The old Bull Moose of the Woods

who will win the death-defying race to the top of the mountain -- the lovely women's libber or the oafish male chauvinist?

Gate. Kachina Canyon, Arizona. Forty-foot aspen pole balanced on log fulcrum by 100-pound sack of meal. Gatehouse shaped like coffin on end containing one 150-year-old Indian chief. White shoulder-length hair under black Navaho hat, bleached denim, skin color of walnut, hollow cheeks, eyes locked in winter past, mouth sewed shut with a deer gut.

"Howdy!" Jay-D said.

Clipboard over door of Old Bull Moose. Experience. Jay-D filled it in. Number in party. Name and address. Registration. Next of kin!!

"Rat fan day!" Jay-D said.

Steel strongbox over door of Old Bull Moose, lid up, sign taped there: $100--in advance. "Yessir, rat fan!" C-note plucked from sweatband of bush hat, held for moribund chief to see, dropped into steel box, BANG! "Fella could lose his fingers," Jay-D said.

Clipboard, strongbox tucked into coffin. One 40-foot aspen so neatly balanced it could be raised and lowered by the oldest man alive on the desert reservations. Jay-D idled under gate. Uneasy. Question to ask, but how?

• • •

Wicker, Jay-D. Hero of piece. 21. Lubbock, Texas. Rover a birthday gift from his pappy ("Jest tell me whut yew want, boy!" Jay-D told him). Only child. Bleached blond hair, blue eyes ("Handsome Daddy," the Lubbock Annual said. "Ladies' Man." "Candy Is Dandy, but Wicker Is Quicker!"). Glen Campbell voice, hillbilly drawl, not as tall as would like to have been, 5' 10? with rock shoes on, red socks, high-cut dark leather climbing shorts (Austrian), bush hat with chin strap (Australian), no shirt, bodybuilder's physique, chiseled and planed, 16-inch arms, abdominals like briquettes, exposed surfaces tanned and haired, square white teeth... . Rising climber, Southwest. First ascents 26 pinnacles, New Mexico, Arizona, Utah. Cover story last month, Texas Parade (Question: What accounts for your success as a climber, Mr. Wicker? Answer: When Ah want somethin', Ah go fer it.). Wanted Cholla Rock, Kachina Canyon.

• • •

The old bull moose of the woods. Words lettered in red on driver's door of black 1971 Rover. Rack of moose antlers (genuine) fitted forward on hood. Decals of Satan astride gold fork and phrase (get close if you want to read it) Ah'm a horny devil! Tape deck. Sixteen cassettes. Everything Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs ever recorded (You Are My Flower just ending, Salty Dog about to begin). Indoor-outdoor red-pile carpet on floors, walnut dash and wheel, silver inlays, leather map pockets, air horn ... climbing gear under neoprene tarp in back, 150-foot coils of red-and-white Perlon rope, bandoleers, étriers, swami belts, wedges and nuts, pitons and carabiners, enough for the Eiger North Wall, the best money could buy, $3,000,000 in the trust fund... . Jest tell me whut yew want, boy.

• • •

Cholla Rock, 860-foot red-stone pinnacle. Never been climbed. Sacred to Indians. But hard times in villages now, new generation. For $100, cash in advance ... apply at gatehouse (story by Newhall, Albuquerque News). Wanted that rock, Jay-D Wicker, a long time. Feather in bush hat. April 1972. Clear day, bright sun, top down. 84 west-northwest from Lubbock. Interstate 40 (old 66!) west to Gallup. Then north on Indian roads, winter-cut, dust-dry. Fort Defiance. Sawmill. Chinle formation. Flocks of sheep led by belled goats. Tumbleweed, mesquite ... Flatt and Scruggs ... (Cripple Creek)... .

• • •

Too many winters in that old chief's eyes, like holes in a frozen lake. The mouth a three-quarter-inch seam between two empty cheeks and a pointed chin.

"This here's mah vee-hickle," Jay-D said. Patted walnut wheel. Saw movement in chief's eyes. "Got 'er all bored out, she'll do a hundred thirty on the flat... ." Words lettered in red on black finish. Chief close enough to read.

