Читать книгу Yosemite Fall - Scott Graham - Страница 14

4

An icy band tightened around Chuck’s midsection. Who, possibly, could be out to get him? With the question came the immediate answer: nobody.

He was here to investigate a pair of killings in the valley that had occurred in 1852. No one could be worried about what he might discover about the killings more than a century and a half later. Nor could he think of any potential enemy he might have made during the summers he’d climbed in the park, particularly someone still carrying a grudge after all these years.

A beam of morning sun broke through the trees, warming his back. The scent of fried bacon drifted through the campground.

He popped his tongue off the roof of his mouth. Other than the climbers preceding Carmelita, he couldn’t recall anyone coming near the tower before her turn on the wall, nor did he remember anyone other than Alden approaching the base of the tower after her ascent.

He resumed his walk through the campground. Just because Owen Hutchins, Jr., appeared to be a conspiracy theorist of the first order didn’t mean Chuck had to succumb to such irrationality himself.

Jimmy’s fall from the climbing tower was an accident, simple as that. There was no evil scheme aimed at Chuck or Jimmy or anyone else. And as for Thorpe—it was time, right now, to learn where he’d flown.

* * *

Janelle and Clarence stood with Chuck in the reunion campsite and listened to Ponch.

“I caught a red-eye into Fresno from LAX and met Thorpe at Glacier Point before dawn,” Ponch explained to the three of them. “After he jumped, I drove into the valley. I kept trying to reach him on his phone. They say the signals bounce all over the place off the cliffs, so places in the valley that have five bars of service one minute have none the next. The couple of times I did get through, there was no answer.” He held up his phone. “I’m still trying, and still nothing.”

“Did you feel any gusts of wind after he jumped?” Chuck asked. He was no expert on wingsuit flying, but he knew that even a slight breeze would have been enough for Thorpe to abandon his planned flight through the granite-walled notch in Sentinel Ridge, and that stronger gusts might have forced him to seek calmer winds over the Sierra foothills outside the valley altogether before pulling his ripcord and parachuting to the ground. Had that been the case, Thorpe would have landed in a meadow somewhere outside the park to the west, perhaps far from a road—in which case, he might still be making his way to the nearest highway.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Ponch said. “But when he caught enough wind to take flight, he didn’t swing out over the valley. He turned and aimed straight for the ridge. He dropped into the shadows at that point and that was the last I saw of him.”

Chuck exhaled, jetting air between his lips. “That’s where we’ve got to go, then.”

Ponch nodded, his gaze downcast.

“Should we report it?” Chuck asked him.

Ponch looked up. “It’ll go viral the instant we do. If he flew out of the valley and hasn’t been able to contact us yet, he’ll kill us for damaging his brand.”

Janelle’s eyes narrowed. “His brand?”

“That’s what he lives for,” Ponch explained. “His brand, his image.”

Chuck said, “From what I hear, that’s all he lives for.”

Clarence raised a hand to break into the conversation. “You’re not going to call anyone?”

“If we don’t find anything up on the ridge,” said Chuck, “and we still haven’t heard from him . . .”

“. . . then,” Ponch finished, “it’ll be time to put out an APB.”

Janelle asked, “You’re going to look for him yourselves?”

“Our very own mission,” Ponch confirmed.

“You mean, search-and-rescue mission?”

Ponch nodded.

Janelle faced Chuck. “I’m coming with you. With my paramedic kit.”

Chuck thought about Thorpe’s plan to fly through Sentinel Gap, and the fact that Thorpe had turned toward the ridge before Ponch had lost sight of him. “Good idea.”

“Clarence can stay with the girls.” She turned to her brother. “Right?”

“Por seguro,” Clarence said.

“You understand, though,” Chuck said to Janelle, “we probably won’t find anything.”

“I hope to God we don’t,” Ponch said, a tremor entering his voice. “But that’s not what the cards told me.”

