Stepping Stones (22 page)

The Crux

I
have
made some monumental blunders in my life, and it looked like I had just made another.  Though I didn’t understand why, one thing
was quickly becoming clear
:  I shouldn’t have laughed at Bellagorski.

“You think I’m funny, Spencer?” he growled, his eyes glittering with rage.

The sun had just broken over the ridge to the east, draping long, ominous shadows across our campsite.  Bellagorski was sitting beside the dying embers in the fire ring.  From the look
of
his bloodshot eyes—not to mention an empty fifth of tequila and a pile of beer cans littering the sand beside his bedroll—
he appeared to have
been up all night.  When I didn’t reply, I noticed
that
his huge, rawboned fists
were
clenched knuckle-white at his sides.  Not for the first time that morning, the realization struck me that
Bellagorski
looked exactly like what he was—a mean, dangerous, egocentric son of a bitch.

Jack Wolfe, my climbing partner, and I had met
Bellagorski
in Yosemite three months back.  He’d been climbing solo . . . unroped.  I hadn’t liked him right from the start, but for some reason Jack had let him tie with us
over
the next couple of days.  As I got to know Bellagorski better, I liked him even less, but one thing I won’t deny.  He could climb.

Jack and I had a week’s trip to Joshua Tree National Monument planned for later that fall.  To my irritation
,
Jack had invited Bellagorski to join us; then at the last minute Jack canceled.  I decided to go anyway, figuring
some
climbing was better than none, even if it
was
with a jerk like Bellagorski.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

I had
left work early the day before, making good time on the drive out from L.A.  I passed the Palm Springs turnoff in just under two hours, then
headed east on Route 62 and climbed
into the high desert of Morongo Valley toward Joshua Tree.  My dog, J.R., was sitting shotgun, as usual.  When Susan (my wife of five years) and I
had
separated last January,
we had
each taken what we loved
.  She’d grabbed the condo.  I had
taken J.R.

Late that afternoon I pulled into the Hidden Valley Campground.  By then the sun had begun its descent, but the desert was still plenty hot, and J.R. had been hanging her head out the window for the past
few
hours trying to cool down.  Glad to stretch my legs, I
cut the engine,
stepped to the back of my Jeep
,
and opened the hatch to give her some water.  As I filled her bowl from a five-gallon army-surplus can, I spotted Bellagorski’s beat-up van parked beside the camp bulletin board.  I glanced around.  Most of the campsites were deserted.  Bellagorski was nowhere in sight.

Curious
, I checked across the road, noting a small group of people clustered around the base of Intersection Rock.  They were watching a lone figure about 150 feet up, climbing unroped.

Bellagorski.

I walked over, never taking my eyes from the rock face.  Bellagorski was nearing the top, having nearly completed a difficult route called North Overhang.  As he progressed, his body flowed effortlessly from hold to hold, each of his moves deliberate, fluid, controlled.  I craned my neck with the others, squinting into the sun.  Everyone there stared spellbound as Bellagorski approached the crux, the most difficult part of the climb. 
I had
done the route several times
,
and
I
knew the crux involved a demanding series of moves to surmount a large
overhang.  Unroped, one tiny slip
meant death.

Bellagorski hesitated, then started up again.  He hung briefly by one hand, then pushed off the face and swung out over the drop, making a dynamic slap for the last critical hold.  An instant later he had his feet back on the rock . . . and he
scrambled to
top.

He made it look easy.

That night Bellagorsk
i and I camped at the foot of a huge
unnamed wall that Jack and I had discovered the previous spring. 
I had suggested to Bellagorski that we give it a try the following morning, and he’d agreed. 
We were in a closed area about fifteen miles down an abandoned mining road, far from the park campgrounds.  We weren’t supposed to be there, but the rangers rarely traveled that
far out without a reason.  For the most part, n
obody
else
did
, either
.

We ate in silence.  Afterward we sat around the fire watching the stars come out.  Despite the poor company, it felt good
being
away from the city.  Before long Bellagorski started drinking.  I wouldn’t say alcohol exactly loosened him up, but at least it got him talking.  “Why’d you pull that stunt this afternoon?” I asked when the conversation turned to climbing.

“Why do you think?” he replied, giving the coals a kick that sent a shower of sparks spinning into the night.

“I don’t know,” I answered.  And I didn’t.  Over the years, most of the guys
I had
roped up with
considered
me a pretty fair climber.  Jack and I have put up several new routes in Joshua Tree and Idyllwild, even
one
in Yosemite.  Nonetheless, I considered the unroped ascent of a difficult technical climb just plain showboating,
pure and simple.  “Maybe you have
a death wish,” I ventured.

“Shows what you know.  Lemme ask you something, hotshot.  Why do
you
climb?”

I shrugged.  “All the obvious reasons.”

“Like?”

“Like the challenge, solving technical problems, the feeling I get at the top.”

“Bull
.  That’s not why you climb.  That’s just
the
window dressing.”

“Okay, you tell me.  Why do I climb?”

“Simple.  It’s the thrill.  You climb for the same reason
that
even
some schmuck businessman
can’t resist edging up to the window on the sixty-seventh floor of his office building and looking down, even though he’s crappin’ his pants the whole time.  It’s the thrill that’s got you hooked, Spencer.  It’s the adrenaline rush of death staring you in the face. 
That’s
why you climb.”

