Scene of the Climb (2 page)

“Charlie Reed's daughter or not, I'll need to see a writing sample, and I have to forewarn you the pay is terrible. Basic benefits. Two weeks of vacation, but on the flip side you'll get travel expenses. We have a very flexible working schedule, and I strongly encourage my staff to exercise and get outside. We're all a bunch of adrenaline junkies.”

“Great! No problem. I have a portfolio of clips—I can run and grab them. My place is only a couple blocks away,” I said too eagerly.

Greg stood and returned the chair to its normal position. “E-mail's fine.” He picked up the pink umbrella and rested it on the table. “You keep it.”

He turned and sauntered toward the door. Pausing, he looked over his shoulder and said, “By the way, you have whipped cream on your nose.”

My hand flew to my nose. I scraped the dried whipped cream off, grinned from ear to ear and raced to Jill's apartment, not noticing the pounding wind or caring that I was completely soaked again.

When I arrived at Jill's, the lights and heat were off. I dropped my newly acquired umbrella by the door and flew around the echoing room with its concrete floors and extensive windows, flipping on lights. A large oil canvas covered half of one of the slate walls.

I tried to avoid looking out the loft's windows. They make me dizzy.

Jill keeps blown-glass bowls filled with Skittles, M&M's and jelly beans on the island countertop. Her addiction to candy is legendary. Somehow it never goes to her thighs. I snatched a handful of Skittles and dug my laptop out from my bag. I tapped nervously on the granite countertop as my machine hummed to life.
Come on, come on.

I Googled Greg Dixon. A hefty list of links popped up. Apparently in addition to managing
Northwest Extreme,
he's a world-class rock climber. And ridiculously gorgeous. I found myself clicking on every photo and expanding them to full screen.

Next, I looked over the
Northwest Extreme
Web site where I discovered the job posting.

Do you love adventure? Are you an intrepid pioneer with a pen and penchant for travel?
Northwest Extreme
seeks an entry-level reporter with reckless abandon to cover everything from motocross to snowboarding. Degree in journalism, editorial and layout experience and a lust for physical challenges required. Send salary, résumé and three published clips.

I met all the necessary requirements, minus the tiny detail of being an outdoor adventurer. Rather than listening to the nagging voice in my head telling me this was not the job for me, I texted Jill.

 

Emergency!!! Might have a job. Lunch in 30?

 

Yay! For sure. Raindrop?

 

Thirty minutes later, while waiting at the Raindrop, a swanky cocktail bar, I scanned my phone for my best clips. Once I picked my top three, I attached them to an e-mail. The waitress came by twice to see if I'd prefer a glass of chardonnay or something other than water. She glared when I flashed her a grin and said, “Nope, water's great.”

The Pearl is renowned for its $12 sandwich shops, art galleries, spas and expensive eco-vibe. Living on Jill's couch might be free, but nothing within walking distance was in my budget.

I could tell Jill had arrived before she made her way to the table. The energy in the room shifted. Men sat taller in their seats. Heads turned in the direction of the door. Jill breezed in wearing a silky caramel-colored raincoat. Water beaded and rolled off with ease. She glided over to me completely unaware that half the restaurant was undressing her with their eyes.

“Meg, what's up?” Jill settled herself in the empty chair across from me and squeezed my hand. Her fingernails were cut short and painted with a translucent polish that made them shimmer.

“Why are you wet?”

“I ran all the way here,” I said, pointing to my sopping raincoat on the back of the chair and leaning in so the table adjacent to us wouldn't hear our conversation. I spilled all the juicy details of my fateful coffee with Greg.

The waitress returned to take our order.

“I'll have a cup of coconut curry soup,” I said.

The waitress sneered as I declined a side salad or entrée. Raindrop prices were absolutely not in my budget. A cup of soup was going to set me back $8.

Jill ordered a diet Coke, poached salmon and mixed green salad with light dressing on the side.

“Why can't I eat like you?” I lamented as the waitress left with our order and we resumed our conversation.

