Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
sublime (adj.): tending to inspire awe
“October’s about as good as it gets for climbing at Smith Rock,” Meg says forty-five minutes later, as she pulls her lifted Bronco into the parking lot of the state park known to climbing enthusiasts worldwide.
Meg is always a pistol, but I’ve never seen her so hopped up.
She’s prattled nonstop, leveraging every moment of the drive for a vigorous training session, readying Steph Stoneback for their adventure.
Probably for the best. It kept me from peppering Steph Stoneback with inept jibber-jabber. Going forward, I’ve set what I hope are realistic expectations. If in the presence of one of my all-time favorite authors I manage to behave seminormal, I’ll count it a win.
The drive over also allowed me to familiarize myself with the contents of the company camera bag.
The Canon is well-suited to action photography and is similar to the one I learned on in college.
I’m probably overequipped with this beauty.
I can’t imagine climbing photography requires the fast burst rate of, say, a hurdles competition or pretty much any of the annual rodeo events, but I’ve got the speed if it’s needed.
Two zoom lenses and a tripod round out my gear load.
“Long as the winds don’t kick up, we’ll be golden,” Meg says as the three of us funnel out of the Bronco.
Golden is the perfect word for this. Morning sunlight bathes the panorama, where the Crooked River carves a trough through majestic rock formations. Towering pillars. Flat slabs. Craggy spires. All glowing in autumnal shades of red, gold, and amber.
By the time I’ve scrambled out of the back seat with all my gear, our illustrious guest is already poised by the split rail fence, taking in the view.
“Good golly,” Steph says. “This is . . . wow. Just wow.”
There’s something about witnessing this mighty woman of the pen at a loss for words that adds to my own sense of awe.
For someone who spins suspenseful tales, Steph Stoneback is somehow quieter than I would’ve guessed. She moves unhurriedly. Makes amazing eye contact.
Of course she’s quiet, you goof. She’s a writer, not a TV personality.
Steph continues to stare ahead. “How high are those rocks?” she asks Meg, who’s busy inspecting all the doohickeys in her fanny pack.
“Some rise as much as six hundred feet from the river. Smith Rock is the birthplace of sport climbing in the US.”
I had no idea about any of this. I hope she puts it all in her article.
Meg snaps on her pack. “There are nearly two thousand routes here. All levels of difficulty.”
I know from listening in on her conversation with Meg that the author has been working out at a climbing gym to prepare for this.
Steph is lean, average height, with hair the color of gun smoke corralled into a ponytail and blunt bangs.
She looks to be in great shape for someone with such a sedentary career.
Meg barks out assignments. I’m already loaded down, so she tasks Steph with carrying rope and helmets.
I zip up my light jacket. The morning is clear and crisp, on its way to sixty degrees. But for now, our path descending sharply toward the river gorge is still steeped in shadow.
“Look at that,” Steph says, humor in her voice. A sparrow alights on the low fence. A second sparrow, ostensibly its mate, keeps dive-bombing a hawk circling overhead.
Chree! Chree! it cries, really giving that much bigger bird the what-for. Protecting a nest, I’d guess.
“There’s a title,” I say as Steph and I take off hiking side by side, following Meg’s lead. “The Sparrow and the Hawk.”
“Indeed! Standing up to the bully,” she says. “Something we all have to do from time to time.” Chuckling, she elbows me lightly. “Especially when that bully is me.”
A moment later, curiosity gets the better of me. “How so? The bully thing. I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Oh, girl, I am my own worst critic. Mean as nails! I wouldn’t talk to my worst enemy the way I berate myself.”
We pass over a footbridge that crosses the laid-back river, then follow Mighty Meg’s lead, turning left along the river trail.
I swear the woman is part cheetah. She seems oblivious to how much ground we’re quickly losing to her long, confident strides.
I get that she’s excited and this is her pace, but I sense Steph would prefer to take it all in.
Like now, for example. I stop to wait while Steph lifts her phone and snaps some images of the mallard-green waters chuckling over rocks between the high red walls. It’s a luminous day, and there’s bird music, and the air smells tart and earthy.
Eventually, Meg realizes we’re lagging and waits for us on the trail ahead.
