[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
and pine needles. A trickle of blood had forked at the bridge of his nose and
run down from his eyes to his sparse black mestizo whiskers. Beneath both
eyes, dark circles bruised the sunburn, and his lips looked like something out
of a spaghetti Western.
As he stood there steaming in the sunlight, a crowd gathered around the deaf,
mute, crazed climber. But no one dared to touch him, uncertain what might
happen if they did. In whispers and murmurs, people attempted to assemble
clues. He was still wearing his climbing shoes, which meant he'd either lost
his hike-in tennies or else lacked time to put them on. The pack still on his
back looked to be empty, which was odd because surely there'd been gear to
carry down from Half Dome. And where was
Tucker? John's harness was still tied on, and only immodest rookies parade
around with their climbing harnesses on. His hands were still taped. His chalk
bag, dangling from his butt loop, was even still open. John looked like he'd
stepped straight from the wall directly into Camp Four, and it frightened
people more than any novel or movie could have. Something about his state the
Page 107
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
smallness of his lapses, their banality was especially terrible and
foreboding. The fact that John wouldn't speak was horrifying.
Kresinski arrived, but he was no bolder than anyone else. John struck everyone
still file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm
(126 of 216)19-1-2007 22:42:52
Jeff Long - Angels of Light with his stillness and the carelessness of his
cuts and blood and torn clothes and his eyes. At last someone thought to get
Bullseye.
"Johnny?" said Bullseye when he got there, stepping in closer among the ring
of people. "What's wrong? Where's Tuck at?" And then it struck Katie, who was
standing near the mouth of the crowd, that Tucker was not coming down. She let
out a wail of anguish, and it was that which cut John free from the wall. In
that way they laid John down in his tent and found, in his pack, his map of
the Visor Wall that traced their route from bottom almost all the way to the
top. The one and only blank on his intricate map was that final pitch where
Tucker had taken wing and disappeared into the sky.
John came awake later, hungry and sore. His pants and shirt, even his Jockey
shorts, were gone, and the tent was hot from the sun. It felt good to lie on
his back on the flat ground, listening to the camp's motions and watching
motes of dust drift in the rosy light. He wondered whose tent this was, then
remembered it was his, he'd bought it right before the big party. It seemed
very long ago. He kept his thoughts close and tight and bearable. Over the
years, he'd developed a private ritual for depressurizing after a wall climb
and reentering the world. It was this that he turned to now. First he needed
to wash. A hot shower with Ivory soap. Shave. And in his truck there were a
pair of clean blue jeans and a fresh, long-sleeve chamois shirt and clean
socks. But his shoes were gone. Gone with the haul bag, he started to panic,
gone with... but never mind that. Never mind the socks either, he could wear
thongs. There were other needs too, mind them, he instructed himself. For one
thing it would take lots and lots of water to rehydrate his system. Plain and
simple water, no need for vitamins and electrolyte powder now that he was back
on the ground. Gradually, at his own pace, he'd get around to a hot meal at
the Four Seasons, and without moving he set to imagining that first meal. He
would eat slowly. There would be salad with blue cheese and fresh ground
pepper. Then he'd have their twelve-ounce steak rare, and a baked potato with
sour cream and crumbled bacon. Afterward he might stroll across to the
drugstore and pick up a
Time or one of the San Francisco papers. There were variations on the ritual,
but essentially that was it a shower, shave, and meal.
By nightfall his urine might actually be a clear yellow again instead of thick
gold. In a couple days he might even shit. Everything else would fall into
place. No problem.
John lifted his head. Except for the tape still binding his palms and
knuckles, his body was jaybird naked on top of someone else's clean sleeping
bag. He was surprised. It looked like someone else's body with all those cuts
and bruises and caked dirt and blood. He lifted one arm, and it was so heavy
it felt almost tied to the ground. Every muscle was tender. The abrasions and
gashes on his hands looked familiar, but the rest was beyond recall. He made a
point of not trying to remember.
He grunted involuntarily as he sat up. "God," he muttered. There was a big
knot on his forehead, some torn muscles on the inside of his right thigh, a
cut on one forearm
file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (127
of 216)19-1-2007 22:42:52
Jeff Long - Angels of Light that was still weeping and might want a few
stitches. He was a mess. "A fucking mess," he whispered. A tired fucking mess.
Page 108
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Maybe it wasn't worth moving quite yet.
To the right lay his notebook opened to the Visor map. He closed it shut.
Someone had left a pair of white karate pants Sammy's, no doubt and a
red-and-white-
checkered flannel shirt. And a pair of black hightop Keds, Bullseye's college
"hoop"
shoes. An unopened candy bar poked up from the top of one shoe, and by the
door stood a bottle of water and a lukewarm can of Bud. John felt like a flood
victim. Bad losses, good neighbors.
He guzzled the water. He pulled the clothes on and unzipped the tent door.
Despite every effort not to show his exhaustion and pain, it took a minute for
him to climb to his feet. He was sick and tired. Sick and tired of sleeping on
the cold, heatless earth like some animal caught out in the open. Sick and
tired of worming out of a cocoon and meeting with this three-foot-high ghetto
slum of tents and picnic tables. Sick and tired of sticking his fingers and
toes and heart and mind to these granite slabs like a leech on pigskin. It was
absurd that he couldn't seem to think beyond the reach of his hands, much less
the vertical corridors of the Valley. He was sick and tired of
Yosemite. Sing your swan song, he silently bitched at himself. Get on.
Grumbling and wincing, every joint and muscle balking, he finally managed to
straighten up on his stiff knees. Camp was largely empty. He heard the rattle
and tinkling of climbing hardware at another site, someone returning from a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl chiara76.opx.pl
and pine needles. A trickle of blood had forked at the bridge of his nose and
run down from his eyes to his sparse black mestizo whiskers. Beneath both
eyes, dark circles bruised the sunburn, and his lips looked like something out
of a spaghetti Western.