"Horny," he said. Voice came from last year. Very deep. Arm rose to point, motion smooth as gate rising. Grin spread seams of cheeks to leather lobes of ears. Gums revealed. Could bite bolt in two. "Horny-ho-ho."

"Dogged!" Jay-D said. "Ah knew it!"

Cholla Rock 6 miles / Campground 3 miles / Climbers Register and Pay Fee / Canyon Flooded in Spring / Carry Out Garbage / Nothing Else.

"Be seein' yah!"

(Goin' Down That Road, Feelin' Fine.)

• • •

Two miles into canyon before he saw girl ankle deep in flood, wading away from him, short pants, long legs, Kelty Pack bobbing red under late sun (must have heard Old Bull Moose whining behind her, Jay-D, Flatt and Scruggs, but never turned around).

"Dogged," Jay-D said. Lit himself a Between-The-Acts, pushed bush hat back, edged up into corner between seat and door, brought the Rover up, idled alongside her, sighted down nose, squinted eyes. "Dogged!" he said. Little cigar between his teeth.

No reply. Same steady pace, straight ahead, splashing through the flood. Long brown hair tied off with rubber band and hung along close side of face in mare's-tail. Good-looker. Built. 18. Jay-D idling alongside, eyes watering from smoke. Walked up out of flood onto stretch of sand past stand of cottonwood where birds sang old melody. What approach to take? Females delicate. Required special treatment. ("Yew got tew be subtul," his pappy said. "Yew wouldn't tickle yore nose with a fence post!") Decided to blow air horn. Reached out, touched lever. Horn had always been loud. Here in canyon, it was louder than any horn ever heard in life, four times as loud as horn on tandem ten-wheeler. Scared himself with it, by golly.

And the girl who had walked through the flood and across the sand without breaking stride or looking at him jumped one foot above the ground and let out shriek.

"Howdy, ma'am," Jay-D said.

Unshouldered Kelty Pack. Turned to face him. Down front of denim shirt two bands of sweat where padded straps had been. No underthings. Jay-D looked. Good tits. Mad as a hornet.

"You idiot!"

"Ma'am?"

"What do you think you are doing?"

"Well, now... ."

"Why are you doing this? What do you want?"

Jay-D tipped head, squinted eyes, moved cigar between teeth. "Ma'am?"

"Why are you following me? What do you want? Your truck is obscene!"

"Whut?" Jay-D hollering over Scruggs-plink and Flatt-twang. Turned stereo down. (Hard Travelin.)

"Ob," she said, "scene."

Jay-D nodded.

"Blatant and ludicrous."

"Yas, ma'am."

"Utterly without redeeming qualities. Patently ridiculous. Buffoonish. Obviously owned by a lout. Turn it around, please, and go back where you came from."

"Whee-oo!" Jay-D said.

Arms folded across front where he had been looking. Raised eyebrows thick, real; vein beating in center of forehead. "Have I made myself quite clear?"

"Ma'am, whut is a purty thang lak yew----"

"I am not the least bit interested," she said, "in your dull-witted assessment of me as a 'pretty thing.' "

"Sorry, ma'am."

"You exude male chauvinism."

"Ma'am?"

"Male," she said, "chauvinism." Picked up Kelty Pack. Shouldered it. Padded straps in place over sweat lines.

"Yew headin' that way?" Jay-D asked.

"Obviously."

"Campground's 'nuther mal. Rat proud tew give yew a lift... ."

"I do not want a lift, thank you."

"Tote yore freight fer yew... ."

"I am quite capable," she said, "of 'toting it' myself." Walked away from him, across what was left of sandy stretch, back into flood. Jay-D watched movement of shorts, heard feet splash above idle of Old Bull Moose. Patches of snow on canyon rim crimson in westering sun. Ejected cassette. Injected another. Lit fresh cigar. Drove on. When passing girl thigh deep in flood, smiled, tipped hat. (The Last Public Hanging in West Virginia.)

