Free Archangel of Sedona by Tony Peluso

who—Gretchen assumed—could not reason beyond his own petty lust. Her plan worked perfectly.
    Gretchen had fabulous taste in lingerie. She’s ten years younger than me. She’s five feet five inches tall and weighs 115 pounds. I always thought that she was very pretty and—in many ways—is more attractive at 56 than she was at 26. She has medium-length blonde hair that ends at her shoulders, framing a light complexion and deep blue eyes. When I first saw her at the Officer’s Club at the JAG School in Charlottesville, I thought that she was the best-looking woman I’d ever seen in an Army uniform. Her fabulous legs added to the allure.
    Gretchen has kept in shape by jogging. I’d been a runner for 45 years. I don’t run on the street anymore. These days, I terrorize everyone at the gym by attacking the elliptical StairMaster .
    We’ve had tension, as we’ve gone our separate ways in pursuit of fitness. I can still hike with the best of them, as I demonstrated on the West Fork Trail. To mollify and distract my hyperactive bride on this trip and to assuage her sense of adventure, I’d agreed to try the Predator Zip Lines in Camp Verde.
    Here’s the concept. At the Out of Africa Wildlife Sanctuary on State Road 260, clever entrepreneurs have constructed high towers and steel cables over several acres of a nature park that houses lions, tigers, and bears—oh my! You pay them $100 per person. You take 15 minutes indoctrination on the equipment. You sign a waiver written by callous Arizona lawyers. Since I’m an attorney, I embrace the hypocrisy of that last statement.
    Thereafter, despite the clear language of the waiver, you allow the polite, energetic, and enthusiastic zip-line guides to convince you that it’s safe to ride thin steel cables for hundreds of yards, 100 feet above ravenous carnivores. I’m serious. Of course, Gretchen thought zip-lining would be the best thing ever.
    After my private modeling session, we had a terrific meal. Room service delivered a four-star filet, accompanied by an inspiring, lively Shiraz that pleased the palate and left the right hint of an oaky vanilla aftertaste. I felt so grateful that I agreed to the zip-line. The second private modeling session sealed the deal.
    Bright and early the next morning, Gretchen and I set out for Camp Verde.
    I know that you’ve been paying attention. You realize that I served in the Army Airborne for over two decades, and had at least three tours on jump status. You must think that to an experienced Paratrooper, a simple zip-line would be a piece of cake.
    You’d be wrong. I do have 80 jumps logged on my various manifests, including five with the Canadian Airborne Regiment, when it was stationed in Edmonton. Though I wear my American and Canadian wings on my 5-11 hiking vest, I’ve never lost my deep respect for high places.
    I didn’t want to do the zip-line, but Gretchen had been so supportive the night before that I couldn’t say no. Despite my angst, the staff proved to be professional and competent. I didn’t become fodder for predators and the lines turned out to be a lot of fun.
    We have photos—taken by the park’s photographer—that show Gretchen skimming high over the carnivores, arms thrown wide, head back, laughing delightfully, without a care in the world or hint of fear. You will never see my photos because they show an old man gripping the belt connecting me to the trolley in abject desperation.
    It took two-and-a-half hours to complete the training and negotiate the separate lines. When we finished, it was afternoon. Since it was August, the day became hot, even at over 4,000 feet above sea level.
    I grew up in Arizona. While it is dry, when the temperature hits 100 degrees, it’s too hot for strenuous outdoor activity. Don’t buy into the bullshit about dry heat. You can follow the bleached bones of silly tourists—who flaunted this advice—across the desert and mountains from Nogales to Page, Yuma to