They left the campground after changing into lightweight hiking pants and long-sleeved cotton shirts. The already-hot mid-morning sun promised a blazing afternoon to come. Chuck and Ponch carried daypacks weighted by bottles of water. Janelle shouldered the medical-kit backpack she’d out-fitted piece by piece over the last few months as she neared the completion of her coursework.

They crossed the road outside the campground when a break in traffic presented itself, then traversed the pedestrian bridge over the Merced River. The stream, low and calm in late summer, flowed beneath the bridge on its winding journey down the valley.

They hurried across Southside Drive and through a parking lot filled with cars to the start of Four Mile Trail at the base of Sentinel Ridge. A topo map tacked behind plexiglass on a signboard showed the trail climbing up and around the ridge on the south side of the valley to an overlook of Sentinel Falls, and on and farther up from there to the trail’s end at Glacier Point, four steep, switchbacking miles from where they stood at the head of the trail.

“Thorpe wanted to make a statement,” Ponch said as they set out from the trailhead. “He had this whole picture in his head of how great it would be to drop in on the reunion from out of the ether.”

Janelle took the lead, Chuck hiked in the middle, and Ponch brought up the rear.

“But no one would have been awake to see him,” Chuck said.

“He wanted it to be a surprise, unannounced. He was counting on a big viewer bump from posting the video online.”

“I take it you’ve stayed in contact with him over the years?”

“I’ve been one of his YouTube followers forever. I’ve always been fascinated by his flying. He didn’t miss a beat after he and Jimmy had their big split. The Pied Piper of Yosemite, they call him.”

“‘Big split’?”

“You know all about what a fixture the two of them became in the valley after the rest of us got on with our lives, right? They put up new routes on El Cap and Half Dome all the way into their forties. It wasn’t until age finally caught up with them and they couldn’t keep up with the younger climbers anymore that they went their separate ways. To hear Thorpe tell it—which he did online, regularly and loudly—Jimmy went over to the dark side. Jimmy and Thorpe had prided themselves on being the most rebellious Yosemite climbers ever. They went mano a mano with the rangers, protesting route restrictions, fighting bolting regulations, leading rallies in favor of limiting the number of tourists allowed in the valley in the summer months. Then, about the time the old-school Yosemite mafia rangers were giving way to a younger, more personable bunch, Jimmy flipped. He became an unofficial spokesman for what he called the new face of the climbing community, one that worked with, instead of against, the park and the rangers. He said his goal was to make sure there always would be room for climbers and climbing in the valley along with the increasing gazillions of tourists mobbing the place. He really threw himself into supporting Camp 4 in particular.”

The trail climbed through a thick stand of pines above Sentinel Creek. In minutes, Ponch was breathing hard. Even so, he kept up with Janelle as she took long strides up the trail, passing slower groups of hikers, her orange paramedic-kit backpack high on her shoulders.

Where the trail climbed through a cliff band, Chuck followed her up a short flight of hand-hewn stone steps. “Didn’t I see Jimmy on Facebook or YouTube or somewhere a year or so ago?” he asked Ponch. “In nice clothes, no less?”

“Yep. The footage bounced around online for a while. He attended the park superintendent’s holiday gala.” Ponch drew a deep breath after every few words. “He said he was willing to do whatever it took, including renting a tuxedo, to work with the park on behalf of climbers’ rights in the valley.”

“But Thorpe went the other way?”

“He’s always considered himself the ultimate rebel, to the point of being pretty uppity about it. It’s part of his persona.”

“His brand, you mean.”

“Yeah, that. After the rest of us moved on, Jimmy and Thorpe needed each other for the climbs they still wanted to complete. After they split, though, Thorpe, being Thorpe, wasn’t about to devote his time to anything that benefited anything or anyone but himself. With his big-time climbing days done, he had to find something else to keep his name in the public eye and hang onto as many of his sponsorships as he could.”

“So he started flying.”