Question: What do you do, Mr. Wicker, when you reach, say, an unclimbable section of rock, something extremely difficult, impossible even? Answer: "There's more'n one way tew shuck corn."

• • •

Campground deserted. Maybe not for long. On to Cholla Rock, 800-foot red-stone rocket on 60-foot launching pad. Good crack (continued on page 224)The Old Bull Moose(continued from page 148) system west side looked like a go. Jay-D so excited had to get out and pee. High ground on east side. Grove of cottonwood, room to park Old Bull Moose. Found surprise. Flag in clearing, hung from forked tree. Out to investigate. Jordan Marsh brassiere. 38-D. Claimed ground for Gerry mountain tent. Cerulean blue. Zipped shut. Jay-D scratched briquettes on either side of navel. "Dogged," he said, with reverence. Unzipped tent fly. Looked in. Found another surprise.

• • •

In search of conquest, man lays plans, not willy-nilly. Jay-D collected wood for fire, kindled same inside circle of stones on high ground out of clearing not far from Old Bull Moose. Smoke rose into what was left of light of day. Swallows swooped from crags of Cholla to look in on new arrival. Water burbled on way to place where old chief stood by aspen gate. Coals snapped. Eastern walls of canyon turned color of blood. At last gleaming, coyote barked. Then reduction of perceivable things to six-foot diameter of fire's light. Soup was on. Honor the provider. Large aluminum pot. Odor of onions traceable in smoke drift. Not one but two cups. Not one but two spoons. Two forks, two knives, two plates. Dinty Moore's Beef Stew. Instant pudding. Stereo switched to portable batteries now (Roll in My Sweet Baby's Arms, Cabin in the Pines, The Great Philadelphia Lawyer, Hot Corn, Cold Corn, The Wreck of the Old 97.) Finally, unmistakably, a splashing in the flood. Jay-D, in orange Sierra jacket now, observable leaning against pack on high ground near fire. Legs stretched out. Bush hat low on brow.

"Howdy, ma'am!"

• • •

Six miles a far piece in daylight through flood carrying Kelty Pack. Perhaps too far, even in redeeming presence at trail's end of onion-scented smoke, reacquaintance, light, warmth, all the verities of home is where the hearth is. Onto high ground then and past our hero, straight ahead to clearing. Not a word. Not an eyeblink. "There yew go," Jay-D said. Got up slowly to follow. Butt sore from riding Old Moose over Indian roads. Rubbing glutei with flats of hands.

"Obviously, this is not going to be my day." Her welcome. Hands and knees on ground in grove now, trying to light fire. Match blowing out in breeze. Whisk of bats in air.

"Now, don't yew waste yore tam on that, yew swate thang," Jay-D said. "Ah got supper in the pot."

Stood up. Faced him.

"What did you say?"

"Ah said Ah got supper in the pot--soap, stew and butterscotch. 'Nuff there fer two bulldoggers. Come on 'fore the varmints git it."

"I have no intention of eating with you," she said.

"Yew don't?"

"I certainly do not."

"Dinty Moore's stew, ma'am. Onion soap... ."

"I do not wish to hear about it."

Jay-D hooked thumbs in belt. Contemplated while she lit small propane lantern with frosted globe. Gentle light. Soft hiss.

"Ma'am," he said. "Have Ah offended yew?"

"Yes," she replied, "you most certainly have."

"Yew mane comin' up on yew the way Ah did and hittin' the horn lak that?"

Wince from the wench. "Believe me," she said, "that is only part of it."

"And do Ah take it yew thank mah vee-hickle is"--had to rustle up a word--"over done?"

"Your 'vee-hickle,' as you say, is obscene."

"Mah hort's in the rat place."

"Is it really?"

"Would Ah have cooked supper fer yew if it warn't? Would Ah?"

"Speaking frankly," she said, "I would be very much inclined to distrust you in all your endeavors."

"Lord," Jay-D said.

"Now will you please leave? I am tired and hungry, and I plan to be up very early in the morning. I would also appreciate it if you would turn down that, that----"

"Lester Flatt and Earl Scruggs, ma'am."

"Yes. That."

