I was forwarded this hilarious story by a friend. If anyone knows who the author is, please let me know. > > >The Climbing Man > > I've seen a guy take a hammer to his friend, just because his friend >refused to go with him. As he flailed away, he chanted an insane >enraged mantra: "If you won't come with me, nobody can have you." >I've seen a woman walking around, arms held away from her body like a >gull trying to take off, her fingers dripping blood, laughing, proud >of finishing off her 'little project' as she told horrified witnesses. >I've seen guys with beaten and emaciated bodies, reduced to almost >nothing because they were hooked on an insidious habit: they called >it 'Doing Rocks'. I've seen the grungy places where these seamy >characters hang out, and I've been there with them. I've seen the >dirty underbelly of climbing. > "Either tuck in your t-shirt or take a bath!!!" I shout up at my >partner as he clips into the belay station. "I'm tired of looking up >at your dirty underbelly." > Yeah, I've seen it all. The case of the missing partner was just >another day in the life of this P.I. (Poseur Internationale) > * * * > > Some days hang over the cliffs like a blanket, slowly smothering the >routes until you can hardly breathe. Then the rain comes, soaking up >the dust and sand from the air, and when it lands, it isn't rain at >all, but the sweat of the desert. > I sat in my tent, waiting for customers, wasting time like I had a >thousand days before. Staring at the walls, staring at my test flap, >the sun outlining words >Mike Piton, P.I. against faded nylon. > Click! Click! Click! The sound of graphite lubricated metal >slapping home added tempo to the music of the desert wind as I flexed >my trigger finger. I like to keep my trigger finger nimble, >practiced. Its a habit that's saved my life before, when I've been in >a jam. Also saved my life on a runout traverse. Never know when a >quick trigger on a friend will make the difference, so I stay >prepared. > Then she walked in. She had the hardbody of a goddess, real zero >percent body fat stuff. Short powerful legs shown off to advantage >under spandex bicycle pants. Above the shorts and below her sport top >lay an expanse of ripped ab muscles, like speed bumps saying "Slow >down, big boy!" Her sport top hid a cleavage beyond comment, because >there was nothing there to comment on. Her hands could crack Brazil >nuts. Yeah! My kind of woman, just the way I like 'em! > Her long stringy sun-blonde hair was tied back in a pony tail, >completely exposing her gorgeous leather tanned face. Irridium Blades >hid her eyes, but pouty full chapped lips bespoke a woman on the edge, >a woman who'd been on the edge for days. > "Mr. Piton, P.I." those chapped pouty lips half spoke half whispered. >"They tell me you're the best." > "Yeah, Miss, I'm the best." I reach into my pack, dig out a handful >of photos, and toss them at her feet. > > "That's me posing at Boiux. There's me posing at the Dente d'Midi. >Me again, Camp 4. There I am below Smith Rocks' Monkey Face. That >pose went 5.14c. Unrepeated." I tell her proudly as she leafs >through the pile. "I've posed all the big ones." > "Then you're the man I want. I need your help. I've lost my friend." >She said, her voice tightly controlled, like if she didn't control >herself completely all the emotions she thought she kept hidden from >the world would come bursting out:anger, fear, despair. Despite the >sunglasses, I could read her face like a book. > "Sorry honey, I can't help you. I only pose, I don't retrieve lost >friends. If you bailed out and left pro behind, find a climber." > "No!" She shouted, exasperated. "I've lost my boyfriend, who's also >my climbing partner!" > "Missing person, huh! Yeah, I've had a lot of experience with that. >I've seen the dirty underbelly..." > "Save it!" She cut me off "I read the intro." > "Ohhh." I mutter, angry that she ruined my best line. Without >missing a beat I continue. > "So you lost your partner, huh? Was it a bad belay? Or did you just >push him off a cliff. It's the same thing, sister. Murder, plain and >simple. Do your soul good, confess, only do it to the cops instead of >your priest." I sneer. > "What are your talking about? He's not dead! He didn't' show up for >our rendezvous! We were supposed to meet at Red Rocks 4 days ago. I >showed up, he didn't." She concluded, a touch of despair creeping >into her voice. > A missed rendezvous. No good will come of this. > "So you missed your rendezvous, did you? That's tough." I really >felt for the kid. I'd been there myself. > "I waited, I posted notes, I drove around looking for his car, I, I, >I...." She broke down, her control broken. The