Once off the walkway, Dean ran down the path until he spotted a pile of equipment and what had been described as fixed belay. While no one was in sight, Dean recognized the line, wrapped around a gnarled cedar, as the same color that had been stored at Bird Song. He dropped the camera and peered over the edge of the cliff but the outcropping blocked his view of anything below. The only sound was the rush of water at the base of the canyon. Several days of unseasonable melt had boiled the river to a noisy torrent of cascading water.
"Shipton!" Dean yelled, his voice echoing up and down the now empty gorge, bouncing about the stone walls and boulders of the narrow ravine. His own voice was the sole reply. Dean leaned over and grasped the taut line that ran unseen over the edge. He could feel the tremor of movement in his hand, the result of some motion far below. He leaned forward but strain as he might, the overhanging bulge at the top of the cliff prevented him from seeing the source of the activity. He called Shipton's name once more, but again his shout hung unanswered in the still winter air. It was decision time. He could wait until help arrived or just wait until Shipton climbed back up-before something untoward occurred. He owed the scoundrel nothing. But for most of Dean's life, hadn't that always been the case?
Dean again looked down the path but no help was in sight. His stomach knotted. It was as if every fear he'd ever encountered paled before the idea of descending even a few feet closer to the edge that yawned before him. He took a deep breath. The retreating blonde woman's rope and crampons lay discarded at the edge of the path, the bag from their recent purchase crumpled nearby. Dean blanked from his mind what he was about to do, concentrating on the task at hand. He clamped the metal spikes to his feet. Shipton had used a gnarled cedar, years dead, as an anchor for his line. Dean did the same, hoping its eighteen inch girth was sufficient to secure the two damn fools who were testing it as their sole mooring against the natural forces of nature. With shaking hands, he fumbled, affixing what were certainly not approved knots, but he tied enough of them to be confident they would hold. No textbook belay. Not by a long shot. Dean tried to remember how Ryland had described the method of securing the other end of the line to the climber's body. There was something about a belt-a harness he'd called it. Dean rummaged about in the snow among the remaining climbing articles but the leather apparatus he untangled was far too small for his waist. He glanced back once more at the void beyond the ledge and then looped the line around his body and stomped the few feet toward the cliff, trying to step without tripping in the cumbersome and unfamiliar foot wear.