Jill rolled her eyes and scoffed, “Aw, Meg, come on, you know you would never survive on salmon and salad. Plus, when are you ever going to start believing me? You're adorable.”

I didn't feel adorable. I felt like a drowned rat. It hadn't occurred to me in the excitement of a potential job offer to shower or change before meeting Jill. If I'd spent hours preening myself, I'd never compare to her beauty. Her mahogany locks fell in artistically cut layers to her shoulders and her fine bone structure could have hailed from aristocratic lineage. Jill's taste in clothes was equally elegant, preferring silk shirts and tailored pants to my Etsy and Goodwill vintage skirts.

I leaned over the table. “Listen, here's the deal. I met an editor, who happens to be supercute, although I think he's over thirty.”

Jill laughed. “You make it sound like thirty's old.”

“Well, it kind of is. Anyway, he might have a job for me.”

“What's the job?”

I strummed my fingers on my lips before answering, “Writing for
Northwest Extreme
magazine.”

“Oh my God, Meg. That's perfect. How many hours have you logged watching adventure races online for the last six months?”

“You don't even want to know. It's gotta be in the hundreds.”

“I think you need to bump that number up.”

“Come on, give me a break. I haven't had much to do lately. But in all seriousness, I feel terrible. I told him my dad was Charlie Reed. I can't believe I did that. It just kind of came out.”

Jill put her fork with a piece of salmon stuck on the end on her plate. “That's good, Meg. You should tell him. Charlie's someone to be proud of.”

“I know. It's not that. It's more that it feels weird to use him to get a job.”

“You're not using him. If he was here, he'd be knocking down every door to get you hired.”

I tasted my soup and sighed. “You're probably right. But there's another
little
problem. Greg, the editor, asked a bunch of questions about my climbing and outdoor skills. When I read the job description it sounds like they want someone with extreme sports experience. I need some ideas. Where'd you go rock climbing last month?”

Jill shook her head and poked at her salad, barely drizzling any dressing over the top. “Listen, Meg. You know I'll totally help, but you're not really thinking of claiming to be adventure girl for this gig, are you? I don't think it's a good idea.”

“What's the worst that can happen?”

“Where should I start? You could die! I mean seriously. Don't these kinds of reporters typically have to
do
the actual sports they're sent to cover?”

I slurped my soup. “Probably, but I can fake it. Plus you know how badly I need a job. And I know how badly you want me off your couch.”

Jill patted my hand. “You can stay on my couch as long as you need. I like the company.” She laughed as she continued. “I get it. I'll help, but please promise me you'll be careful.”

“I heart you,” I squealed, and scrambled for my laptop bag under the table so I could take copious notes on Jill's outdoor pursuits.

In college she'd competed on both the ski team and cross-country team. From an early age Jill's doctor parents carted her along on trekking vacations and sailboat races. They invited me on a ski trip once. I spent the entire weekend sliding the slopes on my derriere and sneaking into the lodge for hot chocolate. The last time I went sailing with Jill, I slipped climbing on the boat and sprained my ankle.

I was a hopeless case. Mother blamed it on Pops' genes, claiming I came out with his Reed family klutz. My only saving grace was my quick wit and fast fingers on a keyboard.

“Let me get this,” Jill said as the waitress handed us the bill.

“No way. I'll get my own.”

Jill tucked her credit card into the black sleeve. “You sure?”

I recovered a damp crumpled ten-dollar bill from my raincoat pocket and slapped it in the receipt holder. “I'm sure.”

Jill gave me a pleading look but didn't say more.

After she left to go back to work, I whipped out an e-mail highlighting my (okay, well, Jill's) many globetrotting ventures, reviewed my work and hit send. What did I have to lose?

Two weeks later I found myself employed. Sure, it wasn't
The O,
and I wasn't likely to be in a line for a Pulitzer anytime soon, but hey, a job's a job. And I had one. A bona fide writing job at that. I could officially call myself “a writer.”

All too soon I would come to regret the lie that landed me the position. But that thought was nowhere in my mind when I skipped into headquarters (my word for the converted warehouse where
Northwest Extreme
is located) on my first day.

