There is a gorge, hidden in the forest, far from the complexities and heat of summer. The air is pungent with boreal spices, and I can hear the whirr of cascading water in the distance. Through root-tangled corridors of stone I follow a path that leads to an escarpment. I've stood at this point before; from here, you can see the gorge and the series of waterfalls and pools that step down through the Ordovician rock. The water plunges and shimmers through basalt so perfect it might have been fabricated for a Disney theme park. In fact, this rock is volcanic: 400 million years old and incredibly tough.
From where I'm standing I can see the second pool. It looks about the size of a hot tub. The last time I was here, many years ago, two barefooted boys in cut-off jeans emerged from the woods and began to scramble nimbly up the side of the gorge. The first arrived at a notch 30 feet above the second pool. He stood poised on the edge, his hands stretched out in front of him, balancing, waiting for the moment of perfect readiness. Then, thrusting his arms downward, he launched himself into a graceful swan dive, straightened out, and cut the surface of the pool like a knife. Up he surged, in the cauldron of bubbles he had created. Laughing, he shook his head in the waterfall and splashed to the rocky ledge. Then his friend gained the notch; he pivoted, and with his back to the water, raised himself up on his tiptoes …
Today the notch is empty. I can see, at the bottom of the gorge, the resolution of all the turbulence: the final, placid pool. On the far side is a 60-foot rock face; there, at the base, two young climbers are preparing their gear: harness, clips and rope. They have already secured a double line to the top of the cliff. One of them hooks the rope to his harness while the other, the belayer, pulls the line taut. The climber reaches behind to his chalk pouch, dusts his fingers and looks for a toehold, a finger purchase. The rock wall protrudes at this point, and he can't get around it. He explores to the left and finds the tiny indentation he needs. Gripping with his right fingertips, he finds a secure tip. Blindly, he explores with his left hand. His muscles contract in the shaded light. Kneeing, shouldering, fighting the rock, he tacks his way laboriously up the face. At 45 feet his right hand straightens suddenly. A tiny ledge has crumbled, and he falls back into thin air. The belayer pulls on the rope as the climber sways securely, gently bumping against the cliff as he reaches back for more chalk. He resumes his climb. Five minutes later he is scrambling over the top of the cliff. He straightens up, turns around; triumphantly, he pumps his right arm.
I was not much older than this exultant climber during my final year in medical school. That year I lived in a rehabilitation hospital and was responsible for admissions, discharges and night call. I soon found out about spinal cord injuries, the levels of paraplegia, high and low quadriplegia and the level of freedom that each level of paralysis takes away. I learned about bladder dysfunction, bowel care and the incapacitating war between flexor and extensor muscles. I witnessed psychological turmoil: the sad transition from the former to the present self. I became part of the struggle to redefine hope, the incredible effort to adapt and cope.
The drunken party, the late-night drive, the dive into dark water took on new connotations for me.
Later, working in an emergency room, I saw the pain of last words, the bloated, ashen face in traction, the pool of tears, the grief-stricken parents. “Mom, Dad, I love you … I'm sorry.”
I find it difficult at such times to consider the mathematics of risk-taking. Knowledge, preparation and fitness seem meaningless. The freedom to attempt the impossible is such a vital concept before a challenge, but it is cold comfort when you are grieving. In these situations we are left to mull over judgement issues: peer pressure, drugs and inexperience.
Long before I discovered the gorge, long before experience taught me fear, I had read Earle Birney's poem, David.1 His story of two young men cutting survey lines in the Rockies has always stayed with me. On the weekends David taught Bob how to climb. Their goal that summer was to reach
… remote, And unmapped, a sunlit spire on Sawback, an overhang Crooked like a talon. …
By September they were well practised and hardened, and over a weekend they reached the summit. Bob recalls:
… Unroping we formed A cairn on the rotting tip. Then I turned to look north At the glistening wedge of giant Assiniboine, heedless Of handhold. And one foot gave. …
David reaches out, grinning, to steady him. And then,
… Without A gasp he was gone. …
Somehow Bob makes it down to the ledge where David has landed, still alive. He cannot move. He does not feel pain. He understands what this means. He whispers,
Bob, I want to go over!
Birney's poem was written in 1940, before aerial rescues and the advances of rehabilitation medicine. Bob, anguished, struggles with his friend's request.
This story haunted me the day I saw the young divers on my first visit to the gorge. I pondered the meaning of freedom, my own fear of risk-taking, and Bob's dilemma. That day, the gorge was suffused with the golden light of late afternoon. I looked toward the notch. There, with his back to the water, the second diver stood on tiptoes, his hands stretched out in front of him, balancing. The sun glinted above the tallest hemlock, a bird sang, and then with a thrust of his arms the diver launched himself into the incredible thinness of air.
Reference
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