Fear and Far Away
By Teddy Dondanville
It was morning. I crawled out of my tent to see a low fog hanging over the meadow. I sauntered idly to the picnic tables, frozen grass crackling beneath my feet. I sat at the table and lit my stove, quickly warming my hands over the newfound heat. The thought of coffee and oatmeal had me excited to start the day. As I waited patiently for my water to boil and my friends to wake from their slumber, I began daydreaming about the day ahead.
The opening moves of a sport route in the Red River Gorge.
We were in Kentucky’s Red River Gorge for a weekend of rock climbing. I was a new climber, and it was my first trip to the Red. I couldn’t wait to tie in.
With full bellies and Thermoses of coffee and tea, we began our drive through the rolling hills. I felt proud to be the captain of our journey. Hannah was in the back graciously observing the morning countryside while Mike, my co-captain and trusted climbing partner, sipped coffee and bopped his head to a groovy song.
Eventually, the paved highway turned to dirt as we began the muddy portion of our journey to our rocky promised land. Worried our car might get stuck, we parked before the end of the road and hiked in.
With the doors and trunk flung open, we readied our packs. Harnesses, shoes, quickdraws, rope, and other hardware made it into bulging backpacks. Humping them onto our backs, we closed the car doors. We began descending the trail. We wouldn’t be back until sundown.
With my long legs and eagerness to arrive at the crag, I walked slightly ahead of Mike and Hannah. We chatted as we circumnavigated puddles and slippery mud. Above us, wet trees dropped extra water weight from the rains the night before. Thankfully, the sun was now peaking through the trees as we squished along the path, mud curling up and over the sides of our poor shoes with each weighted depression.
Suddenly, my cell phone came to life.
One message, two messages, and then three. My wet, cold hand found short solace as I reached into my pocket to pull out my phone. The messages came from my friend Travis. Without much detail, he asked me to call him as soon as possible.
His cryptic messages made me worried. We hadn’t spoken by phone in a while, so this was odd. Maybe he had a quick question to ask. But this early in the morning?
At that moment, my phone began to ring again, this time a phone call. This time it was from a friend, Anthony, who I hadn’t spoken with in an even longer time. I let the phone ring and ring. My heart sank. I felt sick. It rang for a second time. Anthony again.
Between the messages from Travis and the calls from Anthony, I knew something was wrong. I turned to Mike and Hannah and said, “I think I’m about to receive bad news.”
I didn’t say it, but I knew someone was dead.
Mike and Hannah looked at me blankly. I could see they were scared, too. I answered the phone call to barely comprehensible gibberish.
Between sobs, Anthony told me, “Eric Cruz is dead.”
“What?” I said in disbelief.
He repeated, “He’s dead. Eric died in a car accident this morning.”
Nausea overwhelmed my body. I felt like falling to my knees and then to my face, directly in the mud, suffocating. I looked at Mike and Hannah, tears flooding my eyes.
“My friend is dead,” I said.
But Eric wasn’t just my friend—he was my best friend. Practically a brother. We grew up together, from kindergarten. In grade school, we had play dates and sleepovers. We enjoyed staying up late and drinking copious amounts of Mountain Dew, and playing video games. We bonded over metal music and defended the outfield valiantly together on our high school baseball team.
We went our separate ways for college but stayed close. From a distance, I watched him mature into a passionate touring musician and begin his career. I dearly looked forward to visiting him every time I went back home.
But now there would be no more visits.
The next thing I remember, we were back at the car. We huddled together on the tailgate, crying. We smoked hand-rolled cigarettes, watching the smoke unfurl into the cold air. Paralyzed, we sat. Smoked. Cried. Trying to make sense of the senseless. When enough motivation was mustered from within what felt like my lifeless vessel, we got in the car. We drove down the unfamiliar road, despite having just traveled it, into an entirely unfamiliar world.
The following day the only thing that dragged me out of my tent was the urge to pee. Without that, I might have stayed in my plastic coffin all day, staring off into orange-colored oblivion. I became jealous of Mike and Hannah, who had a tent to share. Mine was lonely.
Over breakfast, we attempted to make a plan for the rest of our trip. The once flavorful oatmeal was now like cement in my mouth, sealing my esophagus. Too-hot coffee was the only thing that helped, scalding my mouth and dislodging the choking concoction. Lumps washed down, adding more weight to what already seemed like a ton of bricks.
We decided to stay one more day and go home the next. The reality was that if I were to be sad, I would rather do it in the woods than in my room. Alone. There would be plenty of time for that anyway. I also felt like Eric would have wanted that—for us to finish the trip.
So we packed the car once again and drove off into the Kentucky countryside. The crag we arrived at was busy with other climbers. It felt weird to be grieving in a space where I was usually so happy, meeting other climbers and exchanging beta. I was eager to climb so that the thoughts of my dead friend could be shut off, at least momentarily.
Amongst the commotion of the crag, I met a dog. It approached me as if it knew something was wrong. I happily welcomed its kindness and curiosity. Eventually, wondering where their dog was, the owner came looking. I introduced myself and started talking to her about how friendly her dog was.
“What’s its name?” I asked.
She answered, “Cruise… his name is Cruise.”
I couldn’t believe it. My heart leaped with excitement. Was this some kind of joke? Cruz. Cruise. Cruz.
After saying bye to Cruise, I ran to Mike and Hannah and told them about the dog.
Hannah hugged and reassured me, “I think that’s an omen that you are exactly where you should be.”
At that moment, a huge weight was lifted from my shoulders. She was right. All the doubt and helplessness, and distance I felt seemed to melt away. Yes, I was afraid. Yes, I was far away. But I was where I needed to be for the moment.