“You two, stand over there,” the author says once we catch up. We oblige while she takes our photo.
Again Meg pulls ahead.
I’m having trouble remembering why it’s such a bad idea to indulge my curiosity about the writing life. Steph is as personable as they come. And she’s right here.
“Do you ever doubt yourself?” I ask.
“Are you kidding? What writer doesn’t?”
The path widens as we round the next bend.
“Every time I open a new doc and stare at the blank page,” she says, coming alongside me, “that darn pulsing cursor, I just know this is it.”
“This is . . . it?”
She makes a slicing motion in front of her neck. “This is the time I fail. This is when the world finds out I’m a fluke. See, told you I was a self-bully.”
We move aside to allow a pair of hikers and their two German shepherds to pass in the other direction.
“So then, what do you do? When you’re stuck like that?”
“I type two words, chapter one, and then start shoveling sand into the sandbox. I let the words be mediocre and keep telling myself that later I’ll come back and build a few castles. ‘The scariest moment is always just before you start,’ Stephen King said. ‘After that, things can only get better.’”
Maybe on a good day that could be me, I think. A small, simple sparrow giving grief right back to my own circling hawk bully.
I’m not the one who’s supposed to be doing the interviewing, but dare I venture one more question?
Steph slows to watch swallows dip in and out of mud nests attached to the cliffs.
“Which of your characters are you most like?” I ask.
“All of them, in one way or another. I’m speaking of their weaknesses.
I can relate to all of those. Writing forces me to confront myself, my .
. . shadow self, guess you could say. Or to recall some earlier version of myself.
I’m forced to look that woman square in the eye with all her shortcomings, toss some chaos her way, and then help her find her way through the fear and doubt. ”
It’s exactly what I enjoy about her stories. Also, these are the kinds of factoids I’d enjoy reading in an article in the Messenger. An idea forms. I scratch mental notes.
“Oh my.” I follow the author’s gaze to where two ant-like figures are attempting to scale a towering stone monolith off in the distance.
Wild. I’m finally hiking one of the marvels of our high desert, and it’s with Steph Stoneback, of all people. And what’s weird is that it doesn’t feel weird. She feels like, dare I say it, my people. This moment is surreal and yet as real as the fine dust kicked up with each step.
I switch my gear load to the other shoulder and fall in line behind the author.
“Did you always want to be a writer?” she asks, turning back to face me. “Was it your dream from a young age?”
Oh. I didn’t anticipate the author reciprocating with questions of her own. Wait. I never said anything about being a writer.
“I noticed your byline in this morning’s Messenger. Well done.”
Ah. The Matt Hickey piece. I warm under Steph’s praise.
My heart travels back to all the hours spent clacking away at the typewriter in Nana’s kitchen.
I see my younger self curled up on my bed with a notebook, writing terrible poetry.
It never occurred to me that most people didn’t choose to spend their time this way.
“For as long as I can remember,” I say.
“Mmm. Well, as I see it, dreams are like the wind. Meant to carry us like seeds.” She waves her arm. “But rarely do they take us where we expected.”
“It’s not about the destination.”
“Exactly. It’s our openness to learn from the journey that gives us something worthwhile to write about. Something worth sharing.”
We’re approaching the place where Meg has come to a stop along the trail.
She indicates a labyrinth of stairs cut into the steep hill that leads up to a massive amber rock formation grooved like an accordion.
“There,” she says. “The Dihedrals.”
Meg mountain-goats it up the hill, and we follow, lugging our equipment to the base of the craggy wall. I palm the rough red rock and lean to catch my breath.
Meg juts her chin at one of the spinelike protrusions. “This one. This will be our route. No more than a hundred feet to that shelf up there. It’s a single-pitch climb, meaning we can do the whole thing with a single one-hundred-meter rope.”
Looking up, I spy shiny chrome bolts sunk into the rock at various points, higher, and higher, and still higher.
Hello.
So basically this is at least the equivalent of a nine-story building. A thought I keep to myself.
Steph surveys the pitch. Scratches her chin. Nods. I’m fairly certain her pupils are dilated.
“I’ve always wanted to do this,” she says, clenching and unclenching her fists. “Let’s go.”
Is it me, or are these people nuts?