The month went by quickly, faster than he thought. He’d tied and retied his lines, triple checked his hasps, and even had his friends look over the work; all, despite not being climbers themselves, were very impressed.
He came upon the cottage by the creek, peeking in the hollowed tree.
“Hello Jordan,” she called to him from a boulder on the bank. She lazily tossed small stones in the water, the creek now icy at its edges.
“Hello Ali. I brought my lines.”
“Good,” she said, turning. “Let’s see them.”
His eyes widened suddenly. “Your arms, they’re all cut up, and you face is bruised. What happened?”
“I fell.” She stood and took the line from his shoulder, beginning to run it through her hand.
“Your eye is nearly swollen shut. I don’t understand.”
She heaved a sigh. “I fell Jordan, simple as that.”
“You fell? Why? How?”
Her open eye rolled, and she loosed a short chuckle. “We all fall Jordan, even us Pros fall. If you go up you will come down, that’s part of the life and we accept it.”
For the first time in his life Jordan doubted his dream. “So I’ll fall to.”
“You already have, many times I suspect. I mean look at this splice here.” She held up a short section of his line, but he was only half present.
“Why do we fall?”
“Because we’re climbers, you have to accept it or accept you’re not a climber, we can’t all be.”
Jordan rubbed his face and walked to the creek bank. He watched the water rolling effortlessly downstream. The water ran headlong into rock and root, but instead of crashing through or charging around, the water embraced the obstacles in its path. It hugged them and caressed them, then rolled on without despair or regret for the path it chose.
His breath shuttered. “No, I’m a climber. I want to go up.”
Ali rubbed her head, considering his line. “I don’t think you’re ready, but I can see you’re going to try anyway.”
Ali removed a can of spray paint from her storeroom and began to shake it. Then she walked along his line, spraying short sections red.
“What are you doing?”
She sprayed a knot he had been particularly proud of with the red paint. “I think you need to look all of these over again, everything I’ve marked red.”
“But you’ve marked more then half of it.”
“I should have marked more, but you have to start somewhere. You make the changes and come back in a month.”
Heart heavy Jordan began to coil his line. “Then we’ll go for a climb?”
“Maybe. See you next month.”
Ali entered the cottage. Jordan stood, the rope he’d been so proud of streaked red, and listened to the water until his heart lightened enough to make the trek home; the line now a heavy burden on his shoulder.
Several days passed before he felt armored enough to examine the line. He’d been furious at Ali. Not so much for putting the marks on his line, but more for her attacking his careful work with such irreverence. But as time passed his anger cooled and he began to realize that Ali had simply been overly critical. Now, confidant that most were mis-marked, and not really a problem at all, he pulled the coiled line from under his bed. Ali didn’t understand his method; she was stuck in her own ways.
Looking carefully at the first red slash, a complex splice, a miss weave caught Jordan’s attention. Ali was right; he’d have to splice it again. She got one right. Then he checked the second mark, his hasp was looped on reversed. Probably never be a problem, but he decided to correct it just the same.
It took most of the month for Jordan to make the changes to the line, each and every mark Ali had made he redid.
And that next month he walked home with his line streaked red. Only this time he wasn’t angry. Each and every mark now represented to him a chance to improve, to become a better climber. So now, instead of dragging himself home and ignoring the line, he rushed home excited to start again. And this time the changes wouldn’t take the whole month, so he’d have time to do other work, new work, and have that to show Ali as well.
The winter passed. Each month he’d make the trek out to Ali’s, and each month he rushed home with his red marked line, anxious to begin reworking it.
In April Ali made only a few marks to his line.
She removed the tea tray from the serving table and brought it into the kitchen. She returned carrying a large coil of rope and dropped it on the table. “I’d like you to look this over for me.” She handed him the can of paint.
“Me, look this over for you?”
“Sure, besides, I think it’s the least you could do.”
“But you’re better then me. How can I check your work?”
“Because I make mistakes too.”
Ali sat behind her workbench, slid her glasses on, and began splicing safety loops as Jordan carefully ran the line through his fingers. Each knot, spice, and buckle seemed perfect, some better than perfect. Ali was a true master of the craft; she used the equipment in such unusual ways, taking the practice beyond simple arithmetic and formula. Then a knot stopped in Jordan’s hand, a bow-shank triple cross, a very difficult knot, but one that Jordan had developed a fair skill at.
“Hey,” he said half-consciously.
Ali looked up from her splicing. “Hey what?’
“I’m sorry, but I think this knot is wrong. I don’t think it will hold.”
Ali slid her glasses down her nose and peered over them. “Yep, it’s wrong. Why are you sorry? I tied it. Now mark it and continue.”
Before he finished Jordan also marked a bent buckle, and Ali thanked him for spotting it.
He coiled his line, happy that he’d received so few marks, and prepared to head home and start back to work. “See you next month?”
“Nope.” Her eyes didn’t stray from her work.
“No? You won’t teach me anymore? Is it because I marked your line?”
She smacked her marlinspike down on the desk, the old edge back in her voice. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t teach you, did I?”
“No.”
“The season starts back up next month and I have climbing to do. And so do you.”
“So you’re taking me climbing?”
“You need to do your own climbing, and I need to do mine. I’ll see you some time Jordan.”
Jordan walked home, excited to stop the lessons and get back to climbing. But now he was filled with doubt, even more then he’d had before he began studying with Ali. Now he was even more aware of the risks and the dangers. A part of him, albeit a relatively small part of him, wanted to give up, stop now before taking the risk. But deep down he knew he never could. He had to climb the mountain because he only felt truly alive, felt like himself, experienced real joy when he climbed; and once experienced joy became the most addictive drug of all. He was going to climb, but now only for the sake of climbing, no more worry about what the sponsor houses wanted or where they thought he should climb.