Kendal Ericsen Jack Now I know what Jack means about coffee cutting through the crispness of an October morning. I usually just say a half-assed "uh-huh," then roll back into the soft embrace of our down comforter. But, today, I pour the steaming butternut from his thermos and sip the bitter drink, its warmth easing through my body. I'm awake. Hell, I can't remember the last time I was awake at this hour, except maybe after a New Years party. It's still dark, though the purple smudges along the western horizon are beginning to focus into mountains, and the snaking dark velvet of Purgatory Creek is shedding to reveal silver scales. It's silent out here, as if nothing is awake, and I'm the first one to see it. I'm a child, and now I think I understand why Jack loves it here. I hope I don't forget where the turnoff is. I haven't been here for a year, but doubt I'll miss the Craven's Gulch sign, hanging onto a pine by one last rusty nail. I glance at my watch. 5:37. Shit. I'm late, and he's bound to start without me. See, Jack's always been more adventurous than me. When we first met, I assumed that his accolades of "enjoying the outdoors" meant a leisurely drive to Silver Junction for an espresso and an afternoon jaunt of shopping at the outlet stores. Not so, of course, but we learned to accept those differences in each other. I finally promise to join him for a hike, and, as usual, I'm behind. When I pull up to the trailhead I'm half an hour late. But Jack's waiting for me, straddling the wooden gate, his legs swinging like a pair of denim scissors. I shine my headlights on him, and poke my head out the window. "Strike a pose!" I laugh as he grins widely. He hoists his lanky body from the rails, freezing like a statue, six feet tall, his soft auburn hair trimmed short above his ears. He laughs hysterically, pointing at me as I jump from our truck. "What?" I'm defensive. Jack shakes his head and covers his crystal eyes with both hands. "You," he chuckles. "What?" "Well, dear, you look like a designer tick," he says, gesturing at my new ski jacket and pants, "We're hiking, not on a GQ shoot, Benj." "Funny, smart ass," I say, rubbing my tongue between my teeth and lower lip. "If you didn't have such a cute one I'd dump you right now." "Can't do that, now, can ya?" he remarks. Jack's got me with his buttery smile. He winks and kisses my cheek. I'm anticipating a passionate embrace when he slaps my butt and darts toward the trail. Still playing hard to get. I shake my head. One would think that after five years I'd be tired of the chase, yet I swear I chase him more now than when we first met. "Hang on, Tonto. You know I'm not as fit as you are," I call. "Bullshit. If you'd quit smoking those damn cigarettes you'd be able to keep up with me," he counters. I give him the hand. Always an answer for everything. I suppose having Jack around is like an extra conscience, only one that I listen to. He's good for me, though, prodding me to do the things that frighten me, or at least try the ones I'm not too certain of. I stay a few feet behind, partially because he knows his footing, but mostly because I never get tired of watching his butt shift beneath those frayed 501s. Jack's no slave to fashion, nor does he need to be. It all looks good on him. "Quit staring at my ass, Benj." Damn. How'd he know? "I don't know what you're talking about! I quit looking at that saggy, old thing a couple years ago." "Uh-huh. Hey, brought ya something," he motions to me with his right index finger. I'm a little boy at Christmas as he reaches inside his vest. "Your favorite," he winks as he pulls out a Slim Jim. "You're just too good to me, Jack," I flirt. "I know," he pecks my forehead and starts up the trail again, swaying his hips. "I hope you do," I whisper to myself while licking chocolate from my fingers. Damn, he's already twenty yards ahead of me. There he goes, leaving me again. I need a smoke. The sun's chin rests above the horizon now, bathing the pines in musty amber. I don't remember anything being this orange. Rays wrap around the aspens, creating multiple sunrises. "Hey, Benj," Jack calls from the ridge’s crest, "look at me!" He's an angel, a gray ghost encased in dawn's gold. He flexes his biceps. "I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay," he chants like the Terminator. "Come