Read Skygods (Hydraulic #2) Online
Authors: Sarah Latchaw
Skygods (Hydraulic #2) (57 page)
Caulfield subtly asks, “Has H contacted you about another climb?” He dislikes the man on principle, and has long suspected H is in love with his wife, or was, once upon a time. Now H has his own wife, and he no longer watches Aspen with burning eyes.
Aspen shrugs away his inquiry with a counter question. “How’s the new book coming?” She knows this will shut him up. He feels his manhood shrivel at the mention of that book—the book with great expectations attached to it. The fledgling fantasy series was supposed to be better than his nixies, and critics couldn’t wait to prove those claims wrong. It was lambasted before it hit the shelves. The reviews sit in his brain like his mother’s ancient upright piano: dissonant and immovable.
“By the standards of his auspicious career,
Sea Rovers
is a cliché-strangled shipwreck destined for the foreboding depths of dust bins…”
Still, he’s a storyteller. He sifts through his brain, and seeds of ideas tumble through his fingers where they root on paper. Caulfield writes, not about far-away nixies or water horses, or universally panned pirates. He turns to his beloved Colorado. To the drama of its mountains, where life thrives and dies through sun, and snow, and thin air fourteen thousand feet above the earth.
“And so, Aspen, my wife,” Caulfield says, “I propose this: I’ll write mountains for you, and we’ll conquer them. As much as I want you in my hands, I will not watch you wither there.”
Kaye—It’s been a long while since we’ve worked on our book. Are you game? ~Sam
Sam, I’m game for most anything. Not once have I regretted what I did for that Klondike bar. ~Kaye
The first time I ever heard “four-by-four” used as a verb was huddled over the breakfast stove at our Longs Peak high camp, between nibbles of freeze-dried food. It was also the first time I’d met someone with a “gold claim in the bush.” Not a euphemism—I asked.
Dusky pinks of the alpenglow swirled over the rocks, though the air was still as cold as the dead of night. There wasn’t a cloud in sight, but that could change in a heartbeat. Today would be sunny and warm—relatively speaking—for a tundra zone. We watched as early-morning climbers trickled onto the field and others stretched stiff cold limbs out of tents. A pair of park rangers picked their way over boulders, checking ground and weather conditions. I dug through the “marmot-proof” box and handed out a round of granola bars.
“If you were up in Prince George, you’d just four-by-four those off-roads,” crowed one of our new friends, chewing through a bar. “You don’t bike the forest during moose-calving season.” There was laughter and back-slapping, even though Hector didn’t know what the heck they were talking about. My friend was already half in love with his new climbing buddies, and a part of me was relieved he’d made a new adrenaline junkie connection. I had a feeling my cliff-hucking days were over, unless they involved a brown mop of hair with a Latin flair.
A heavy boom echoed across the Boulder Field. We stilled, panicked stares flying to the great Diamond slab, then the Keyhole, searching for the beginnings of an avalanche. The loud crackling which followed was too far away to be our snowfield, but the warning was clear. Cassady had been right—warm sunlight after days of snow meant avalanches, and somewhere, a bank of snow had cracked and tumbled down the mountainside.
Minutes later, one of the rangers—I mentally called him Ranger Rick—barreled over to our campsite, a two-way radio clutched in his hand. “Avalanche at Glacier Gorge, just off the west ridge. Don’t make plans to take the Keyhole approach today.”
Cassady raised an
I told you so
eyebrow. Dang it, that was our return route.
“Was anyone hurt?” I asked.
He smoothed down his grizzled beard. “Not sure yet. Once the sun’s high, we’ll be seeing lots of slides. Any of you planning to summit today?”
We all tentatively raised our hands. The ranger grimaced.
“It’ll be dangerous. Personally, I’d hold off for the next climb.”
There was a collective groan.
“Think we could still make the technical on the North Face before the day heats up?” asked Hector. The technical was the most difficult portion of the climb, where all the vertical rock wall training came in handy.
Ranger Rick squinted at the massive face, still a midnight blue hulk in the early morning hours. “It’s your risk to take. You’re looking at a good five to six hours
minimum
, if you decide to do it. That’d put you up there ’round noon. Then there’s the descent.”
“We’re gonna slide down the Keyhole route for the descent,” said one of the Canadians.
“Right on.” Hector fist-bumped him. A rabble of butterflies tumbled excitedly in my stomach at the thought of descending after the summit. Sweet Tom, it would be an unbelievable rush. I gazed up the vast snow slope. That summit beckoned me, all craggy ice, thin air, and audacity—a siren song to a woman who battled giants. A bushy-tailed fox picked its way over the snowfield and disappeared into what was left of the night. I stared after its path, mind-boggled. This was the sort of thing I loved about mountaineering—something unexpected defying textbooks, nature. Finding life in the middle of nowhere. A Kit Kat bar tucked away like buried treasure. Huffing over rope and ax, higher and higher until there’s nothing higher than me—physically and emotionally—in a white, windy place in which humans have no business inhabiting.
I wanted it. Badly.
Could we summit Longs? We’d have to hoof it, push our bodies hard before the sun turned solid snow to fallible slush. No time for pictures or Kit Kat detours; heck, we’d barely have time to slick on sunscreen and melt snow before we absolutely had to leave.
Hector’s bright eyes met mine, making the same calculations. He gave me a nod. “Let’s climb it.”
Acknowledgments
To my husband and beautiful children: You will always have first claim on my hours and my love. Thank you for your ceaseless support and encouragement.
To Mom and Dad: You raised me to believe I could achieve most anything with hard work and creativity. Thank you for your guidance.
To the Kutoskys, Spanglers, Sheeks, Swartzes, Widners, and Joel Nettles: You have helped me to take ownership of my writing and be mindful of for Whom I write. May God bless you.
To the English teachers of Benton-Van Horne and Iowa State University’s MFA program of Creative Writing and Environment: Thank you for tossing fuel on the creative fire.
To my editor Sean Riley: You fought for Kaye and made me truly understand her, along with Samuel. I appreciate your insight.
To Elizabeth Harper and the Omnific Publishing staff: Thank you for your respect, time and care in making this book “shine.” You’ve taken something significant to me and made it significant to you, too.
To Nina Bocci: I’m glad to have your talents for this book. You are fabulous.
To Amy Plummer: Thank you for having my back.
To Jenny, the poet: You were the first to tackle these pages with the “red pen of honesty.” Thank you for helping to shape this tale. The world needs to see your moving words and stories.
To Team WTFISGOINGON and the online community: Thank you for your enthusiasm and endless patience these past years. You made me want to keep writing.
Lastly, and most importantly, thank you to the brave and beautiful souls who allowed me to interview them, shared their victories and pains, and helped me to glimpse what it is like to live and love with mental illness. Kaye and Samuel belong to you.
About the Author
Sarah Latchaw was raised in eastern Iowa and appreciates beauty in mud-splattered gravel roads and fields. She also loves to explore faraway places, thanks to countless family minivan trips across the States. This passion for finding stories led to college adventures in many different countries, and each place’s story rests in the back of her mind and in her photo albums.
Sarah received her BA in public relations and media from Wartburg College and entered the workforce ready to climb the ladder. However, when researching MBA applications evoked feelings of dread, with the loving support of her husband, she pursued a career in creative writing and was awarded her MA from Iowa State University.
These days, Sarah wakes every morning thrilled to cuddle her small children, show them the world, then capture that world and shape it into stories on paper. She is not thrilled when she wakes to her cats smothering her face. She and her family reside in Des Moines, Iowa—one of the best places to live and work.
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