Free The Wall by Jeff Long Page B

lot of skin on a big wall. Lewis would be using cowhide work gloves with the fingers cut off. But Hugh, the better free climber of the two of them, and the one who would be handling the bulk of the leading, needed more freedom than gloves would allow.
    First he painted a sticky tincture onto the bottom knuckles and the web of his hand. Then he taped each individual knuckle in special configurations to distribute the stress on each joint, and at the same time protect the flesh. Finally he joined the interlaced finger strips under broad bindings of tape across the back of his hands and palms. The finished product looked like a boxer’s fist, and, with some extra patching of more tape, would last for days. At the end of the climb, he would need a knife to cut away the shell of tape.
    Hugh flexed his fingers. He slugged his fists into his palms, getting the tape job snug and stretched. The eastern sky was losing stars. Soon the black would ease to cobalt and then the pastels would mount. For now they continued using their headlamps.
    Hugh pulled on his seat harness, and fanned the rack of gear apart to choose the few pieces he’d need on the first pitch, or rope length. Lewis laid out his stirrups and jumars for ascending the rope, and tied his shoes.
    “I’m ready,” he announced. His voice was eager and antsy and scared. He wanted to get under way, and his tone pressed at Hugh.
    “You can have the first lead then,” Hugh said.
    Lewis snorted. “What, and steal your precious legacy?” The first pitch was beyond his abilities and they both knew it.
    “Don’t be shy,” Hugh baited him. “Give it a shot. Miracles happen. Did I ever tell you about the time I saw a gorilla get up off his knuckles and walk? It was an amazing sight. Didn’t last long, of course. But what a gallant sight.”
    “Yeah, you,” said Lewis, “you and the other stick people.”
    Even forty years ago, when he wasn’t so strapped with gym muscle, Lewis had been too big for what he called the dainty moves. His veins would bulge as he grappled holds that thinner climbers—stick or bone people, or Biafrans, or Twiggies, all in his lexicon—danced up on with ease. He was like a circus strongman among high-wire acrobats. His specialties were brute hand-and-fist cracks, fearless hook moves, and the hauling of massive amounts of baggage from the depths.
    “Still touchy, are we?” said Hugh.
    “Have you seen them lately? Bulimic little twists, nothing but toothpicks for legs. Cut me off at the waist, I could climb what they do.”
    “You’re saying I’m half the man you are?”
    “Oh, not you, Glass. You’ve always been a kingly specimen. Except you have no calves. Or thighs.”
    They bantered some more while they sorted and compacted what they had spread on the ground. There was a method to their collecting, though it required no discussion, not after so many climbs together. Every object had its exact place, small to large, front to back, and each man had it memorized.
    Hugh had grown so used to being alone that companionship should not have come so easily. But as he and Lewis handled the ropes and slings and hardware, he realized he was still known by at least one person in the world. It made him glad to have turned away Rachel.
    “What do you think, lad?” said Lewis, closing up the haul bags with his sailor’s knot. “Will we be better men after the climb?” It was always Lewis who asked, always the same words. Then Hugh was meant to reply aye, and quote Shakespeare’s Harry about once more unto the breach.
    “We always were,” Hugh answered him quietly, “after every climb. You just forget.”
    A wound opened in the night, a streak of purple low along the east. They both noticed it, and hurried. Hugh took off his approach shoes and trod in his socks up the slope, carrying his climbing slippers to keep dirt off the new sticky-rubber soles.
    Lewis produced a scratched orange helmet. It surprised Hugh, because Lewis had managed to