The rustic space screamed writer. It smelled like writing with its earthy exposed brick walls. I didn't care that I was the youngest person on staff. I did care, however, that all of my coworkers were die-hard adventure enthusiasts. They snowboarded, climbed, parasailed and windsurfed.

As a kid, Pops took me hiking so I knew enough to get by. The problem is I'm far from a hard body. Nature walks are more my speed.

So I did what any legitimate journalist would do and studied up. I read everything I could on extreme climbing culture, versed myself in the lingo and most importantly, asked a lot of questions.

I think I endeared myself to my coworkers over my first few weeks on the job. It helped that I was willing to shag coffee and line-edit copy, a task that everyone else seemed to loathe.

It also helped that the entire office was consumed with preparing for the arrival of the Race the States contestants.

Race the States was the first-ever adventure race filming in Oregon. Ten participants had signed on for the race of a lifetime. Starting in New York City they competed in extreme outdoor events all across the country. At each stop one contestant was eliminated. The finale was set to take place here in Oregon in late April with the final three contestants battling it out for a million-dollar prize. Greg partnered with Race the States as an exclusive sponsor. We'd be allowed full access, interviews and on-air mentions when the race was broadcast nationwide in the fall.

 

 

After a couple months of writing junk filler, specking ad space and managing social media, I was surprised when Greg summoned me into his office on a sunny afternoon in April.

I hadn't seen much of him during my first months on the job. He'd been traveling to watch the earlier legs of the race. Getting called into his office for a one-on-one made me want to make a beeline for the front door.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to the cushy wingback chair in front of his desk as I poked my head in his office.

The walls were littered with photos, magazine covers and feature stories of him scaling cliffs and swinging into canyons. My stomach lurched as I settled into the chair. I wasn't sure if it was in reaction to his sultry body or because every time I was around him I seemed to stumble over my words.

Maybe I was trying too hard to act the part of adventure girl. I didn't want him to discover that my outdoor skills weren't quite as honed as those of everyone else on staff. Gam would say I wasn't living authentically and the Universe was simply bringing that fact to the surface.

“How you liking it here?” he asked, pushing his chair back and propping his feet on the desk.

I couldn't help but stare at his bulging muscles as he linked his fingers together and rested his head between them.

“Great! Really great. Yeah, everyone's been great.” God, I'm such an idiot. Could I string an intelligible sentence not containing the word
great
in it please?

Greg smirked. “I've heard talk around the office about you.”

Blood rushed to my head. I could hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I'd been found out. I must not have fooled my coworkers after all.

Greg sat up and pulled a file folder from a stack on his desk. He leafed through it while bile rose in my throat. I couldn't manufacture a story fast enough. I'd have to come clean and beg for mercy. After all, times were rough. I wasn't the only starving writer who might have fudged her qualifications in favor of a paycheck.

I gulped. “I can explain—”

Greg looked at me funny and cut me off. “I took a risk with you, Meg.”

Tears started to brim in my eyes.
Not now,
I willed myself, pursing my lips and nodding.

Closing the file, Greg held it in his hand, shaking it toward me. “There were staffers who didn't think you were ready, but I had a feeling about you.” He paused, staring hard at me. “And not just because of your dad.”

I blinked tears back and mumbled, “Allergies.”

Holding the file he said, “This is good. Consistently good. I knew you had it in you.”

“Huh?” I wiped water from underneath my eyelids.

“Impressive writing,” he said as he leafed through hard copies of the filler and sidebars I'd been tasked with. “Today is your lucky day, Meg. You probably heard that Mitch took a nasty fall off Smith Rock?”

I nodded. Mitch was
Northwest Extreme
's most seasoned writer. No one would question his athletic prowess. He'd scaled every peak on the planet, many times over. Last week a belay line snapped when he was climbing Smith Rock. He fell thirty feet, breaking his leg and dislocating his shoulder. It was the talk of the office.

“How's he doing?” I asked Greg.

