Climbing Rock Canyon

by Dale Neibaur, 1977

It was an inch too far. No matter how he stretched or turned it was one tantalizing, heart-wrenching, life-taking inch too far. He was clinging desperately with one hand to a tiny crack in the limestone cliff, tennis shoes finding precarious grip on small indentations and protuberances. Beneath him the cliff fell almost vertically away for a breathtaking two hundred feet to the narrow canyon floor, where a small stream meandered through bright golden aspen trees. The melodious gurgle of the stream and the light whisper of the leaves filled the silence, but he was past noticing. His attention was focused solely upward, vainly trying to erase that final inch between the tips of his outstretched fingers and the last hold he needed to reach the top of the cliff.

He'd been clinging in that one spot for endless minutes, and his muscles shook with fatigue and fear. Beads of sweat formed at his hairline to run stinging into his eyes, and the taste of salt and blood mingled with the gut feeling of painful overexcitement to knot his stomach. The cliff was slippery where his left hand was clinging; torn skin and broken fingernails oozed blood slowly as he changed his grip. Even his shirt was torn, and the red-gold dragon some long-forgotten girlfriend had lovingly stitched across its back now stuck to his aching sweat-drenched shoulders.

Still he looked desperately upward, concentrating on an impossible effort he knew he must make. He hugged the cliff even tighter for a moment; the stone felt cool and rough against his cheek, and a small point drove into his chest as he breathed. The cliff smelled damp and chalky, smelled of earth and clean rock. For an instant his shaking body stilled, and it was once again good to be climbing and alive. He acted upon this instant; mustering every ounce of muscle control he thrust upward and stretched impossibly. His right hand reached desperately, trying to grow into the rock and span that last agonizing inch.

Then he fell.

[This was another piece created for a BYU class. The inspiration was an autumn climb that Steve and I took up Rock Canyon. We often started an innocent stroll up the canyon, but were never able to stay on the road until it reached the campground at the canyon's back. There was always something to see in the cliffs that loomed on each side, and from the canyon floor the route always looked reasonable. Neither of us had any training in climbing. There were no local rock gyms then, and we never saw others on ropes working the cliffs like a visitor would today. On this particular day we were climbing the north wall. I was in the lead, and I did indeed get stuck. Fortunately, I managed to work my way around a protruding rock point and into a narrow crack, where I wedged myself and then reached back to help Steve. It was a good thing we were both skinny!

I'm very glad that our sons are smart enough to use ropes. Thanks!]