The Sharp End

When I retired from climbing, I cut my rope in half.  I put one piece in the shed to use for chores and the other I put under the seat in the truck.  While both have come in handy over the past decade, the one in the Chev has played a critical role in a number of, well, rescues.  I know that I have told this story before.  In fact, one of my readers has pointed out that it has become tiresome.  So.  I'll keep it short.

This time it was a sort of mountain man:  Camo coat, wool cap, jeans, boots, beard, and dangling cigarette.  He said that he'd left the lights on and needed a jump.  We tried it, but there was nothing.  After 15 minutes the starter wouldn't even tick.  It had been 17F the night before and the sun was dropping behind the horizon.  I was beginning to feel the cold and didn't want to leave him out there.  Was there someone he could call?  (He had, of course, a smart phone.)  Well, he said, there were a few people he could try, but he wasn't sure.

So, I offered him the climbing rope.  He took me up on it.  I don't actually know that much about climbing ropes, but I have certainly learned that they make a good tow strap.  I towed the guy from Kane Springs to the TA truck-stop.  It probably wasn't ten miles, but it was close.  And most of it was gravel.  I tried to make a picture of the adventure, but didn't get much.  You can almost see him back there—I guess I was on lead and he was my belay.  Har.