“You never know,” I said. “I was a Boy Scout. Our motto—”
“I know, I know,” he interrupted wearily, probably because he’d heard me say it a thousand times. “Be Prepared.”
We met the sheriff and Meffert at the end of the bridge and handed them the litter and tools—everything except the hoe, which I wanted to carry with me. Tyler shook his head, as if I were crazy; when the two officers looked quizzically at me, I simply smiled. Deputy Aikins pointed. “See that big ol’ hemlock right yonder?” I looked, then nodded. “Rope’s tied to that. Just foller it down. Bring you right to that ledge where she’s at.”
“Either one of you touch anything down there?”
“Nossir, not me,” said Aikins. “Ain’t been down there.”
“None of us have,” said Meffert. “We figured we’d leave the dirty work for y’all.”
The deputy chortled. “Got that right,” he said.
Tyler and I wriggled into coveralls—one-piece jumpsuits made of heavy canvas, the sort worn by mechanics and highway crews—which we wore to keep contamination off our clothes. The temperature was dropping as the afternoon waned, and the extra layer of warmth felt good. Moving fast, we scrambled down the steep shoulder and into the woods at the edge of the ravine. A hemlock, its trunk a full two feet thick, grew from a cleft in the rock bluff, curving outward above the stream to claim as much sunlight for itself as possible. Tied snugly around the trunk was a thin rope of yellow polypropylene. Tyler eyed the knot dubiously. “You think that’ll hold?”
I took a look. “Sure,” I said. “That’s a figure eight on a bight. I recognize that—“
“Yeah, yeah, from your merit badge in knot craft. So it’s got the Woodchuck Seal of Approval, right?”
“Hey, don’t be dissing the Scouts,” I said. “The knot’s fine; the rope’s the problem. I’ve seen a lot of ski ropes break, and that’s basically what this is—polypropylene ski rope. Probably snap if you put more than a couple hundred pounds on it. But long as we’re not both hanging from it at the same time, it ought to be okay.” I eyed him; Tyler was an inch taller than I was, but skinnier. “How much you weigh?”
“One sixty,” he said, his eyes zeroing in on my waistline. “You?”
“One seventy.”
“Okay then,” he said. “Heft before beauty. Think helium-filled thoughts.”
Backing up to the notch in the bluff, I spiraled the rope around my left forearm to create a bit of friction and then clamped my fist around it. Then, with my right hand, I pulled the rope snugly around my butt, gripping it with my right hand at waist level. The skinny plastic rope was lousy for climbing, but I hypothesized—and hoped—that I’d get enough braking power from the combined friction of both hands, the spiral around my forearm, and the detour around my rear end. Leaning back slightly, I tested my theory. The thin rope bit into my forearm and the backs of my thighs, but it didn’t slip through my hands. “Not great,” I said, as much to myself as to Tyler, “but it’ll do. Stick that hoe under my left arm, would you?”
“Why don’t you just chuck it down there?”
“And chip that edge I spent an hour sharpening? No way. Besides, I want it with me. Call me crazy.”
“Crazy,” he said, but he brought me the tool. I raised my left elbow, as if it were a chicken’s wing, and he tucked the handle into my armpit, the blade flat against my chest. Still leaning away from the tree, the handle of the hoe jutting into the ravine, I stepped backward and down, into the crevice, and began my descent. The bluff wasn’t high—only about twenty feet—and the notch offered plenty of footholds, so I made it down with no trouble, despite the awkwardness of the hoe.