Finished talking, apparently. Hands and knees again. Up to Jay-D to invest encounter with life. Bring things back from the edge.

"Which sad yew figger to clam?"

"What did you say?"

"Ah said, which sad yew figger to clam?" Nod of bush hat in direction of Cholla.

Bounced up. Looked at him closely. "How do you know I am going to climb anything?" Not to be answered. Texas thumbs hooked now in back flap pockets of Austrian shorts. "You looked in my tent, didn't you?" Taking the Fifth. "Didn't you?!"

"Well, yas, ma'am, Ah did."

"What unmitigated nerve!"

"Yas, ma'am, Ah can see it was unwarranted."

Her hands on hips. Vein visible on temple. Sweet pulsing thing, carried blood from hort to haid. Glanced around grove. "And my brassiere... ."

"Thought it was a flag, ma'am. Attracted mah attention soon as Ah arrived."

"You are despicable!"

Reflex shrug from Jay-D. Instincts honed since 14 suggest new tack is desirable.

"Yew ain't really about tew try and clam that pinnacule by yoreself, are yew?"

"Do you find that upsetting?"

"Ah jest don't thank a girl----"

"You don't."

"No, ma'am."

"You have a remarkable way of never disappointing me."

"Thank yew, ma'am... ."

"If you wait around until tomorrow--which I personally hope you do not--you may lose some of your feckless attitudes regarding what I imagine you refer to as 'the opposite sex.'"

"Ma'am, Ah'm not reckless."

"Feckless!"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Now, I am faced with an arduous climb. If you have no further recommendations... ."

"Ah got one."

"You do."

"Yes, ma'am. Ah'd recommend the west sad."

"You would."

"Yes, ma'am."

Moment of silence. Dawning of new light. Not from lantern.

"Oh, no," she said.

"Ma'am?"

"You're not... ."

"Why, shore! Ah come tew clammer her, too!"

• • •

Kachina Canyon. Dark as deep well. Cuticle moon. Night air in April skin-bracer cool. Fire thump, stream burble, bat whisk, breeze rustle, frog rivet. Jay-D Wicker turned in. Old jungle hammock strung from one branch of moose antler across high ground to forked tree from which flag had been struck after sundown. Last cassette played out. Foggy Mountain Boys racked up for night after fourth encore of old favorite (Po' Rebel Soldier / Long Way from Home).

"Hail," Jay-D said. Hands on stomach. Enough soup to float side-wheeler, enough stew and butterscotch to sink it. "Had mah smarts, Ah'd of waited till breakfast anyhow. Let her git used tew me. Come up on her slow."

Plan B. Rise early. Beans and bacon. Hot coffee. Some spiritual songs (Joy Bells, Father's Table Grace, I Saw Mother with God Last Night). When time right, suggest two can do things easier than one. Strategy. ("Boy, Ah do wish yew'd use yore haid fer somethin' 'sads ah hatrack!") Subtul.

• • •

Coyotes on east rim kindled color of autumn leaves by first light of April sun, howling up an Indian from Lubbock, Texas. Stealthy. Cunning. Out to collect water in bush hat to keep from banging pot. Subtle son of his father creeping 60 yards downwind to fart ("Yew better go aisy on them banes, boy!") Banes in the pot. Bacon in the pan. Wake up Foggy Mountain Boys. Softly! Softly! Just a tad above the beat of a humming-bird's wing ("I'll be going to heaven sometime, sometime / I'll be going to heaven sometime... ."). Toward the perimeter. Hort on Sierra sleeve.

"Mornin', ma'am! Rat fan day fer a clam!"

Silence in the sacred grove. All flags struck. Cerulean fly zipped shut tighter than an old buck's mouth. Beauty sleeping.

"Ma'am?"

An answer. Not the stuff of dreams while hung between old antler and forked tree. Nor even virtue rewarded. But distant rising ring (ping-ping) of steel piton going into crack in west face of Cholla Rock. Driven with resolution. Straight ahead.

"Dang it!" our hero cries. "She left me at the gate!"