“It turned out to be perfect for him. Instead of fighting gravity to climb cliffs, he put on a wingsuit and used gravity on the way down instead. Plus, wingsuit flying turned out to be ideal for the internet. He started flying at the beginning of the extreme-sport craze, when helmet cams were brand new. All his videos play up the rebel thing, which his viewers love. He capitalizes on the fact that it’s illegal to fly wingsuits in Yosemite. His most famous clips are the ones where he lands out in the open and gets arrested. When he had himself filmed while reporting to jail the first time—accompanied by one of his ever-present babes, of course—his viewer numbers went through the roof. That video spurred other fliers, all of them a lot younger than him, to come to Yosemite and try to outdo him with their own flights.”

“I assume that’s where his Pied Piper nickname came from.”

“It came later, actually, when the younger fliers started getting killed—or killing themselves, as Thorpe would say—by trying increasingly dangerous stunts. ‘I’m still here,’ became Thorpe’s tagline after each of his flights, while the body count built up around him. The rangers blamed him for the young fliers’ deaths. They said he set a bad example. But he kept flying, and the rangers got more and more frustrated with him until, finally, they zapped him with a Taser after one of his flights. The whole incident was caught on video by an onlooker, including the part where, after Thorpe was tasered and fell to the ground, he jumped to his feet and announced, ‘I’m still here!’ while the rangers led him away. The video went nuts online.”

From in front of Chuck, Janelle said, “So Thorpe and Jimmy went in opposite directions.”

“They’re not shy about it, either,” Ponch replied. “They trade barbs on their Twitter feeds, rip at each other on their YouTube channels. It’s a very public catfight.”

“But Jimmy invited Thorpe to the reunion,” Janelle noted.

“Of course. They’re smart guys. You don’t survive for long in Yosemite Valley if you’re not. Their feud keeps their names in lights. I’m sure both of them will play it up big time this weekend. It wouldn’t surprise me, in fact, if that’s not part of the reason Jimmy decided to get all of us together in the first place.”

Janelle rounded a switchback in the trail and stopped. She looked down at Chuck and Ponch, who halted on the stretch of trail below. “What, exactly, is wingsuit flying, anyway?” she asked.

Ponch hunched forward, breathing hard, his hands on his hips. “It’s pretty much just what it sounds like,” he said. “Fliers jump off cliffs, bridges, skyscrapers, that sort of thing. They fall straight down until their wings fill with air and they’re transformed from falling rocks into flying squirrels.”

“Except,” Chuck added, “they’re not really flying at all. They’re always going down.”

“But in controlled fashion,” Ponch said, straightening as his breathing calmed. “They’re gliding while they fall. They’re able to turn and adjust their flights and complete maneuvers until they get close to the ground, at which point they parachute in for a landing.”

“Sounds dangerous,” Janelle said.

“It’s extremely dangerous. Or, it was, then not so much, and now, today, it’s dangerous all over again.”

“How’s that?”

“In its first years, wingsuit flying was one hundred percent fatal. The first flier sewed some cloth between his arms and legs and jumped off the Eiffel Tower straight to his death. Other early fliers met the same fate. Then somebody had the bright idea of substituting airfoils for cloth wings. The foils—layers of fabric held apart by plastic rods—fill with air at high speeds and create lift. This was in the 1990s. All of a sudden, winged fliers could actually, in a sense, fly while they fell. The foils gave them a glide ratio of two to one, even two point five to one in perfect conditions.”

“Glide ratio?”

“How long they could stay in the air. A two-to-one glide ratio means fliers move forward two feet for every foot they descend.”

“So airfoils made the sport safe.”

“For a while, anyway. Fliers could glide for long distances and control their speed and direction. The sport really took off.”

“But then . . . ?”

“They got bored. By definition, wingsuit fliers are adrenaline junkies. And with so many fliers like Thorpe trying to make names for themselves, the ante kept going up.” Ponch pulled a liter of water from a side pouch of his daypack, unscrewed the top, and took a swig. “It’s testosterone-plus with them, the men as well as the few women fliers. It didn’t take long for someone to come up with the idea of proximity flying. Pretty soon, they were all doing it, Thorpe included.”

“Proximity flying?”