We finished our day of climbing and meandered lazily back to the car. I couldn’t stop thinking about the dog Cruise. I was sad that he wasn’t there. It was like I had lost Eric for a second time, but at least this time, I could say goodbye. I tried to remind myself to be grateful for the short time we did get to share, sitting among the trees, petting, and playing. A reminder of the even longer, but still dreadfully short, time that I got to call Eric one of my best friends.
At this point in our trip, there had been a shift in me. I didn’t want to go home anymore. The panicky urge to drive back to Illinois and fly to California had dissipated. Now I wanted to hide in the hills and amongst the trees, scaling rock cliffs and sleeping on the ground for as long as I could. Going home meant not having the distraction of the wilderness. Going home meant facing the reality that Eric was gone.
So, the following day, we decided to do a few climbs and go home. Before leaving the campsite, we broke down camp and prepared the car for our journey back home. A sloppy game of packing Tetris was played as we shoved all the gear haphazardly into the car.
When we arrived at the wall, we found another busy climbing scene. We had to wait for the climb we wanted to warm up on. Unfortunately, it was not worth the wait—the very short climb, with its finicky holds and mediocre movement, was over before you knew it. Clipping chains and lowering off was anything but satisfactory. Nonetheless, we were warmed up. We fingered through the guidebook to look for the next climb we would attempt. Not far from where we were was a route called Old English. We set off to find it.
The trail we approached paralleled the cliff line. It ended in the belly of a large cave. At the bottom of the cave was a stream that snaked its way down the low parts of the valley back the way we had come. It was fed from a waterfall that spilled over the lip of the cave’s roof. I imagined standing beneath the waterfall and feeling the weight of the water pound upon my shoulders and back, the water hiding the tears that still escaped despite trying to wear a smile.
We found the climb we had come looking for, and luckily, no one was around. The main feature of the climb was a crescent-shaped, overhanging, and left-leaning flake that led to the anchors. It looked intimidating from the bottom. I remember feeling like I wasn’t ready to climb it. I was secretly excited when Mike volunteered to try the climb first.
The route began with burly and powerful moves, moderately high off the ground. The landing zone was not ideal, so I did my best to spot Mike from an ugly ground fall. He made quick work of the lower moves and clipped his first quickdraw. From there, he sailed through the climb to the chains. I lowered Mike off the climb with the sun at his back and a big smile on his face.
“I enjoyed it,” he said.
“Surely I will, too,” I told myself.
A bit reluctantly, I tied in and tried the first few moves of the climb. They felt hard. I down-climbed multiple times before actually committing to the sequence. On my first genuine attempt, I fell to the ground, landing on a rock that shot searing pain through the base of my foot and up through my leg. I limped off and sat on a rock to massage the pain from my foot.
I tried again. Luckily, I passed the challenging section and began my way up the easy ledges in the middle section of the climb. The big flake was now looming over me. I was intimidated. I tried to tell myself I was strong enough to complete the climb.
Luckily, the top section of the route was really good climbing. A combination of layback hands and heel hooks allowed me to reach the top of the climb. I clipped the chains and sat back in my harness. I was completely pumped and tired, but I did it.
I made myself safe on the bolted anchors. I told Mike, “Off belay.” I decided I would rappel down, like I had on every other route. Looking back, I now know rappelling was not the ideal decision.
My lethargic hands struggled to take out my figure-8 knot. I was so pumped that they moved as if frozen, despite being in the warm sun. Finally, the knot gave. I fed the rope through the rings and set up my rappel.
Cleaning the first two quickdraws was not much of a struggle, but I was getting tired due to the climb’s overhanging angle. I had to pull myself to the route, try and secure myself with my feet, hold my rappel strands with one hand, and maneuver the carabiner out of the bolt with the other. All the while, gravity was pulling in the other direction.
My brake hand wasn’t backed up with a friction hitch, which I know now was a mistake. My hand was being split apart by the two ends of the rope going in opposite directions. If that hand failed, which it felt like it might, I would plummet. I was getting scared and even more exhausted.
As I went lower, the quickdraws I had to take off the wall got further. Reaching them became harder and harder. The sheer physical exertion I needed to accomplish a relatively simple task overwhelmed me. Before I knew it, I was crying and then screaming. All the emotional trauma of the past few days was boiling up and spilling out of me.
I was scared. Scared of falling and hitting the ground. Scared that I would never see Eric again. Scared for the next person who I loved to die.
I was in shambles. Hands dangling and hunched forward on the rope, I cried. My tears raised tiny clouds of dust as they hit the ground below. The only thing keeping me safe was Mike and Hannah. They pulled on each rappel strand to lock my rappel device in place. Without them, I would have taken a fatal fall, but at least I would be done and down.
I was unsure how long I sat there sobbing uncontrollably, almost wanting Mike and Hannah to let go.
But eventually, I was on the ground. As I landed, Mike and Hannah enveloped me in a loving embrace. In the middle, with their hearts pounding powerfully against my body from the terror of almost watching me fall, I cried.
I cried for Eric and his fear and pain in his final moments. I cried for the knock on the door that woke his family from a peaceful slumber, notifying them that their son was dead. I cried for us, Eric’s friends, that would have to live on with such a massive hole in our beloved friend group.
After some time, we all calmed down. The cliffside was quiet again. My screams and sobs no longer reverberated off the sandstone rock. I slumped on a rock. So utterly exhausted, I was ready to lie down and sleep right there. Mike pulled the rope, and Hannah got the backpacks ready. I took one last look at Old English before we walked off. The bright sun burned my tear-ridden eyes as I looked around.
Teddy Dondanville is a freelance writer focused on the outdoor industry and adventure sports. When not enjoying the cerebral and caffeine-fueled pursuits of writing, he works as a rock climbing guide in upstate New York. You can learn more about Teddy on his website.
