Jesus fucking Christ, Torr thought. Hardy was trying to get himself killed again, and doing it, as usual, in the worst-run park in the world: Yosemite.
Torr looked down at the letter in his hand, shaking his head. “Because you’re in the middle of nowhere again, and because I know how much you like general human contact, I think it’s safe to tell you a little story” was how it began. Hardy had hooked up with some crazy fucking biker chick, and they were gonna try and rip off some cash from a gang. Sounded like a total waste of time, with violence as a potential and tempting consequence. Just like hanging out in the Valley if you weren’t at least a pitch off the ground. As his recreational choices indicated, Hardy seemed to like both.
“By the time you read this, I’m sure it’ll all be over,” was how the letter ended. Torr shook his head and put the letter back in the envelope. It seemed incredibly bizarre to receive mail out here on the stark, sterile plain of the Ruth Gorge, but if you were willing to shell out a little extra cash, you could even get a pizza, so perhaps it wasn’t that strange at all. The letter had come while Torr and Moose were up on the Root Canal, the glaciated bench below Ham & Eggs and Shaken, Not Stirred. Paul, the pilot, had handed it over when he bumped them down to the Mountain House airstrip. As Paul took off, Torr and Moose had pulled their duffels out of the plane and dragged them off the runway.
Torr sat on his sled and leaned back against his pack, tapping the envelope against his thigh. The sky was clear, the sun brilliant. He could feel his uncoated face starting to burn. He smiled, sat and soaked it up.
A plane load of flight-see-ers landed just after Paul took off. They tumbled out of one of the many ski planes that buzzed in and out when the weather was clear. Like those kid’s toys that just won’t fall down, they weebled and wobbled on the glacier, their loafers and running shoes quickly filling with wet, melting snow. Probably their first time off the pavement, Torr thought. His smile faded.
Through dark glasses, Torr kept watching them. A particularly heavy man — after gawking at the scenery and saying “amazing” ten times — looked in Torr’s direction. He had a mild air of confidence, and returned Torr’s stare, although from behind each other’s sunglasses, it was impossible to tell where either was looking. He probably drives a desk and thinks it matters, Torr thought. Torr wondered what an animal in a zoo must feel, when day-after-day, lap-after-lap around the cage, a predator is forced to watch as clumsy, easy-to-kill bipeds stroll through and treat the beast like organic wallpaper. But out there on the glacier, there were no steel bars or thick Plexiglas between Torr and the tourist. Just the two of them, 50 feet apart, trading stares. Torr slowly started to grin as the man’s attention was pulled away by his overly make-upped wife.
“Can I borrow a rope?”
Torr’s attention was ripped away from the stumbling mess on the airstrip and toward a tall, imbalanced man. “What?” Torr asked, pronouncing the whole word, not letting the “t” fade away.
“Can I borrow a rope?” the tall stranger asked again. Torr had never met the man before. He had only mildly noticed a three-person gong show that the man led around the airstrip, confronting random people. The man’s red and black jacket bulged out in the abdomen. The bulge wasn’t because the man was unfit – he looked thin enough that he was either active or an ectomorph — but because the jacket was a shitty design. He’d never be able to see his harness, Torr thought. And his pants were too big. Several crampon tears and loads of duct tape clustered around the inside of the man’s shins.
“We’re just gonna go for a quick tour,” the man said from behind dark glasses, smiling. A loose – sloppy, Torr thought — flap of duct tape covered his nose. “I’m trying to find a rope to use. Our friends are bringing the ropes, but they haven’t arrived yet. Not even sure when they’re going to. So, what do you say?”
“No,” Torr said. The man paused, shrugged and walked away, stumbling toward the next group of climbers he could see.
Torr looked over at Moose. Moose’d finished packing his sled, and sat on the ready hump of gear, reading a book. Torr grinned. As usual, the book had some kind of sword on the front. No pathetic maiden swooning, just the sword and the title.
It was easy to imagine Moose in the twelfth century. His large frame would be wrapped in simple leather clothing; he’d have an enormous broad sword strapped to his back and a dagger in his boot. The street urchins would look at the ground and step aside. Old women would beam at him as he helped them across dusty streets. He’d find work as a mason building houses and churches, walking from mountain town to mountain town with Whitefoot – his jet-black, 80-pound mut – unleashed and prancing at his side. And just as he did in Tokmore, the small Canadian mountain town where he and Torr lived, he’d know how to swing two axes better than most.
“Moose,” Torr said. “Let’s get outta here.”
“Yeah,” Moose said.
Torr clicked into his skis as Moose unzipped a duffel and stuffed his book deep inside.
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