the Mountain Valley War (1978) by Louis - Kilkenny 03 L'amour
Authors: Louis - Kilkenny 03 L'amour
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out to have ever fallen from the rim, so there had to be a trail. Once down there where it was, he could either find something of the trail down which it had come, or by backtracking and search from below, he could find the route it used.
If he could find no trail, he would have to get back up a cliff that was at least three hundred feet high, but that was a bridge he would have to cross when the time came. He was taking a long chance, but if ever there was a time for risk-taking, it was now.
Somewhere in that vast jumble of broken cliffs and canyons, fallen slabs, and shoulders of stone he would find a way down.
It was almost seven o'clock in the morning when he reached the point where he planned to descend. He had brought along several ropes, not enough to reach the bottom but enough to get him to the steep talus slope down which he could make his way.
Lying flat, he peered over the edge. At this point the cliff bulged out somewhat, and he could not see the bottom immediately below, but he hoped to swing back in against the cliff face, where he could use roots or projections of rock to help in his descent. He was no mountain climber, although he had once read something of their methods in an old magazine, Atlantic or Century, he believed. He wished he could review it now, for he would need all the help he could get.
Forcing himself to think of nothing but the task at hand, he lowered himself over the edge, and when he got the merest toehold, he felt below until he could grasp one of the roots, and slowly eased himself lower.
The depth below was sickening, and he had never cared much for high places. He had made fast his rope to an ancient gnarled and twisted cedar near the edge, and had run the rope between his legs, across his chest, and over the opposite shoulder, then across his back, gripping it in his right hand. In this way he could lower himself carefully, occasionally guiding himself with his left hand.
Resolutely he kept his thoughts away from the vast depth below, but in a matter of minutes he was wringing wet with perspiration. He lowered himself slowly, but the rope was burning his skin right through his clothes. He slid, held himself, and grabbed a projection of rock and felt for a toehold on the wall. For a moment he was still.
He dearly wanted to wipe the perspiration from his face. It trickled into his eyes, which smarted from the salt sweat. He glanced to the right along the face of the cliff, and far off in the blue he saw a buzzard swinging in lazy circles.
His fingers ached with gripping, and he released his hold on the rock and let himself slide down some more. If an enemy discovered him now, he would be cold turkey, no chance to even fight back. The slightest slackening of grip on his right hand and that rope would be gone and he would be falling.
He needed to ease the weight again. His toe found a rock, tested it. Solid. Slowly, carefully, he began to settle weight on the ball of his foot. Suddenly there was a sag in the rock beneath him, and it gave way and the rattle of falling stones told him he had lost that toehold.
Slowly he lowered himself again. What in God's world was he doing here, anyway? This was a damned fool thing ...
The rope slipped and burned through his hand, across his back. He gripped it hard and regained control. If he just had nerve enough, he might lower himself all the way down without trusting to foothold on the cliff face, but he was wary of it, afraid of going too fast.
He glanced up. He had come down at least fifty feet, and perhaps farther. If he quit now, he could climb that distance hand over hand, but if he went farther, he doubted he would have the strength to climb back.
He lowered away, got his toe in a cleft of rock, looked to right and left. Nothing. He lowered away again, and the rope grew hot. He waited, his left hand clinging to a root, and glanced to the right. A cedar grew there from a cleft in the rock, and beyond was a series of tracks. He
If he could find no trail, he would have to get back up a cliff that was at least three hundred feet high, but that was a bridge he would have to cross when the time came. He was taking a long chance, but if ever there was a time for risk-taking, it was now.
Somewhere in that vast jumble of broken cliffs and canyons, fallen slabs, and shoulders of stone he would find a way down.
It was almost seven o'clock in the morning when he reached the point where he planned to descend. He had brought along several ropes, not enough to reach the bottom but enough to get him to the steep talus slope down which he could make his way.
Lying flat, he peered over the edge. At this point the cliff bulged out somewhat, and he could not see the bottom immediately below, but he hoped to swing back in against the cliff face, where he could use roots or projections of rock to help in his descent. He was no mountain climber, although he had once read something of their methods in an old magazine, Atlantic or Century, he believed. He wished he could review it now, for he would need all the help he could get.
Forcing himself to think of nothing but the task at hand, he lowered himself over the edge, and when he got the merest toehold, he felt below until he could grasp one of the roots, and slowly eased himself lower.
The depth below was sickening, and he had never cared much for high places. He had made fast his rope to an ancient gnarled and twisted cedar near the edge, and had run the rope between his legs, across his chest, and over the opposite shoulder, then across his back, gripping it in his right hand. In this way he could lower himself carefully, occasionally guiding himself with his left hand.
Resolutely he kept his thoughts away from the vast depth below, but in a matter of minutes he was wringing wet with perspiration. He lowered himself slowly, but the rope was burning his skin right through his clothes. He slid, held himself, and grabbed a projection of rock and felt for a toehold on the wall. For a moment he was still.
He dearly wanted to wipe the perspiration from his face. It trickled into his eyes, which smarted from the salt sweat. He glanced to the right along the face of the cliff, and far off in the blue he saw a buzzard swinging in lazy circles.
His fingers ached with gripping, and he released his hold on the rock and let himself slide down some more. If an enemy discovered him now, he would be cold turkey, no chance to even fight back. The slightest slackening of grip on his right hand and that rope would be gone and he would be falling.
He needed to ease the weight again. His toe found a rock, tested it. Solid. Slowly, carefully, he began to settle weight on the ball of his foot. Suddenly there was a sag in the rock beneath him, and it gave way and the rattle of falling stones told him he had lost that toehold.
Slowly he lowered himself again. What in God's world was he doing here, anyway? This was a damned fool thing ...
The rope slipped and burned through his hand, across his back. He gripped it hard and regained control. If he just had nerve enough, he might lower himself all the way down without trusting to foothold on the cliff face, but he was wary of it, afraid of going too fast.
He glanced up. He had come down at least fifty feet, and perhaps farther. If he quit now, he could climb that distance hand over hand, but if he went farther, he doubted he would have the strength to climb back.
He lowered away, got his toe in a cleft of rock, looked to right and left. Nothing. He lowered away again, and the rope grew hot. He waited, his left hand clinging to a root, and glanced to the right. A cedar grew there from a cleft in the rock, and beyond was a series of tracks. He
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