old pine. She worked her knots quickly and easily.
She sat down on the ground and wrapped the blue braided climbing rope around her hips. The loose coils lay near her left hand, the brake hand. Her other hand, the feeling hand, held the rope that came to me. She placed her dusty climbing shoes up against two big rocks on the ground, bracing herself. She pulled up the slack in the rope until it tugged at my hips.
I coated my hands with chalk from the nylon bag tied to my waist.
"On belay?" I said, a mere formality. She was ready.
She looked me dead in the eye. "Belay on," she answered.
"Climbing," I said, and I put my foot up on the rock.
"Climb," she answered.
* * *
The next time I saw her was at the Safeway in town. I was buying food for the next few days and I saw her from behind, walking down an aisle. She wore cut-off shorts and a white ribbed tank top. I would recognize her shoulders anywhere.
After I bought my food, she was standing outside the store with a plastic grocery bag dangling from each hand.
"Hello," I said.
She looked at me and nodded. Her eyes were steely and her face was deeply tanned. Her lips looked a little chapped. Her white top clung tightly to her tits, and her nipple points were clearly visible.
"I think I saw you the other day, down in the stream," I said.
"Uh huh."
"Are you staying in the campground?"
"Yes."
"How long are you here for?"
She shrugged. "Until we get tired of being here. I guess."
I didn't know what else to say, and I was about to turn to leave, when she spoke up. "Do you have a car?" she asked.
"Back at the campground."
"Not here?"
"No. I rode my bicycle."
"Too bad," she said. "I could use a ride."
I looked her in the eye, and a faint smile touched her lips.
"Then how did you get here?" I asked.
She stuck up her thumb and waved it. "Hitched."
I stuffed my groceries in my bicycle panniers. I rolled my bicycle over and stood at its side. "Do you climb?" I asked.
She nodded. "Some. But nothing hard."
"Maybe we could climb sometime."
"Sure." She shifted both grocery bags into one hand. She glanced off towards the road. "Well, I need to find a ride. I got to get going."
"OK. See you."
I got up on my bike and pedaled back towards camp.
* * *
The first few moves up the rock were easy, simple finger jams, easy foot placements, and up the crack I went. I paused at a nice finger-wide ledge, placed a hex nut into the crack, and clipped the rope in. A good, bombproof placement for protection. This piece would hold a hard fall. I looked down. Her face was pure concentration, the rope securely held around her hips.
I looked up. The crack dwindled off to the right. Straight up, it looked like there was a big handhold. I tried to remember what I had read about the route. There should be a permanent bolt somewhere up there where things began to look impossible.
I twisted my hand into the crack, felt the security of rough granite against my fingers, brought my feet up, got tension in my legs, and pressed upwards.
* * *
I looked for her down at the stream every morning. But for a whole week, she was never there. I thought she had gone back to wherever she had come from.
My climbing partner then left to go back to work, and I was on my own. My first day alone I walked through the campground but found no one who was interested in climbing that day. So I practiced on the boulders around the campground and checked over my ropes and equipment.
Mid-afternoon came and it got hot. Black biting flies buzzed all around, a real nuisance. It was uncomfortably hot, and I was bored. I decided to go to the river to cool off.
And there she was again, standing in the river, water flowing around her knees. And again, she was stark naked.
For a moment, I considered turning to leave. But I did not want to leave. I wanted to stare for a moment. I wanted to look at her nakedness, her tanned, sinewy body, her pert breasts with big dark nipples, the voluptuous curve of her muscular hip. Her rounded shoulders and shapely thighs.
But I also did not want to spy. If I were intruding on a private moment, she had the right to know. Saying something would be the polite thing to do. I walked up closer to the stream. The water roared. "Hello," I called out.
She turned to look at me. She stumbled a little in the swift current but caught herself. Water splashed up to her thighs. Her whole body was deeply tanned; she apparently sunbathed nude. She had thick, blond pubic hair. She made no effort at all to cover up.
"What is it?" she yelled. I could barely hear her over the roar of the river.
"Nothing."
"What?" She cupped her hand to her ear.
"Nothing!"
"I can't hear you!"
"I said `Nothing!'"
She scrambled towards the bank. I was embarrassed. A naked woman was fighting her way through the big rocks in the streambed for the stupidest possible reason, because I didn't want her to think I was spying on her. I wanted to turn and leave her alone, but now that she was making the effort to get out of the river, I had to stay. I shifted my weight from side to side.
She got within a few yards and was close enough to hear. "What did you say?" she said.
"Nothing. I'm sorry. I just wanted to say hello."
"Oh." She ran her fingers back through her hair. Her pectoral muscle flexed, and my gaze was drawn to her naked breast. I wished she had some clothes on.
I was so uncomfortable I wanted to run away. But I had to say something. I couldn't leave it with just a hello. "What were you doing out there?" I asked.
She shrugged. "Nothing."
"I was just going to cool off in The Tub."
"Oh. OK." She looked back out into the roaring river.
I fidgeted. I had to get out of there. "See you," I said.
"Bye," she said.
And I turned away. Turning away was a relief. I didn't like standing there talking to her while she was naked. It would be easier to get in The Tub, wash off, and soak in the cold water. And maybe think about climbing.
* * *
The rock was not completely vertical, there were frequent dents and bumps, so the climb upwards went easily. I built up some momentum, and I was soon holding onto the knob I had seen from below. There was a good crack there; I placed a big wedge, another solid piece of protection.
I looked ahead. Two parallel cracks ran up towards a permanent bolt that had been drilled into the rock. The bolt marked the start of the most difficult part of the climb. My route book described that section above the bolt as "awkward." Other climbers had called it "a bastard."
