The wind howls suddenly through the ravine, rattling the cable lines stretched across the next section.
“Wait,” I say.
Bron stops instantly.
The gust fades.
“Now.”
We move.
He crosses the first cable ahead of me, balancing carefully while the rope trembles under his weight. The canyon air smells faintly of mineral dust and heated metal from the environmental generators hidden in the rock walls.
Halfway across, a louder gust slams into the line.
The cable sways.
Bron grips the support rope tighter.
“You still with me?” he calls.
“Yes.”
“You sure?”
“Keep moving.”
He does.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The Bron I remember from years ago would have tried to sprint across the line just to prove he could.
The man in front of me now moves with careful precision.
When he reaches the far ledge he secures the anchor and turns to steady the line while I cross.
“Got you,” he says quietly.
I step onto the rock beside him.
“Thanks.”
The rest of the canyon route unfolds in similar fashion—narrow ledges, rope bridges, unstable rock shelves that threaten to crumble under too much weight.
Several teams fall behind when the wind systems intensify.
One couple misjudges a rope swing and drops into the safety net below, their elimination alarm echoing through the canyon.
Bron watches them go.
“Brutal.”
“Yes.”
We reach the final ascent as the sun begins dipping behind the arena walls.
