It’s called sewing-machine leg, that quiver in a calf that borders on cramp. I’m clinging to the rock face like a limpet, fingertips raw, adrenaline coursing. It’s friction climbing, Jake said. Easy peasy. Except that three pitches up, I’ve made the mistake of looking down at the toothpick-sized trees below. Now there’s no question of moving a hand or a foot, even as Jake yells for the third time, Climb on! and tugs the rope to remind me I’m on belay. I can only stare as a solo climber steams past me, nodding and blowing smoke rings from his cigarette.
Jann Everard's fiction has been published widely in Canada. She divides her time between Toronto and Vancouver Island. Find Jann online at janneverard.com and on Twitter @janneverard.