Scene of the Climb (4 page)

Geez, I needed to get it together. Crushing on Greg was NOT a wise idea, I thought as I watched his athletic legs in stone chinos stroll down the street. His perfectly cut Oxford baby blue shirt was neatly tucked in. I tried not to stare at his ass. My stomach flopped again. Sleep? Unlikely. Tomorrow held the promise of an encounter with my unnervingly hot boss and the extreme likelihood I would die of fright, embarrassment, or both. Oh yeah, and lose my job.

I was late. Again. There was no time to spare. I was due at Angel's Rest in less than an hour.

I rubbed my eyes and threw on my new hiking gear. It wasn't my fault I slept past my alarm; I'd been up half the night scouring hiking message boards where Angel's Rest was nicknamed “The quad killer.” What had I gotten myself into?

Plus my dreams had been muddled with Greg's rock-hard body morphing into a rock face. Maybe I could claim car trouble?

No, I had to go. There was no talking myself out of this one.

At least my feet looked the part, I thought as I laced the sample Merrells Greg gave me, grabbed my new pack and hurried to my cherry-red Subaru Outback wagon. Pops wanted to restore a VW Bug for me as a high school graduation present. Mother insisted on something built in this decade. I owed her for that. The Subaru might not be as cute as a Bug, but at least it was reliable.

My GPS reported that I-84, the interstate connecting Portland to Angel's Rest in the Columbia River Gorge, was closed due to an early-morning rollover accident. That meant I'd have to take the meandering Historic Columbia River Highway.

Pops loved the picturesque highway. On weekends when I was a kid we'd drive the old road and Pops would tell me all about what a feat of engineering the highway is. It was constructed in the early 1920s as part of an initiative with the National Parks Service to create more accessibility for tourists within the park system. It cuts seamlessly through the landscape and runs parallel with the Columbia River.

This morning the road was slick with rain. I swerved around a corner to avoid hitting the rust-colored mossy guardrail. Glancing at the clock on the dashboard that read 11:45
A.M
., I pushed my foot on the gas pedal. Fifteen minutes to get to the trailhead.

Have I mentioned I'm terrified of heights? I mean terrified as in debilitating. People use the word
terrified
too casually. Forget miniscule fears about spiders or dirt. Spiders can be squashed. Dirt can be washed. Heights equal death. Period.

Mother tried to arrange gymnastics classes for me when I was in grade school. I wasn't an idiot. I saw those girls in their pink leotards steady themselves with arms outstretched on the balance beam six feet in the air. It didn't matter that the beam they started me on was five inches off the floor.

“Mary Margaret Reed”—Mother gave me
the look
—“Don't be silly. The beam is on the ground. You have nowhere to fall.”

Despite Mother's nagging to “get over my silly little fear” I never did. And, I might add, I've been successful at avoiding situations that put me near the top of skyscrapers or mountain summits for the past twenty-three years. Until now.

The tips of my fingers were numb from clutching the steering wheel. I wiggled them and tried concentrating on the mantra I'd written for myself:

I am safe. Climbing is safe. The Universe surrounds and protects me.

Gam hooked me on positive mantras as a kid. Mother thought they were ridiculous. They were the source of many an argument between the two of them, but Gam won, buying me tarot decks and rose quartz crystals. I slept with the rose crystal under my pillow last night. Neither that nor the mantra seemed to be working.

The Gorge is a true geological wonder and the only sea-level passage through the Cascade Mountains. Its towering plateaus on both sides of the massive Columbia River look as if they've been chiseled with a carving knife. I continued east past waterfalls and under a canopy of evergreen trees. The air held a slight hint of spring. An assault of savagely beautiful colors hit my eyes—lush greens, churning blues and budding pinks.

The morning rain left leaves shimmering as the noontime sunlight emerged through the clouds. I slowed to read the trailhead markers lining the side of the road. A brown sign shot up with bullet holes showed Angel's Rest a mile ahead. That's where I needed to meet the crew.

In my research, I learned that Angel's Rest connects to Devil's Rest. At some point they branch apart to take hikers onto backcountry trails connecting above Multnomah Falls, the largest and most popular falls in the Gorge. There was something sinister about a trail named after devils and angels. Gam would have told me to simply call in the angels to help abate my fear. I usually bought into her quirky theories, but I couldn't squelch my worry about the hike.

