Seconds later, the card vanishes from my grasp, lost beneath the clatter of some new threat. The prickling across my scalp turns at once to sharp, stinging pain.
Rockslide.
Instinctively I haul my pack over my head, shove one hand into a crevice, and tuck in close to the rock, toes still balanced in the crack. Dressed in a tank top and a pair of cargo shorts, I’ve got zero protection against the assault of tiny stones biting my bare shoulders and arms.
Stones? Scratch that.
Hail.
Lightning flickers behind me, making my shadow dance against the rock face as the wind surges with renewed force, whipping icy pellets at me from all directions. They clatter like gunfire.
Adrenaline shoots through my veins, my heart pounding so hard it hurts. Rappelling in this weather is much too dangerous, but I can’t stay here. I’m totally exposed, and the storm is parked right on top of me. It’s only a matter of time before lightning zaps me like a bug, or a chunk of rock bashes my head, or my rope breaks and sends me careening into oblivion…
Come on, girl. Think. Think!
It’s almost impossible not to picture the poor souls in that Tarot card, but I do my best to shove them out of my mind, refocusing on my own precarious predicament. I can’t go back up—I’d be even more exposed up top. I’m better off descending, but I can’t protect my headandmanage the ropes and gear placementsandmind my hand- and footholds. I can barely see a few inches in front of me.
I need shelter. And up here, there’s only one possibility.
El Ala—The Wing.
It’s a secondary route about twenty feet to my left and fifteen down, skirting the edge of the owl’s “wing.” It’s the most dangerous route by far, but still bolted from when people used to climb here legally, back before a huge chunk of rock cracked off and killed three climbers in the early nineties.
Just inside the wing lies a deep fissure in the rock, big enough you can see it from the dirt road leading into town.
Big enough I can fit inside and wait out the storm.
Another bolt of lightning.
Another crack of thunder.
The hail intensifies, pinging off my pack. That shit’s the size of gumballs now, their stinging bite turning into a bruising wallop.
El Ala? Here I come.
I re-settle my pack on my shoulders and lean back, propping my feet against the wall as the harness takes the bulk of my weight, providing momentary relief for my calves. My head and arms are prime targets for the hail and debris shooting down from above, but if I can’t make the twenty-foot traverse climb to that cave, I’ll have much bigger problems.
I lean close to the wall again, get a good grip, and gingerly step to the left, seeking a better toehold. But just as my foot finds purchase, the wind lashes out again, blasting me off the rock like a bug off a windshield.
Frantically I scramble for the ropes, but it’s too late. I drop hard and fast, bashing my knee on the way down.
There’s no time to scream, no time for panic. Suddenly the rope tightens and the harness jerks me to a hard stop, gear clattering, stomach leaping into my throat.
Blood leaks from my throbbing knee. My lines are hopelessly tangled. I’m suspended from Death’s eager grasp by a rope that’s less than an inch thick, and now I’mbelowthe position of the cave, which means I’ll have to climb overandback up.
Unless…
Fighting against the relentless wind, I kick my legs out and back, harnessing the momentum into a pendulum swing, rocking harder and higher, closer… closer… almost there…
My fingers graze the bottom of the wing, just a few feet beneath the cave floor, but I can’t get a good grip.
I try again on the next swing.
Miss.
Again.
Again.
