Rock Cowboy

By Michael Moretti

Without warning, the first winter storm hit like the Hand of God, pummeled the

climbers with freezing rain and hail. The rangers later estimated gusts up to 90

MPH. Wes and Becky huddled close at the belay station, two rope lengths above

the ground on the side of Devils Blade, high in the Grand Tetons. The ski town of

Jackson Hole sat below them in the valley, visible through streaming rags of

clouds.

"How you feelin?" Wes yelled into Becky's ear. The freight train roar of the storm

made it nearly impossible to communicate.

"Can't feel my feet. Or my hands."

Her lips were blue. She retreated deeply into her oversized down jacket.

"I'm lowering you down to the ground. Run back to the van. Got that."

She hugged the boy from Eagle Pass, Texas tight. Her first cowboy, she joked with

her sister. This last year driving around the country in her old van was a waking

dream she hoped would never end.

Wes kissed her cold forehead and pulled the Goretex hood tight over her climbing

helmet. Checked the knot holding the rope to her harness. Nine millimeters of

nylon string their only connection.

"Lean back, Beck. I got you."

She gave a feeble thumbs up between shivering spasms. The first stage of

hypothermia. She’d be chilled through and incapable of moving within an hour,

maybe less.

Something dark flashed into his peripheral vision.

A falling climber, not 20 feet away, rocketed towards the ground at terminal velocity. A shredded rope trailed behind. The body landed in a pile of boulders and didn’t move. Then wailing from high above, cutting through the wind like the hysterical cries of a wounded

animal. Someone had just watched their partner plummet hundreds of feet to the

ground, leaving them stranded above without a rope to descend. Nobody could last

more than a few hours in this storm.

Becky and Wes froze and locked eyes. "We're safe here on the arete." A facile lie.

Rocks and debris whizzed past as the wind and rain scoured the shattered granite

face above them. They would get hit, depending on time and luck. Like the falling

rocks that severed that guy's rope.

Wes Harding was always attracted to dangerous sports. He grew up on a Texas

ranch near the Mexican border. His grandfather was a Texas Ranger. His father a

rancher and Korean War veteran with a prosthetic leg. His mother could brand

cows all day and then cook supper for the ranch hands. Flaming red hair withendless freckles. Icy blue eyes, daring you to sass her back. She broke broom sticks

over Wes' skinny ass.

Wes learned to ride and rope at an early age. Began competing in local rodeos

when he was only ten years old. Some said he had promise. Until a 2,000 pound

Brahma bull stomped him into the dirt when he was 16; broke his hip and his

pelvis. Six months in a cast and another six before he could walk straight. A

wicked limp the only reminder of his aspirations for the pro rodeo circuit.

One Spring a cowboy friend invited Wes out to the Huecos, near El Paso. "Climbing is easy compared to bull riding," Mitch told him. "If you fall off, I'll catch you with the rope."

Wes threw himself into learning to climb just like he approached everything new -

- not afraid to fail and learn from his mistakes. He quickly got a reputation at the

local crags as a "balls to the wall" rookie climber who tried to lead routes way

beyond his skill level. Other climbers watched him take massive whippers, falling

over and over until he sent the route. They were mostly amazed that he survived

the falls.

"You got it," shouted Mitch. "Pull the roof move and clip the bolt. You got it dude!"

Wes struggled to keep his head focused. He had "Elvis" leg bad, shaking

uncontrollably as he reached up for the jug hold under the roof. Once he

committed and pulled up, there was no return. Blowing the roof move meant a 40-

footer, slamming into the wall on the way down.

Mitch wondered what drove his friend so hard. They grew up as wannbe cowboys,

and a cowboy never quits. Never bitches about how bad shit gets. Never lets his

partner down. John Wayne called it "True Grit." Mitch secretly admired the gimpy,

