Page 42 of Wandering Wild

“That’s it, nice and slow,” Hawke says as I repeat Bentley’s actions and stretch my body along the rope, trying to keep my trembling at bay. “Slide forward now. You’re nearly there.”

I have to loosen my grip since I’m only hindering myself, but finally I manage to inch out into open air.

“Good, Charlie, now drop upside down,” Hawke says. “Think of a sloth hanging from a branch. Trust your harness to hold you—you’re not going anywhere.”

That’s easy for him to say; it’s not his heart that wants to crash through his ribcage right now. But I grit my teeth and yield to gravity until I’m dangling upside down, my hands clasping the rope, my harness holding my lower body in place and keeping me relatively horizontal.

“Excellent,” Hawke praises. “Now hook one leg up over the rope for stabilization, and start pulling yourself across. The first half will be easier since your body weight will work in your favor, so give in to it and conserve your energy for the second half. Got it?”

“Got it,” I grunt out, eager to move now that I’m hanging like a monkey.

“Then off you go,” Hawke says. “Show Zander and me how it’s done.”

I don’t need that added pressure,thank you very much, so I ignore the challenge and begin a hand-over-hand method to pull myself backward, trying to mimic Bentley’s moves. I don’t look down—I’m not foolish enough to do that again, especially as I venture further across the gap, and therefore further away from safety.

I’m about a quarter of the way over when Hawke calls out, “How’re you doing, Charlie?”

“So far so good,” I call back, surprisingly telling the truth. Aside from some low-level discomfort where the rope is digging into my hooked leg, and the growing fatigue in my arms, it’s not as difficult as I feared. It’s certainly not as effortless as Bentley made it seem, but it’s also not the worst thing I’ve experienced on this trip.

But then I reach the middle, passing the center of gravity, and I have to fight my way back upward, all while battling the wind that’s slamming into me now that I’m far enough out to be unprotected by the forest’s barrier. My jaw is clenched tight as I drag myself along the rope, my chest, shoulders, and hands all burning fiercely.

“Stop and rest for a moment,” Hawke calls, his voice nearly stolen by the wind. “Shake some feeling back into your fingers.”

The exertion has me breathing so heavily that I can’t reply, but I follow his advice, hissing at the painful tingling of my nerves. My right leg is aching so much from the rope that I decide to swap it with my left, resulting in me having to adjust to a new coordination when I start to move again. Worse, in doing so, I accidentally cast my eyes downward, and a bout of dizziness hits me so strongly that nausea crawls up my throat.

“You’re nearly there, Charlie,” Zander calls, as if he can sense my distress. “Only a few more feet. You can make it.”

I wish his voice didn’t ground me so much. I wish his encouragement didn’t make me feel so reassured. I wish—I wish?—

I wish he wasn’t who he was.

Or rather, I wish he hadn’t done what he did.

Because then maybe?—

No.

I won’t let my mind go there, since there’s no point. I can’t wish any of that true—he is who he is, and he did what he did. I can’t forget that. Iwon’tforget that.

My arms are screaming when I finally reach the far edge of the ravine and find Bentley lowering his camera to help pull me up onto the rock. Every muscle in my body is on fire, but I’m safe now—and I did it.

“Well done,” Bentley says, giving my shoulder a squeeze, then reclaiming his camera to focus it back toward the other side of the crossing.

I can’t deny the pride I feel as I look properly into the gap, appreciating what I accomplished. As much as I’m hurting, there’s a larger part of me that recognizes how alive I feel right now. Like yesterday, I realize it’s something I haven’t felt in a long time—too long. But unlike yesterday, I don’t feel as guilty about it today. Just... sad. Like I’ve missed out on something vital, something I didn’t even know I needed in my life, because I stifled it.

I had my reasons—God knows I did. But now...

I’m not sure if those reasons hold true anymore.

Or if they even should.

But I also know it’s not the time to think about it, so I focus on massaging my fingers, arms, and legs as I watch Zander carry out his own Tyrolean traverse across the ravine. He makes it look almost as easy as Bentley did—damn him—and reaches us in record time, his cheeks flushed and eyes bright from the thrill.

“I’ll be feeling that tomorrow,” he says, shaking out his limbs.

“I’m feeling it now,” I return. Despite how proud I am, I’m still one big bruise all over.

Zander doesn’t reply other than to give a low, awed whistle as we watch Hawke begin to pull himself across the line, but not in the sloth-like hanging method we used. Instead, the survivalist’s torso remains draped over the top of the rope as he pulls himself along, his speed making it seem like the rest of us took months in comparison.

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