“Maybe that’s true,
at least
in part,” I reluctantly agreed.  “But using a rope minimizes the chances of actually
dying
.  You’re insane to climb without one.”

Bellagorski’s face darkened.  “You gutless puke, don’t
ever
call me that.  You’re like some old lady who’s afraid to hang her ass on the line.  Guys like you make me sick.”

We talked on into the night.  Argued, mostly.  Bellagorski snorted so
me coke and kept on drinking.  And t
he more he drank, the more our conversation degenerated.  Eventually I decided to turn in, resolving to return to the park in the morning—figuring I could still do a little bouldering, possibly even find another climbing partner.  Anyone but Bellagorski.

When I awok
e, Bellagorski picked up where we had
left off the night before, seeming determined to escalate our disagreement
to a whole new level.  He was drunk
, and I didn’t take him seriously.  I even made the mistake of laughing at him.  But when I noticed the expression on his face and the manic glint in his eyes, I decided it was time to get the hell out.

“You think I’m funny?” he demanded again.

“There’s absolutely nothin
g funny about you, asshole,” I said
.  “C’mon, J.R.  Let’s go.”  As J.R. trotted over, I tossed the dregs of my coffee
into the fire
and turned my back.  It was my second mistake of the morning.

J.R. probably saved my life.  I heard a low rumblin
g deep in her throat. 
I
glanced
back and saw Bellagorski rushing me from behind.  I threw up
an
arm without thinking, taking most of the blow on my forearm.  Numbing pain shot up to my shoulder.

I backed away, warily watching Bellagorski.  He had my short-handled latrine shovel gripped in both hands.  Wielding it like an ax, he swung again.  I stumbled, narrowly evading the blade as it flashed past my face.  Continuing my retreat, I peered around the campsite, searching for a weapon.  There was nothing.

Still growling, J.R. circled to the left.  Bellagorski’s eyes
were
riveted on me, but I could tell part of his attention was on her, too.  J.R.
is
a big dog—
malamute and shepherd mix.  She’s
also harmless, but Bellagorski didn’t know that.

“J.R., get him!” I yelled.

Bellagorski took his eyes off me for an instant.  That’s all it took.  I moved in.  He swung, but by then
I had
slipped inside the arc of his shovel.  The handle glanced off my shoulder.  I grabbed a fistful of shirt.  Before he could swing
the shovel
again, I threw my left.

I connected.  Something in Bellagorski’s face crunched under my knuckles.  With a mingling of rage and fear, I hit him again.  His legs buckled.  The shovel dropped from his hands.  Blood streamed from his nose, but he wouldn’t go down.  Bellowing in
anger
, he ripped free of my grasp and wiped his hand across his mouth, gaping in disbelief at his bloody palm.  Then his eyes narrowed.  He spat on the ground and charged, attempting to encircle me with his arms.

I retre
ated, staying just out of range. 
I couldn’t let him take the fight to the ground
,
where his size and weight would quickly end it.  He was drunk, but still a lot stronger than I was.

The shovel forgotten, he continued to stalk me, a mist of blood spraying from his mouth with each breath.  The next time he rushed me I jabbed once, stepped to the right, and dropped.  With a hooking motion of my
right
foot, I swept his legs out from under him.

He went down.  Hard.

Normally I wouldn’t hit a guy
when he’s flat on his back. 
I made an exception for Bellagorski.  As he lay gasping for breath, I put my knee on his chest and slammed my fist into his face till he stopped moving.

Leaving him bleeding, I gathered my things as
quickly
as I could. 
I had
just finished stowing my sleeping bag and cook kit in the back of my Jeep when he rose and stumbled to his van.  I grabbed my rope, slings, and equipment rack, then made one last check of the camp.  I didn’t plan on coming back.

As I was loading
the last of
my climbing gear, Bellagorski reemerged from his van.  He started toward me.  He had a gun.

With a flick of his wrist, he motioned me away from the Jeep.

I didn’t move.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Shut up.”  Once more he motioned with the pistol, then pointed it at
me
.  I moved.

“Put on your climbing shoes,” he ordered.

“Why?”

“Get ’em on,” he hissed, speaking with difficulty.  His mouth was a mess. 
I had
broken some teeth.

I sat in the dirt, removed my boots, and pulled on my climbing shoes.  As I began lacing them, J.R. lay beside me, acting confused.  “It’s okay, girl,” I said quietly, wishing it were true.  She thumped the ground a couple times with her tail.

After
I had
laced my shoes, I stood and faced Bellagorski.  “Now what?  You gonna shoot me?”

His tongue flicked across his puffy lips.  “Don’t think I won’t,” he warned, his eyes shifting to the towering rock wall behind me.  “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

Seconds ticked by, seeming like hours.  I stood, sweat gathering un
der my arms.  I suddenly realized
that I knew nothing about Bellagorski—not his first name, or where he lived, or even a phone number.  Nothing.  And right then, he looked capable of
anything
, even cold-blooded murder.

It wouldn’t be the first time
, he’d said.  I remembered the shove
l, wondering whether he would have
stopped with the first blow.
 
I held my breath, expecting at any moment to see the gun jump in his hand and feel the stab of a
bullet
tearing
into my chest
.