• • •

Disengage subtleties. Engage action. Flush of temper, even. Sprint across high ground, vault side of Bull Moose, fork oversized pistons to life, give top volume to Scruggs solo (Flint Hill Special), engineer four-wheel Wicker breakaway from the high ground on a heading east to west through the flood, skirting south side of red-stone rocket, confirming almost at once the principle that under certain definable circumstances, something has to give--in this case, not antler nor tree fork nor synthetic line capable of resisting 2000-plus pounds of stress but old jungle hammock, weary, perhaps, of so much hanging around, torn in two with a rattling bang, half left fastened to the sacred grove, half flying between legs of Old Moose charging.

Elapsed time from point of departure to point of arrival: 26 seconds. Engine off. Scruggs silenced mid-tune as if by the bow of a fiddle.

"Ma'am! Ah don't take it kandly yew startin' without me! Yew hair!"

Measuring from canyon floor 260 feet up Cholla Rock, the first 60 feet angled at 45 degrees, the next 200 at 70 degrees; and at exactly that point, just there precisely, a nicely booted foot moving up from the fourth to the third web step of a four-step étrier hung from piton recently driven into crack. And from approximately five feet above that raised foot, give or take an inch or so, a pretty voice coming all that distance down in reply to one of Lubbock's favorite sons:

"Drop dead! Will you!"

• • •

Hour one. Jay-D Wicker, Sierra jacket size of beanbag now in pocket of climbing pack (with two 150-foot coils of Perlon rope, one one quarter inch, one three eights inch, and other miscellanies); black form-fit T-shirt snug over lats, pecs, traps, delts; 16-inch arms abulge from truly herculean effort to gain elevation at faster rate than enemy; bush hat knocked back on first difficult move, held by chin strap; two bandoleers, shoulder to hip, shoulder to hip, each festooned with nuts and wedges, pitons and carabiners, étriers, lap links, cliff-hangers, crack tacks, bongs, brake bars, daisy chains, copperheads; quickdraw hammer holster low on hip; belt-worn bolt kit, dolt bolt hangers, studs, drills... . All standing easily now--although huffing and puffing a little--edge of right Galibier rock shoe on one-eighth-inch flake, 260 feet above the flood, west face, Cholla Rock (hot sun, blue sky, swallows swooping); left hand clipping carabiner into eye of piton driven and left by another party earlier that morning (said party hard-hatted and hard at it 360 feet high on same west face, feet wedged in long vertical crack, waist secured to length of web sling looped around chock stone, hands above head, about to drive four-inch bong into same crack above chock stone. Short pants. Long legs.).

"Ma'am!"

"What is it?!"

"Yew left a pyton down year!"

Early, tentative blows on bong. Hammer on high (thock-thock).

"Hair!"

"Please feel free to use it!"

"Ah intend to!"

Pretty face looking down with, well, a certain disapproval. "I am sure you need all the help you can get!"

"Not tall!"

"Someone else! Almost anyone else I can think of! Would have selected his own route! Would have used his imagination! Would have shown a modicum of pride! Would not have turned a potentially beautiful climb into an absurd race!"

"Well, how come yew snuck up year 'fore sunup?"

Rain of blows on bong (thock-thock, thick-thack, bang-bong-bang). Hostility redirected. Metal to stone. Desert falcons glide from aeries on high to see going out and down small chips once part of wall.

"And don't drop rocks on mah haid!"

"I am," she said, "exceedingly sorry."

• • •

Hours two and three. Enemy climbing carefully but well ascends 100 additional feet up long vertical crack, exits finally at start of two-inch ledge extruded horizontally across west face. Enemy traverses this ledge north to south until reaches start of natural chimney. Pauses to glance over shoulder at point high on vertical crack where:

Jay-D Wicker, formerly of Lubbock, Texas, but recently on the road, heroically toils to make up for lost time. Makes it to small but tricky overhanging section of wall, 430 vertical feet above driver's seat of Old Bull Moose, a like distance below final objective (the summit, that is), huffing and puffing, looking over what is in the vernacular of the overreachers "an interesting technical dilemma."

"Ma'am?"

"What is it?"