The good news is, thanks to my expense account, I was outfitted to play the part of adventure girl. Jill and I scoured Columbia Sportswear, REI, the Nike and Adidas outlets and Lucy for the latest high-fashion outdoor gear. My favorite score was my pale pink Lucy top. Jill told me I had to break in the Merrells, but I ran out of time. I stuck Band-Aids into my camelback backpack in case they rubbed. Hopefully a blister or two would be the extent of my worries.

I spotted the crew in the parking lot across the street from the Angel's Rest trail marker. It was midweek in April, not many hikers were around. A sunny spring weekend would bring out families with babies in backpacks and day-trippers, but it was too early in the season and too soggy for anyone other than serious climbers.

It took every ounce of courage to steer the Subaru into the parking lot. The small gravel lot sat empty on the river side of the highway. A bank of trees and wildflowers marked the entrance to Angel's Rest across the road.

Dave and Andrew were testing camera equipment. Krissy leaned against a rented white van, studying a clipboard in her hand. Two new faces chatted near the van. There was no sign of Lenny, the thug. Maybe he was passed out back at the hotel. I scanned the parking lot, looking for Greg, but he hadn't arrived. Surprising, given I just made it. The clock read 11:59.

I yanked my North Face Recon pack from the trunk. The pack made me feel like a true hiker. Trust me, it was all I could do to pass on the Utterly Pink pack in the women's section, but I thought the Recon would lend me some cred.

It was an effort to lug it over my shoulder. I think I may have overpacked. Something would have to go.

I threw an assortment of guidebooks, sunscreen and bug repellant in the back of my car. Then I repacked my notepads, Power Bars, Band-Aids, Gatorade, camera and first-aid kit. My pack was considerably lighter, but still hard to lift with one hand. I was going to break a sweat before we left the parking lot.

Was I really going to do this?

Fortunately, I had a secret weapon stashed in the trunk—Black Diamond Ultra Distance Z-Pole trekking poles. I'd discovered them on display at REI under a sign claiming they were “the best carbon poles ever tested.” The salesclerk assured me their folding design was cutting edge and all the endurance runners and fast-packers raved about them. At a price of a hundred and fifty bucks they had to be cutting edge, right?

With my lightweight poles tucked into the sides of my pack, I slung it on my back. Staggering from the weight, I wobbled a little, trying to regain my balance. I cinched the straps and straightened my back, taking a timid step forward toward the van.

A magnetic decal the size of a prize-winning pumpkin was plastered to the side of the van with the Race the States logo—a cutout of the United States with the silhouette of a hiker zip-lining from New York to Oregon.

Krissy looked up from the clipboard she was holding. “Wow, quite a pack, Meg.” Her suicide-blond curls were tied in a tight knot, making her angular face appear sharper.

“It's all my stuff—for interviews, you know.”

“What are those?” she asked, pointing to the trekking poles.

“Black Diamonds. The best on the market.”

“But what are they?”

“Trekking poles.”

“Never heard of them.”

“Really? All the climbers around here use them.”

“Hmm, good to know. I'm not much of a climber myself.” She called over to the two contestants, “Alicia! Leaf! Come meet Meg.”

I raised my hand in a half wave as the two made their way in our direction.

“Meg, meet two of our top contestants—Leaf Green and Alicia Abbott,” Krissy said, pushing her glasses up on her nose.

“Heeey.” Leaf greeted me in a long, low voice, stretching out the greeting. Definitely stoner speak. His russet-colored hair twisted in matted dreadlocks on his shoulders. He looked to be in his mid- to late thirties but it was hard to tell behind all his mangy facial hair. He stretched out his hand. I recoiled slightly from the smell—a combination of stale pot, sweat and patchouli. That's when I noticed his feet were bare. Caked in dirt, poked with calluses and who knows what else. This guy's a top competitor?

Alicia Abbott was the yin to Leaf's yang. She fit the image I'd conceived in my head of an adventure racer. Her black hair pulled in a tight ponytail reminded me of a raven. Sunglasses covered her eyes. There wasn't a hint of makeup on her face.

I tugged at my T-shirt, trying to stretch it away from my less-than-firm body. Alicia's taut stomach and toned frame made me swear I'd give up mochas for good. She wore a navy blue and lime green sports bra.

How lucky. I could never wear a sports bra like that. My cleavage would defy gravity in Alicia's top.