crazy-ass son-of-a-bitch. There was no "quit" in him.

~~~

Wes stomped his feet on the snowy ledge. The icy wind relentless. Rain instantly

turned to rime ice on the rock. He was trapped on the side of a cliff coated with

snow. It would be suicide to climb upwards with no crampons or ice tools. Even

the rope was partially frozen; it laid in a pile at his feet, covered with frost.

Wes shook out the heavy, frozen coil of rope. Tied one end to his harness and

started climbing a wide crack in the rock, pushing and pulling on the slick surface,

moving up one foot at a time. Exhausted from the cold and the effort. The rope and

metal gear hanging on his harness added another load of dead weight. He guessed

the stranded climber was at least 150 feet above.

He talked to God about it. No way he could just leave her there and ever feel good

about himself again. Ever look Becky in the eye again.

A rock the size of a baseball slammed into his left shoulder. White hot electrical

jolts fired down the side of his body. The shock undid him. Like getting hit by a

large caliber bullet. His arm hung useless. Shaking. He pressed his head against

the rock and grit his teeth as a wave of nausea washed through. He wanted to

scream in pain, but worried the person above might hear.

Seconds felt like minutes. Wes was 100 feet up the crack, wedged in, holding on

with his one good hand. He had to get a cam in the crack so he could hang on it

until the pain subsided. Until his head cleared enough to come up with a plan. He

jammed a numb foot into the crack, pulled a piece off his rack, slammed it into the

narrowest section. Leaned back and weighted it. The world went blurry. Tunnel

vision took over. All he could see was the dark, wet rock in front of his face. He

prayed.

"Get back on that horse and show him who's the boss," Jack Harding yelled from

the fence. They were breaking wild mustangs. Wes' dad thought the kid was ready

to prove his skills. And his courage. Maybe they had been too soft on the boy.

The skinny 12-year-old leapt onto the saddle. A ranch hand tossed him the reins

and stepped back. This could go in the wrong direction fast. Jack stopped

breathing. His wife would kill him if their son came home with a broken bone -- or

worse.

"YeeHaw!" A toothless old drunk cowboy cheered the boy on. "You got her boy. Dig

those spurs in, cowboy!"

Jack smiled, recalling his initiation into breaking wild horses when he was the

same age. Broke his wrist. Got back on and broke the horse. Wes had the same

"sand.”

The kid sailed through the air and landed on his ass. Jack gripped the fence rail.

Can't make a fuss over the boy. He's got to learn how to get up and keep trying.

"There just ain't no quit in a Harding," his old man used to say. Jack tapped three

times on his fake leg for good luck. And to remember the hardest day of his life.

~~~

Jack and Wes drove down the highway in the big pickup truck, towing the trailer

with the dappled mare Wes would ride in the competition tomorrow. Black asphalt

simmered in the heat. Wes held his hand out the window to feel the breeze. He

loved these road trips with his dad. Just two guys out on an adventure. No women

to tell them what to do and when to do it. Just like real cowboys.

"You gonna tell me, or what? How did you lose the leg, dad?"

"We dug into fox holes on the front line. The ground was frozen, so it took us

hours to dig deep enough. IT WAS freezing. And it kept snowing. We couldn't see

the other Americans, only a few yards away."

"The Korean front line was close by. Nothing but bomb craters and shredded barb

wire between us. They would just randomly shoot at us. All we could see was the

muzzle flash. Then we’d fire back. Sometimes they would launch a mortar shell.

We were freezing to death. Ain’t never been so afraid, son."

"My buddy in our fox hole was a dumb kid from Oklahoma. Never left his small

town before. He kept praying and crying. Begged me not to tell the other guys. I

just ignored him. He kept shooting his rifle every time he heard a noise. Didn't

even aim. Just wasting ammo. I tried to calm him down but he wasn't listening."

"He had a grenade that he kept fidgeting with. Said he was going to throw it fifty

yards and kill them. I told him that wasn't possible. I tried to take the grenade

away from him before he blew us up by mistake. We wrestled for control, and he

pulled the pin. But he held onto it. There was a huge flash; then his face was gone.

His head was blown off. My leg felt wet. I looked down and there was nothing

below my knee. The snow was dark red. I packed ice on the stump and screamed

for a medic. Then the enemy attacked. They were all over us. Running and firing at

our positions in the dark. We all started firing back. That went on for several

hours until the sun came up. A medic came and put me on a stretcher. I heard him

on the radio. He said I wasn't going to make it to the hospital. They told him to

leave me. But he wouldn't. He asked the strongest kid to help. They carried me

two miles back to the MASH unit. I thanked him later. Found out he was also from

Texas."

Wes crawled onto the icy ledge, clawing with his one good hand. The stranded

climber, a girl in her early 20s and covered in snow, was tied into an anchor. He

yelled at her. No response. He pulled her hood back to check. Glassy eyes stared

through him. Her skin was waxy and white as porcelain. Her mouth open in a

grotesque expression. Like “The Scream,” a painting he saw in a high school art

class.

He clipped into the anchor and sat down next to the stranger who’s name he

would never know. Wes thought of his younger sister Emmy who died in a DUI car

wreck when she was a teenager. The light went out in his mother’s eyes. His

father lost himself in whiskey. Never came back.

Darkness fell over the mountain as the winds increased and the temperature

dropped. Wes huddled against the girl's body to block the wind. His headlamp was

dead.

He tuned out the pain and the chaos and burrowed deep inside himself, smiling at the Devil.

"Hi Emmy. So good to see you again, sis. We should go for a ride. A got a sweet

little mare broke in and ready for you. I know a great ridge where we can have a

picnic. Just like we used to. Watch the sun set. And we'll be home for supper. You

know how upset Ma gets if we're not home for supper."

Wes could no longer stand up. Snow was piling on and he had no energy to dig out.

Everything was just fine. Darkness didn't scare him. Just one last thing to do. If

only he could remember......

He fumbled in his jacket pocket for his cell phone. Switched it on. A red "low-

battery" alert; only seconds left. The cold drained it. He typed in a final text message to Becky with one finger; the others had turned black. Useless.

The tiny blue light went out. Emmy joined him. "It's OK little brother. Just rest

your eyes for a minute. We're going home together."

Wes wasn't worried. Everybody knows God loves a Cowboy.