"Did yew use steps to mount this-year overhang?"

"I did not."

"Yew free-clammed it?"

"I did."

"Whee-oo," Jay-D said. Respectfully.

Moment of silence between these two and all other living things within earshot save the flood that burbled far below, sun bright in its riffles and rills.

"Whee-oo," Jay-D said again.

"If you will reach your left hand to the edge of the overhang... ." Said patiently and with kindness, as if to a small but earnest child. "And then move it slowly to the left, you will find a substantial hold."

"M-m-m--rat!"

"On the wall about sixteen inches above the toe of your right shoe and about four inches out from the crack, concealed by a nubbin lip, you will find a solution hole large enough to accommodate your toe and angled in such a way that counterforce can be applied between your left hand and left foot."

"M-m-m--rat!"

"This will give you the leverage necessary to circumvent the overhang."

"Ma'am?"

"Circumvent," she said, "the overhang."

"Lord," Jay-D said.

"Now that I have solved that problem for you, in addition to leaving pitons at several critical points along the way, plus doing all the route finding, I am sure you will agree you are no longer handicapped by the early start I had. Do you agree?"

Jay-D, heavily engaged in circumventing the overhang, sweaty face, crimson ears, bulging neck, all orifices tightly puckered, unable to reply.

• • •

Hours four and five. Enemy leaving narrow traversing ledge enters chimney, three feet wide, 125 feet high, places back and hands against close wall, feet against far wall, and ascends by means of a clean, uncomplicated motion. Exits chimney to free-climb additional 100 feet to small sit-down ledge. Drives piton into crack on adjacent wall, suspends pack and hard hat from same, shakes out hair, turns, sits, back of denim shirt (sweat-soaked) to wall, legs dangling over ledge. Peers out now and then between small neat bites of cucumber sandwich and slugs of celery tonic to see:

Jay-D Wicker emerge bloodied but unbowed from bout with tiny unseen cactus in last section of chimney. Huffing, puffing, bandoleers arattle (click-click, ching-ching), head down, climbing up, inch by inch, foot by foot, angle of climb 75 degrees, difficulty of climb 5.8 on the six-point Sierra Club scale, elevation above ground 585 feet, 590 feet, 610 feet, 615 feet ... ... ... . 616 feet ... ... 617 feet ... ... ... . 617 feet ... . .

"Are you----" she started to say.

"HAILP!!!"

Airborne. Upside down high above Old Bull Moose, latissimus spread in imitation of eagles but of small use, due to unfavorable ratio between amount to be lifted and amount of lift; folly of hubris flashing before eyes ("Boy, yew got yore feet planted smack in midair!"). A graceless and apparently endless fall until--no deus ex machina here but simply the system at work--he was stopped WHUMP! by piton and ten-foot loop of quarter-inch Perlon rope. Lord! Breath-taking! Hung by his own petard, all adangle while something echoed unnaturally from canyon wall to canyon wall, a scream... . His? ... Hers?

"Are you all right?" (Right-right-right?)

"Yas!" (Yas-yas-yas!)

"What did you do?" (Do-do-do?)

"Ah fail!" (Ail-ail-ail!)

"Well, I know that!" (At-at-at!)

"Danged flake busted on me!" (On-me-onme-onme!)

"Would you like me to lower a rope?" (Arope-arope-arope?)

"Hail, no!" (Oh-oh-oh!)

"I'm glad there wasn't a tragedy!" (Agedy-agedy-agedy!)

"So my!" (My-my-my!)

• • •

Hours six and seven. The enemy, having in light of certain unexpected and fairly substantial delays in the troop movements of the other side lingered at lunch, savored the sun (which for those who have lost sight of such things has already passed its zenith), eaten a high-protein energy bar, rises finally to ascend slowly but with great skill to a ledge exactly 850 feet above the ground and ten feet below the virginal apogee of Cholla Rock, Kachina Canyon, Arizona, U. S. A., where, for the first time, trouble is encountered in form of an expanse of stone angled at 80 degrees, glass-smooth except for small V-shaped crack six inches beyond tips of fingers, even when at great risk to self standing on pack on ledge, denim shirt unbuttoned to improve reach. Struggles--unkind to put it this way--manfully for 20 minutes to no avail, when at long last, just below ledge:

Our hero arrives. Huff-huff. Puff-puff. Wondering what is up.