entire sordid story >came out, like propane from a hot metal tank with its valve twisted >full left. > She and her boyfriend planned this vacation for months, only, just >before they were supposed to leave, he had an office emergency. So >she went on ahead, to scout the region and set up camp. Notes left on >the BLM office post board would serve as a guidepost to camp when he >finally arrived. With only two campgrounds in the region, how could >they miss? > Sounded to me like a plan for failure. > "You been climbing long?" I asked > "Just over two years. " Long enough to become an experienced climber, >sure, but maybe not long enough to learn how to rendezvous. Amateurs. > "Did you drive around the entire loop route looking for his car? > "At least twice a day" > "Did you post notes on every board in the park?" > "Yes." > "Checked for notes left by him?" > "Every morning and evening." > "Wrote and left new notes every day, even though you had no evidence >he was in the park?" > "Of course." > "Waited in camp all day long, giving up valuable climbing time, in the >vain hope he would show up?" > "Except when I drove around looking for him. I didn't even drive into >Vegas for those really cheap buffets." > "You did everything right." My estimation of her talent had gone up >with each answer. This lady was good, very very good. > "So what do I do now?" She pleaded. > "What do we do, you mean." I added. A smile broke across her face as >she realized she was no longer in this alone. A stunning smile. My >heart skipped a beat. > So I outlined the plan. I told her to park at the exit to the Red >Rocks Scenic Loop, a one way road that's the only access to the good >climbing routes. While she acted as a blockade, I swept the park. We >had him. > Only he wasn't there. > "Did you consider the possibility he's not here?" I asked, after >finishing the sweep. > "No, he's here, I can feel it." Yeah, I know the feeling. I'd had it >myself, looking for a partner at a rendezvous. > "Then we'll have to do this the hard way. We'll search every route in >the park." > "That may take days!!!" > "Do you want to make this rendezvous or not?" I said, pointedly. > "Yes, I do." > "Well, then. What level does your boyfriend climb, and does he like >multipitch?" > "He leads 5.10a on a good day, and yeah, he does multipitch." > "Does he have any climbing characteristics, something we can use to >track him?" > "He never closes his chalk bag." > "Hmmm. That might be useful." > So the search began. We found evidence of his passage 5 hours >later, at the base of "Dark Shadows", a 5.8 four pitch lark. Little >bits of chalk floated down from micro ledges on the cliff above. I >looked around, deciding where I would belay from if I did the route. >Yeah, over there! Chalk spray covered the ground. The pattern >indicated a man sitting on an open chalk bag. > "He was here, alright." I said, pointing out the chalk. > "How can you be sure. Anyone could have left that mark." She >protested. > "Don't delude yourself, sister. He was here. And he's climbing with >someone else." Better harsh medicine now, than leaving her to >indulge in wishful thinking. "You'll never make that rendezvous. >Sorry for being blunt, but it's the truth." > "What do you mean?!?" she demanded, unbelieving. > "Didn't it ever occur to you that your boyfriend might be enjoying a >rendezvous with another 'partner'?" I said, looking her straight in >the eye. > "NO!!! He loves me!" Complete denial. I sighed. I hate this part >of my job. > "You've been climbing together for a couple years, right! You've been >getting really good. I've seen your body, I can tell." > She nodded acknowledgement. > "So you finally flashed a route, a route your boyfriend couldn't even >second. Right?" > "Yeah, just two weeks ago." She answered in a daze. > "Just before the office emergency, right!!! Yeah, you did a route he >couldn't do. You crushed his ego like a mammoth stomping on brittle >65 million year old dinosaur eggs, turned him into nothing more than a >belay slave. Better you should have put a bullet through his brain, >it would have been kinder!!!" > "What was that about a mammoth?" She asked, perplexed > "Just something Mikey Spillane might have wrote. It doesn't make any >sense to me, either." > She shook her head, not believing what she was hearing. She recoved >and got back into the story. > "But how do I get him back?" > "You don't! You've lost him forever. He's not good enough for you >anyway. Forget him. You want a man who doesn't mind being a belay >slave, a man without an ego. A Poseur." > "Like you?" She added with a come hither voice. > I checked out that awesome climber's body from top to bottom. > "Yeah, kid. Like me."