She pulled a package of strawberry energy gels from her pocket, stuck one in her mouth and offered the bag to Krissy and me. “Want one?”

We both declined. Alicia shrugged, stuck the gel in her pocket and stretched her quads. Her navy yoga pants revealed a sculpted pair of legs. “When are we taking off?” she asked Krissy. As she bent over she ripped a brittle yellow spine off a shrub.

“What are you doing!?” Leaf yanked it from her hand.

Alicia looked at him in disbelief.

“This is Devil's Club,” Leaf said as he gently stroked the woody leaves of the shrub. “It's one of the most sensitive plants we have in these forests. You can't touch it, let alone rip it. It's a living, breathing thing. Takes forever to grow.”

“Sorry,” Alicia snarled. “I didn't know.”

“Stop killing the forest. This show is such a joke when it comes to being green.” Leaf cradled the Devil's Club in his hand.

“Take it up with Dave,” Alicia said, glaring at him.

“A little help?” Leaf asked Krissy.

Krissy ignored Leaf's request and examined her toggled platinum watch. Obviously she didn't intend to make the trek to the summit. I knew enough to recognize her pencil skirt and ballet flats weren't going to lend themselves to hiking.

“It's time. Will you two knock it off and wake Lenny.” To me, she sighed. “No one seems to realize that we're producing what's going to be an Emmy-winning show here.”

“Do you think it'll win an Emmy?” I asked.

“That's the plan. If I have anything to do about it.” She made a final note on her clipboard and scurried off.

“Have you met Lenny?” Alicia asked, raising her unwaxed eyebrows over her sunglasses.

“Last night,” I said with a nod.

“Lucky you.” She elbowed Leaf. “You go get him.”

Leaf reached his arms over his head and brought his hands together in front of his chest in a Namaste pose. He gave us a warning not to touch any plants and turned on his bare feet toward the van.

“Is he gonna hike like that?” I asked Alicia.

“Yep. He doesn't believe in shoes.” She shrugged and pulled off her sunglasses to assess me. “You look top heavy. What's with the pack?”

“I like to be prepared,” I said, shifting my weight. “Never know what I might need for an interview. I sort of have an addiction to paper. Plus, notebooks are much easier to lug around than laptops.”

“I wouldn't say that to Leaf if I were you.” Alicia whispered, “He did jail time last year for trying to plow down a couple loggers. He gets pretty worked up. Got in a wicked fight with one of the earlier contestants about making the show greener. It's his thing. He thinks he's on some kind of nature quest, not competing for a millions bucks.”

She paused and looked over her shoulder before continuing. “Anyway, it got pretty violent. Dave almost kicked him off the show. In fact, I'm not sure why he didn't . . .” She trailed off as the sound of Lenny's brash Jersey accent whizzed across the parking lot.

“Knock it off. Gimme five minutes.”

Leaf casually made his way to us, ignoring Lenny's rant. His tattered Greenpeace T-shirt, shredded cutoff shorts and lackadaisical attitude didn't seem to fit the violent anarchist picture Alicia painted of him. Gam would tell me to tap into my intuition to learn more. My intuition wasn't talking. I'd have to keep my eye on him. He could make for an interesting blurb to accompany my story.

Ten minutes later Lenny emerged from the back of the van. He staggered and swayed toward us. Was he still drunk? Catching my eye, he puffed his shoulders and strutted my way. I tried to duck as he threw an arm around my shoulder. My pack threw me off balance. I nearly fell, facefirst, on the gravel. Lenny's beefy arm grabbed my pack and pulled me to standing in one swoop.

“Easy there, girlie.”

Last night's alcohol radiated from his every pore. Obviously he never made it into a shower. I shook myself free from his grasp. The weight of my pack dug into my shoulders. We'd been waiting maybe ten minutes. How was I ever going to drag myself up the side of a cliff with thirty extra pounds weighing me down?

“Nice bling, Lenny.” Alicia drew our attention to the collection of gold chains around Lenny's neck. Talk about weighing someone down.

“There's plenty more where that came from, baby,” Lenny said in a slur.

“Sick!” Alicia threw up her hands in disgust.

Lenny ignored her and preened himself, slicking his peroxide-colored hair by licking his hand with his tongue. His V-neck white T-shirt left nothing to the imagination. We all had an eyeful of his pecs and chest hair.

“Okay, mates.” Dave called everyone to the middle of the parking lot where he, Andrew and Krissy had been in conversation.