We caught one of the many heroes in the rocks just above the manzanita of Misery Hill. He reached wide with his crutches to mantle, iron-cross style, as he lifted and placed each leg and step. The right heel of his boot would reach for a crack in the rocks, his torso twisting to accommodate the rigid prosthesis as it rounded the boulders. Pressure through the crutches to rise, and the left leg would pop up. Reach. Pressure. Rise.
Reach. Pressure. Rise.
Betsy and I ran block behind his party of three, forcing a backlog of people. I caught an occasional statement, but instead of a grumble, it was awe, admiration, inspiration. The usual progression of chase and race up the hill; of playing trail tag with those around you; of spotting someone up ahead and reeling them in for the challenge; all fell quietly by as we marched, together, towards the summit. He asked once if I'd like to pass. "No worries, man. We're good." my reply.
At a sand bar he pulled aside to rest and check in on the radio. One by one, we walked on, looked him in the eye as we shook hands. No words. Just strength passed between hands.
...
They announced on the summit that he was just below and about to top out. A few hundred people rose and waited, eyes trained on the trail. We held our breath, and each other.
I'm sure they could hear our cheers Downtown.
...
To my Whitney family: I love you with all my heart.
Never, never, never give up.
From the luckiest girl in the world:
Climb Hard. Be Safe.
-L