As he stood there steaming in the sunlight, a crowd gathered around the deaf,
mute, crazed climber. But no one dared to touch him, uncertain what might
happen if they did. In whispers and murmurs, people attempted to assemble
clues. He was still wearing his climbing shoes, which meant he'd either lost
his hike-in tennies or else lacked time to put them on. The pack still on his
back looked to be empty, which was odd because surely there'd been gear to
carry down from Half Dome. And where was
Tucker? John's harness was still tied on, and only immodest rookies parade
around with their climbing harnesses on. His hands were still taped. His chalk
bag, dangling from his butt loop, was even still open. John looked like he'd
stepped straight from the wall directly into Camp Four, and it frightened
people more than any novel or movie could have. Something about his state the
Page 107
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
smallness of his lapses, their banality was especially terrible and
foreboding. The fact that John wouldn't speak was horrifying.
Kresinski arrived, but he was no bolder than anyone else. John struck everyone
still file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm
(126 of 216)19-1-2007 22:42:52
Jeff Long - Angels of Light with his stillness and the carelessness of his
cuts and blood and torn clothes and his eyes. At last someone thought to get
Bullseye.
"Johnny?" said Bullseye when he got there, stepping in closer among the ring
of people. "What's wrong? Where's Tuck at?" And then it struck Katie, who was
standing near the mouth of the crowd, that Tucker was not coming down. She let
out a wail of anguish, and it was that which cut John free from the wall. In
that way they laid John down in his tent and found, in his pack, his map of
the Visor Wall that traced their route from bottom almost all the way to the
top. The one and only blank on his intricate map was that final pitch where
Tucker had taken wing and disappeared into the sky.
John came awake later, hungry and sore. His pants and shirt, even his Jockey
shorts, were gone, and the tent was hot from the sun. It felt good to lie on
his back on the flat ground, listening to the camp's motions and watching
motes of dust drift in the rosy light. He wondered whose tent this was, then
remembered it was his, he'd bought it right before the big party. It seemed
very long ago. He kept his thoughts close and tight and bearable. Over the
years, he'd developed a private ritual for depressurizing after a wall climb
and reentering the world. It was this that he turned to now. First he needed
to wash. A hot shower with Ivory soap. Shave. And in his truck there were a
pair of clean blue jeans and a fresh, long-sleeve chamois shirt and clean
socks. But his shoes were gone. Gone with the haul bag, he started to panic,
gone with... but never mind that. Never mind the socks either, he could wear
thongs. There were other needs too, mind them, he instructed himself. For one
thing it would take lots and lots of water to rehydrate his system. Plain and
simple water, no need for vitamins and electrolyte powder now that he was back
on the ground. Gradually, at his own pace, he'd get around to a hot meal at
the Four Seasons, and without moving he set to imagining that first meal. He
would eat slowly. There would be salad with blue cheese and fresh ground
pepper. Then he'd have their twelve-ounce steak rare, and a baked potato with
sour cream and crumbled bacon. Afterward he might stroll across to the
drugstore and pick up a
Time or one of the San Francisco papers. There were variations on the ritual,
but essentially that was it a shower, shave, and meal.
By nightfall his urine might actually be a clear yellow again instead of thick
gold. In a couple days he might even shit. Everything else would fall into
place. No problem.
John lifted his head. Except for the tape still binding his palms and
knuckles, his body was jaybird naked on top of someone else's clean sleeping
bag. He was surprised. It looked like someone else's body with all those cuts
and bruises and caked dirt and blood. He lifted one arm, and it was so heavy
it felt almost tied to the ground. Every muscle was tender. The abrasions and
gashes on his hands looked familiar, but the rest was beyond recall. He made a
point of not trying to remember.
He grunted involuntarily as he sat up. "God," he muttered. There was a big
knot on his forehead, some torn muscles on the inside of his right thigh, a
cut on one forearm
file:///K|/eMule/Incoming/HTML-Jeff%20Long%20-%20Angels%20of%20Light.htm (127
of 216)19-1-2007 22:42:52
Jeff Long - Angels of Light that was still weeping and might want a few
stitches. He was a mess. "A fucking mess," he whispered. A tired fucking mess.
Page 108
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Maybe it wasn't worth moving quite yet.
To the right lay his notebook opened to the Visor map. He closed it shut.
Someone had left a pair of white karate pants Sammy's, no doubt and a
red-and-white-
checkered flannel shirt. And a pair of black hightop Keds, Bullseye's college
"hoop"
shoes. An unopened candy bar poked up from the top of one shoe, and by the
door stood a bottle of water and a lukewarm can of Bud. John felt like a flood
victim. Bad losses, good neighbors.
He guzzled the water. He pulled the clothes on and unzipped the tent door.
Despite every effort not to show his exhaustion and pain, it took a minute for
him to climb to his feet. He was sick and tired. Sick and tired of sleeping on
the cold, heatless earth like some animal caught out in the open. Sick and
tired of worming out of a cocoon and meeting with this three-foot-high ghetto
slum of tents and picnic tables. Sick and tired of sticking his fingers and
toes and heart and mind to these granite slabs like a leech on pigskin. It was
absurd that he couldn't seem to think beyond the reach of his hands, much less
the vertical corridors of the Valley. He was sick and tired of
Yosemite. Sing your swan song, he silently bitched at himself. Get on.
Grumbling and wincing, every joint and muscle balking, he finally managed to
straighten up on his stiff knees. Camp was largely empty. He heard the rattle
and tinkling of climbing hardware at another site, someone returning from a [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]