"I am truly sorry to have to say this." she explains. "But I need one of your nuts."

• • •

There follows here a brief explanatory paragraph for benefit of those who have not lately climbed high-angle rock. Rest may proceed directly to subsequent section, where Jay-D Wicker says... .

• • •

Definition of nut (and, indirectly, of nutters and nutting): Recent technological innovation in sport of rock-climbing, scorned by purists, perhaps, but hailed by most as aesthetically acceptable breakthrough. Certain distinct advantages over more traditional piton. But picture first a common nut, hexagonally shaped, with, say, a three-eighths-inch-diameter hole, originally threaded but threads removed by means of small rat-tailed file. And picture, fixed to this now-smooth-sided hole, a six-inch length of three-sixteenth-inch airplane cable, looped at its lower end. Used as follows: Wedge nut in crack on rock face, cable loop hanging down. Clip carabiner to loop. Clip rope (or étrier) through carabiner (as in classic climbing technique). Advantages: Nuts just as strong as pitons but lighter. Easier to place. Easier to remove. And, because cable is stiff, nut can be raised to and placed in crack six or eight inches beyond climber's reach, whereas piton cannot. A point that will soon be brought to Jay-D Wicker's attention as he says... .

• • •

"Whut fer?"

"If you will raise the brim of your hat," the enemy replied, coolly over right shoulder, "you will see that I have reached a virtually impassable section of wall, quite devoid of cracks, nubbins, flakes and other natural aids, except for one small V-shaped fissure that lies six or eight inches beyond my reach."

"Ah'll take care of it, ma'am, if yew'll jest step down... ."

"I have no intention of 'stepping down.' "

Flourish of temper. Trumpeting of male prerogative.

"Ma'am, if yew ain't e-quipped fer this clam, be daysent and say so! Hair!"

A turning now inch by inch of booted feet on pack on ledge until enemy profiled to wall, looking down.

"What did you say?"

"Ah said, if yew ain't e-quipped----"

"It is not a matter of my not being equipped! I have a perfectly good bolt kit and am quite capable of fixing a bolt in no more than twelve minutes. However, I am sure you will agree that inasmuch as we have managed to ascend this entire rock without using a single bolt, it would be unthinkable to use one now. It would violate the aesthetic of the climb in ways too obvious to mention. A nut will be faster, will serve exactly the same purpose and, once it has served that purpose, can be removed without leaving a trace of our having passed this way." Pause. No reply from hero standing on small holds just below ledge, face level with enemy's pack, up-tilted to allow view. "As for my shirt being unbuttoned," she continued, "which seems to have 'attracted your attention,' as you would say, I did that in an attempt to increase my reach. My position at this moment is too precarious to attempt a rebuttoning. I hope the redness around your ears is a result of your exertions and not of some ridiculous postpubescent projection."

"Lord hailp us," Jay-D said.

• • •

And the Lord, who had first helped others (falcons and mice among them) to this high place, did help these two, the first of their kind, who appeared finally up over the edge, hard hat first, followed closely by bush hat second. Moment of illuminating awe: long view out, 1000-foot red canyon walls, snow-rimmed juniper and jack pine, ice-blue sky, westering sun; long view down, 860 feet Old Bull Moose reduced in distance tiny toy, chrome reflecting flood-dazzle; close view summit, size of baseball infield studded with mesquite and, appropriate to image, one diamond-shaped meltwater pool.

"Isn't it wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Isn't it marvelous! Have you ever seen anything so, so, so exquisite!"

No reply from Jay-D Wicker, who stood like a sweat-soaked question mark not far from ultimate edge.

"What's the matter?" she asked.

"Nothin'."

"Of course there is. You look simply awful."

Silence.

"Well?" she insisted.

"Ah'm de-pressed."