“That’s where they do fly-bys as close as possible to stationary objects. Videos of fliers zipping within a few feet of ridges and cliffs and trees and buildings became internet sensations, and the fliers who starred in them started making real money. The whole thing became a game of can-you-top-this.”

“Which is when things got dangerous again?” Janelle asked.

“Right-o. And have stayed that way ever since. There’s even a world championship of proximity flying in China, where fliers complete a set course in the shortest time—or, often as not, die trying. The life expectancy from when a wingsuit flier takes up the sport until he or she dies doing it is roughly six years.”

“Sounds suicidal.”

“It is suicidal.”

“But Thorpe would disagree with you.”

“Thorpe Alstad is an anomaly in the flying world, the same as he was as a rock climber. When he and Jimmy climbed together, they never had accidents, never even got hurt. They said it was because of their intense focus combined with their willingness to turn back from a climb for any reason. They could do that because they were full-time climbers. They made money through their sponsorships. If a certain route didn’t go one day, they could always try it again later. Amateur, part-time climbers—which is to say, all but a small handful of climbers—don’t have that luxury. When they’re on a route, they face the pressure of knowing their attempt probably will be their only chance at it. They push things when they shouldn’t, and get in trouble as a result.”

“But Thorpe has stayed alive all these years as a wingsuit flier, too,” Janelle said. “That doesn’t seem possible.”

“He approaches each flight, especially each proximity flight, the same way he approached all his climbs with Jimmy. If things aren’t perfect, he turns away.” Ponch took another swallow from his bottle. “This year hasn’t been a good one for him, though. He’s known for his Yosemite flights. But his videos have become repetitive and his viewership is way down. The rangers don’t even bother to bust him when he lands anymore. That’s the worst thing they could do to him.” Ponch screwed the lid back on his bottle and returned it to the pocket of his pack. “He called me a month ago saying his sponsors were threatening to leave him. When I suggested maybe it was time to give up flying, he about shot me through the phone.”

“So you helped him instead,” Chuck said. “You were with him on Glacier Point this morning.”

Ponch blanched. “I shouldn’t have been there. The hand was as clear as any I’ve ever dealt, but I went anyway. He asked me to support him. I agreed. It’s as simple as that. I kept trying to find a way to bring up what the cards said, but I couldn’t.”

“Because you know they’re a bunch of hooey.”

“No,” Ponch said, his voice sharp. “Because I know what people like you think.”

“And people like Thorpe.”

Ponch dipped his chin. “And people like Thorpe,” he acceded. He tilted his head back and studied the ridge above them.

Chuck followed Ponch’s gaze. Somewhere up there was the rock-walled gap toward which Thorpe had been aimed when Ponch last had seen him. The sooner they got up there, the sooner they could put to rest the hogwash about the hand of tarot cards.

“Ready when you are,” Chuck said to Janelle.

She led the way on up the footpath. Where the established trail angled west around the base of the ridge toward Sentinel Falls, Chuck called ahead for her to leave the path and bush-whack straight up the mountainside. She hiked upward through the pines, quickly outdistancing Ponch. Chuck split the difference between the two of them, anxious to reach the gap but unwilling to leave Ponch too far behind. The mountainside steepened as they climbed. The distance between the three of them increased until Janelle reached a spot near the top of the ridge where the forest gave way to bands of granite stacked one atop another like the layers of a wedding cake.

“Follow along the base of the lowest cliff band,” Chuck yelled up to her from a hundred yards below, basing his recommendation on his memory of the map at the trailhead. “The notch should be just ahead of you.”

Janelle disappeared around a bulge in the cliff, turning sideways to slip past the trunk of a ponderosa pine tree growing close to the granite wall. Chuck reached the base of the cliff a minute later. He waited for Ponch, then led the way between the tree and cliff face, following Janelle’s bootprints in the dusty soil.

A cry from Janelle reached him from around the rock outcrop ahead.

“What is it?” Chuck called to her.

“A leg.” There was a long pause before she spoke again, her voice shaking. “A human leg.”