“He'll be okay, but he's laid up for the moment. That's where you come in. I'm short-staffed and there's no one else to take Mitch's assignment.”

Could this really be happening? I fiddled with a button on my dress while waiting for him to continue.

“It's a big one. As you know, we're sponsoring Race the States. This is going to be huge for the magazine. I'm putting my trust in you.” He shoved a file in my hand.

I looked at it wide-eyed and managed to stammer out thanks.

An assignment. A real assignment. He was giving me an assignment. Poor Mitch, but yay me.

Bending over, he pulled a large box labeled
MERRELL
from under his desk. “We had a good laugh when these came in. I knew right away you were going to have to write this review.”

He chuckled as he removed the cutest pair of hiking boots I'd ever seen. They were black and brown with raspberry sherbet laces and midsoles.

“These are for me?” I asked, examining the boots.

“If they fit.”

“Huh?”

“You know how critical fit is when it comes to shoes. If these aren't the right size, expense a new pair.”

“Thanks.”

He waved me off. “I want a five-hundred-word sidebar on them. Gotta jump on a call here. Details on travel and expenses will be in your e-mail. Good luck.”

Trying to steady the paper quivering in my hand, I got to my feet and gushed another round of thanks for the assignment and the hiking boots. As I put my hand on the knob of his office door he called out, “Meg, by the way, you have something under your eye.”

I wiped my finger under my eyes. My mascara had bled. Great. I probably looked like a deranged football player. What was it with looking and acting like a fool anytime I saw Greg? He seemed to bring out the twelve-year-old girl in me.

Despite my Greg blunder, I floated to my desk. What luck. I thought I was about to get the boot, and instead scored a pair of new boots? The day couldn't get any better.

Well, maybe it could. I looked around at my coworkers, and suddenly felt like I might be in over my head.

It would have been instantly obvious to anyone who walked into the converted warehouse that housed
Northwest Extreme
that I was the newbie. The shirtwaist dress I was wearing with its green vertical stripes, sleeves that turn up and a tidy collar wasn't exactly in line with my coworkers' attire. Most were hearty Northwest types—lots of flannel and khaki. No pink. Climbing boots and Keens were standard issue. Writing copy from my desk hadn't warranted special attire. Going out in the field meant I needed to gear up my wardrobe,
like now
.

The folder Greg gave me outlined the details of my assignment. My mouth dropped open as I scanned the file. I'd be covering the final leg of Race the States. What an opportunity.
Thanks, Mitch!
I'd have to shoot him a get-well e-mail and promise to try to do justice to the feature.

Now, time to get to work. The three remaining contestants would be arriving from Arizona (the previous leg of the race) tomorrow. I'd be introduced to the racers and film crew at a meet-and-greet tomorrow night, followed by a hike at Angel's Rest to film b-roll footage and a welcome BBQ at our office the next day. The week was packed with climbs and press junkets all leading to the finale. I shuddered. This was the real deal.

I wondered what the three contestants would be like. They'd been competing against each other for the last two months for a shot at a million dollars. The race had taken them from New York to Kentucky and Texas to Utah with multiple stops between. Along the way the bulk of the contestants had been eliminated. These top three contenders must be ultra athletes. How was I going to keep pace with them?

I pushed aside used coffee cups, gum, reference guides and red Sharpie pens on my desk. Time to focus. I clicked on Greg's e-mail. First stop would be the library. I had some serious studying-up to do. The Race the States contestants would be climbing Angel's Rest, Beacon Rock, Table Mountain and zip-lining off the Bridge of the Gods.

As I scanned the e-mail for more details, I let out a little gasp. Under the category labeled billable expenses, one line stuck out: equipment and supply costs. Did that mean I could expense hiking gear? At least that way I'd look the part.

In hindsight, I should have foregone the Merrell boots, ditched the pink umbrella (which was sitting next to my desk at
Northwest Extreme)
and heeded Jill's advice. I could hear her voice in my head when I had asked her what the worst thing that could happen would be if I took the job. “You might die!” She wasn't kidding.