"What on earth for? How could you possibly be depressed after as invigorating a climb as we have just had, in the presence of this grandeur?"

"Ah ain't never bin whupped by a fay-male. It don't seem rat."

"I am not a 'fay-male,' " she said. "I am a person. The only reason you were 'whupped,' as you say, is that you, having clearly underestimated my ability, insisted on turning what might have been a delightful climb into a neurotic sweepstakes----"

"Ah cain't hailp it!" Jay-D blurted. "Ah let down mah sad!"

"Oh, really," she said. "For heaven's sake. The idea that men and women make up opposing sides in some kind of sexual war is not only absurd but also, in light of recent years, anachronistic. Furthermore, there is absolutely no justification for raising the climb we have just completed to the level of a metaphor."

Silence then, save the distant and brief scurry of one small unfortunate rodent and a beating of falcon wings.

"Oh, dear," she said.

"Whut?"

"It's just that ... well ... life is so ephemeral."

Removed hard hat. Shook long hair down. Looked at him. Smiled.

"What's your name?"

"Jay-D Wacker."

"My name is Amanda Barrymore-Fitzgerald. I am a senior at Wheaton College, which is a rather good women's school located in Norton, Massachusetts."

Extended her hand. Briefly, he took it. It was hot. She opened a pack pocket then and got out some soap, not onion but lemon-scented.

"I'm a perfect mess," she said. "You are, too. Shall we 'bite the apple,' as they say?"

"Ma'am?"

"Bathe," she said. "Before descending."

• • •

Large mesquite bush atop 860-foot rock pinnacle deep in canyon, northeastern Arizona. From low branch on close side of bush (our point of view), a familiar flag flying in what has become a warm, satisfying breeze. In diamond-shaped meltwater pool nearby, a being too voluptuous to have sprung from a rib sits, the water rising to point just below her newly soaped navel. She is waiting for a man to join her, a man whom she has only recently met but for whom--and for reasons she really could not have articulated--she has developed a certain fondness. He appears at last, a well-muscled youth, blue eyes, blond hair, altogether naked except for an old bush hat, which he holds by the brim to cover, well, his old bush.

"I don't believe it!" she cries. "Not you! Not the Old Bull Moose of the Woods!"

"Ma'am----"

"Oh, this is priceless!"

"Ma'am, fact is----"

"And they say we need liberating!"

He shrugs, letting go the hat brim to gesture helplessly. The hat, in defiance of certain of Newton's laws, not falling to ground but staying in place as if on rack.

"Fact is, ma'am, Ah'm aroused!"

Bright but not unkind laughter from pool fills the rare air there like clatter of coins--no--like stained glass breaking-- no--like antic tropical bird... .

"Come here," she says. "You silly boy."

• • •

Time passes. It is an interim of exploration, of discovery, of gentleness and liberation; and it is, in spite of experiments to the contrary, a close and private thing that can no more pass through the point of a pen than can a butterfly's wing. In the interest of objectivity and truth, however, we will set down the single line of dialog spoken during the passage of this time (and spoken near the end, and with reverence):

"Lord, ma'am. Did yew learn this at Waitin College?"

• • •

And here at last an anticlimax, a denouement, a tying up of loose ends wrapped in end-of-story rhetoric suitable to the epic structure of the piece (and setting, too, symbolic). A glimpse of the morning after.

Old Noah-Body, Indian chief, alert in coffin by aspen gate, observes through wintry eyes and early April mist one antlered ark advancing on the surface of the flood, complete now with one of this and one of that (Earl Scruggs and Lester Flatt), the Old Bull Moose returning. High ground at last (with help of Lord's wind) and passing under elevated aspen gate in cloud of dust and final Horny-ho-ho. Jay-D Wicker at the walnut wheel and--riding shotgun, shall we say?--the heroine of the tale, tresses secured under borrowed bush hat, Amanda Barrymore-Fitzgerald, to be known affectionately for some time to come as his 'swate thang,' all fading now, music, motion and immutability, not into the west but toward the east, where the sun has risen and spreads its supernal glow across the continent in benign benediction to all created things.

Goodbye, my friends. God bless.