Page 64 of Entwined Hearts

“Bye,” I say.

I let go of her hand. She walks to her car, gets in, and starts the engine. With an expression I can’t read, she coasts to the exit. A tearing sensation burns inside my chest as I watch her move slowly and steadily away from me.

Why am I not racing after her?

Eighteen

Anya

Inside the warm cocoon of my sleeping bag at five AM, I’m awake with my churning thoughts. My stomach rumbles, but the idea of food makes me feel sick.

Even though I arrived in Yosemite last night, I didn’t visit Jake’s campsite. I was too chickenshit. After all, the last time I saw him, he had his arm around someone else. What if she is still here? Or what if he’s with someone new?

And I couldn’t stop thinking about Colby. During my drive from Bishop, I tried to make the pieces fit together—my feelings for him and my craving to retain my friendship with Jake. Will Colby show up the way he promised? Or was the weekend just another notch in his belt? The idea of that makes me feel wretched.

I know he doesn’t like the idea of me climbing Widow’s Walk. But is it because of the danger, or because he doesn’t like me being alone with Jake?

Pick another climb, any climb, and I’ll do it with you.

It felt like an honor because Colby’s one of the most gifted climbers in the world. But what if he’s only offering so he can keep me from Jake? That’s not what I want. I want to be valued for my skills as a climber and a partner.

After setting up my stove and cooking breakfast, I try to choke down my bowl of quinoa and spinach, but it’s no use. I peel one of my tart oranges and eat it instead, then brew my coffee. Wrapped in my thick puffy coat and all my wooly layers, I set off for Jake’s campsite. I pass brightly colored tents, most of them silent except for the occasional snore or rustle of nylon.

I think about the route up Widow’s Walk. I’ve reviewed the beta left by other climbers until the details of each pitch are sharp in my mind. The hard layback on pitch four, the crimpy foothold and cross-step on pitch seven, the series of boulder moves smack in the middle of the route, and then the crux located two pitches before the top.

My stomach lurches upward, my fingers tingling with that mix of anticipation and excitement. I sip my coffee as I walk, trying to calm myself.

After following a long curve to a junction, I turn right and continue walking, passing a group of climbers gearing up for a climb, their gear spread out on a tarp next to their tent. One climber is at the picnic table with a checklist while the other lists the equipment they’ll need—haulbag, portaledge, water bottles, rope, carabiners, quickdraws, chalk, approach shoes, food, headlamp. From the size of the pile, I’m guessing they’re spending a week on one of the walls.

Another shiver of excitement zips down my spine, and I huddle tighter in my coat. Jake and I will be gearing up like this in just a few days.

A lone figure in a puffy black jacket and black wool hat is hunched over a stove in a campsite ahead. Jake. My emotions spin and tangle up inside me. The anger and hurt from seeing him with someone else flares, but so does the memory of our friendship. We were climbing partners before we were a couple. Climbing with him is fantastic. He’s focused, supportive, determined, and is good at being quiet when I need space to think or work through a mental roadblock.

I think about the contrasts with Colby, who is a brilliant and creative climber, who sings to himself, who seems to exude confidence and calm as if failure is no big deal.

But failureisa big deal. I cannot fail Widow’s WalkorDragen’s Tarn.

Jake turns just as I approach the edge of his campsite. He radiates quiet, intense energy, and I can tell he’s hesitant to hug me.

I’ve already looked for signs he’s not alone: another pair of shoes on the mat outside his van, a second mug on the picnic table, or someone peering out from the window. But as far as I can tell, he’s on his own.

Our hug is awkward and over too fast. Does he know about Colby? Does he feel bad about what happened at the hot springs? If we hadn’t bumped into each other, I would never have known about it. I’m sure he wanted it that way.

If I hadn’t seen him with her, would I have jumped into Colby’s bed that night?

“So, I figure we’ll want to rappel down to the crux,” he says, settling in at the picnic table.

I slide into the bench across from him. The tabletop is covered with his project notes, collected and brooded over for years, and the weather-beaten climbing guide.

“Let’s do that today,” I say.

Because the crux is near the top, we’ll hike to the summit via a climber’s trail, then rappel down and practice that one pitch until we master the moves. There’s no use in climbing so many pitches all the way from the bottom only to be turned away from a challenge that—if we had taken the time to practice—wouldn’t stop us. To outsiders, it may look like cheating, but every big wall climber does recon like this. If we were on our way up the wall after five hard days of climbing, we’d be too tired for repeat attempts. This way, even though we’ll arrive tired, we’ll have all that muscle memory in the bank.

Jake raises an eyebrow as if to ask,you sure? “I thought maybe we’d do Higher Spire.”

I frown. While a classic, Higher Spire is only 5.9 and five pitches. “I don’t need a warmup.” I’ve been pushing hard at the gym since the Buttermilks, and I haven’t had more than five grams of sugar per day in weeks. I feel healthy, ready. My head’s probably not in top shape, but that will change the minute I get on the wall.

He pauses a moment longer. “There was another rockfall yesterday.”

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