Chapter 1
September 25
Black Canyon of the Gunnison
Megs Hill hikedher way down the steep, rocky chute called SOB Draw, Mitch Ahearn, her partner of forty-eight years, a few feet ahead of her. Their climbing gear jangled as they hiked, the familiar weight of backpack and climbing rope comfortable on her shoulders, her helmet clipped to her pack. Though the first rays of sunlight had hit the rim of the Black Canyon of the Gunnison, the draw was still in shadow.
Mitch pointed. “Poison ivy.”
“I see it.” Megs had read somewhere that the canyon was full of that shit.
Every serious climber had a poison ivy horror story, and Megs had no intention of giving hers a sequel.
They’d gotten an early start, leaving the campground at six, an hour before sunrise. This was the fifth day of a two-week climbing vacation, a chance to get away from the day-to-day hassles and do what they loved. Today, they hoped to send Journey Through Mirkwood, a 5.11b route on Painted Wall, a beautiful but brutal granite cliff that rose 2,250 feet above the Gunnison River. The third largest rock wall in the Lower 48, Painted Wall was infamous for its tricky moves and loose rock. Many a good climber had been benighted—or bullied into giving up and going home.
There was a lot of loose stone in this gully, forcing Megs to step carefully so as not to twist an ankle or dislodge a rock that might injure someone in the canyon below. The Black Canyon was accessible to climbing only in late summer and early fall because of closures that protected nesting raptors, so, naturally, the park was now crawling with rock jocks eager to test themselves.
Megs couldn’t care less about adding another ascent to her list of conquests. She and Mitch had been climbing for the better part of fifty years. They’d been part of the free-climbing revolution in Yosemite Valley in the early 1970s and had climbed professionally for much of their adult lives. Neither of them had anything to prove.
Once, climbing had felt like survival for Megs. Now, she climbed for the pure joy of it—or to save lives. She and Mitch were the founders of the Rocky Mountain Search & Rescue Team, a nonprofit organization headquartered in Scarlet Springs. She served as the Team’s director. With the busiest months of the year now behind them, they could take some time for themselves.
By the time they reached the bottom of the canyon, the sun had risen. They stopped and hydrated. Warm from exertion, Mitch removed his outer layers, giving Megs a momentary glance of his rock-hard abs.
They were both in their sixties now—Megs was sixty-four and Mitch sixty-nine—but the fire was still there. Hell, yes, it was.
They hiked downriver toward the approaches to Painted Wall in companionable silence, the green waters of the Gunnison River splashing over rocks beside them. Aplopbrought their heads around in time to see three otters swimming close to the opposite riverbank. Megs shared a smile with Mitch, and they kept moving.
They needed to get on the wall soon if they wanted to top out before sundown. They’d come prepared to bivouac if necessary, but staying awake and roped in all night on a cold, hard ledge was no longer their idea of fun.
At the base of the wall, they found two young men putting on their climbing shoes and getting ready for their ascent. The men saw them—and stared.
Sweating beneath her layers, Megs set down the rope, her pack, and her rack of climbing gear and stripped down to a long-sleeved T-shirt that had the wordsClimb Like A Girlprinted across the front—a birthday gift from Sasha Dillon, her protégé and the reigning world champion for women’s sports climbing.
One of the young men turned to his buddy and whispered, “That’s Megs Hill and Mitch Ahearn. They’re fucking legends.”
“Are you sure it’s them?” the other whispered back.
“He’s sure.” Megs did her best to be polite, though the celebrity thing had gotten old thirty years ago. “Nice to meet you.”
“Do you boys want to head up first?” Mitch drew his water bottle out of his pack.
The one who had recognized them shook his head. “No, uh, you go. You’ll climb faster. We, um, wouldn’t want to slow you down.”
Mitch nodded, took a deep drink.
Megs packed away her jacket and flannel shirt and drew out her harness, her gaze moving over the Precambrian gneiss and schist, following the veins of much lighter pegmatite that shot upward like bolts of lightning frozen in stone. They’d researched the beta available for this route before leaving Scarlet Springs. They knew about the dangerous chopper flake and the loose block near the crux.
Both would come crashing down one day, but hopefully not today.
She followed Mitch, scrambling over loose rock toward the base of the wall, where they stepped into their harnesses. “You want to lead the first pitch?”
“Sure.”
They roped in, strapped on their helmets, and adjusted the weight of their gear, both of them opting to use a GriGri as their belay device. GriGris braked automatically when someone fell, giving them an extra level of protection. When they were ready, Mitch reached back, shoved his fingers into his chalk bag, and stepped up to the rock, his gaze focused upward.
“Climbing!”
“Climb on!”