look at this, Benj, you've gotta see." I trot up the ridge and slow as it gives way to a hazy valley, a single strand of gold meandering its expanse, fluffs of red and yellow aspens cuddling together where mountain meets meadow. My breath escapes as fog. I inhale consciously. "It's beautiful, Jack." "I knew you'd like it here," he props himself on a fallen log and pulls me to his lap. He slips his arms around my waist, rests his chin on my shoulder. "I should have come more often, Jack. Shared this with you." He's not paying attention, squinting across the valley. "Look at the deer," he whispers. What am I doing here, I ask myself. This is fucking insane. "Benj, look at the deer," he points my head toward a few pale rumps grazing in the shadow cast by a jagged cliff wall. "I'm so sorry, Jack," I begin to cry. He looks at me, astonished. "About what? Why are you sorry?" He has no idea. I shake my head. "I should have come with you when you wanted me to. Last year, Jack. I should have come with you." "Oh," he looks at me sheepishly, "that." I stare at the cliff, my gut tying knots of itself. I'm going to vomit. But I can't take my eyes off of it, slab upon gray slab, stacked like headstones. "Is that it, Jack? The cliff?" He nods slowly, pursing his lips, his eyes turned down at his hiking boots. "Why, Jack? Why'd you do it? Why'd you climb?" "You know me, kid. The thrill. What a rush, Benj! You wouldn't understand, you've never experienced it." He cups my chin in his hand, looks me in the eyes. "I didn't mean to fall." "I know," I wipe my nose on my jacket sleeve. "I could have stopped you, Jack." "Oh, is that why we're here?" "Yes. A year ago. One year ago they called me at work. How fucking stupid, Jack! Taking a chance with your--shit--with our lives! Jesus, Jack, didn't you think about it? Didn't you think I'd be lost without you?" I shake my head, "Look at me! I'm fucking psycho...out here at God knows what hour, talking to a ghost. I'd have my head examined but there's nothing left in there." Jack slaps his thigh, erupting with laughter. "For God's sake, Benj. There you go again, over-analyzing yourself. Stop being such a drama queen." "Well, nothing else explains it. You know me. Why would I be out where I've never been before? How did I even know how to get here? Tell me, Jack." He looks up, smiles, and cocks his head toward the valley. "Climb the cliff, Benj." My jaw drops. "What?!?" "Climb the cliff. That's why you're here," he insists. "You want me to climb the cliff? Look at these!" I hold up my spaghetti arms. "Exactly how am I supposed to do this?" "You will," Jack beams. He takes my hand, "I'm tired Benjamin. You climb it this time. Go on. I'll watch from here. Got any of that Slim Jim left?" I toss him what's left of the candy. Damn him, challenging me to do what he couldn't. Cocky bastard. He gives me one of his "you'll never do it" looks and shakes his head. "Yeah, well," I flash him the fire in my eyes, "you'd just better be prepared to reward me when I get back!" "You can count on it, Mister," he winks. I begin my descent into the valley. Sometimes he really pisses me off. I suppose to him I look like a little boy, my hands in my jean pockets, my feet recklessly kicking rocks from the dusty trail. I'm almost galloping down the slope now, mostly to get away from his challenge. I look over my shoulder to see Jack, his red and charcoal checkered flannel illuminated by the sun. He waves, motions me on to the gray mass that awaits. I stop at the stream’s edge, sit for a few minutes, studying the valley. It's as quiet as predawn, except for the mousy trickle of water. There's not a cloud's reflection in the brook. Even the deer are oblivious to my presence. A doe nudges her two fawns that are more interested in chasing moths around them than nibbling the yellowing remnants of grass. This is what Jack saw while I slept, I imagine. I don't want to climb the cliff. Physically I can't. Not that I'm in poor shape, I just don't have the upper body strength. What makes him think I'm going to go through with this? "I'm waiting," Jack's voice tumbles like a boulder down the ridge. I don't have to look at him to know his foot's tapping anxiously and his arms are crossed, right over left. I approach the monolith and touch its surface. The slate's frozen against my fingers. Dead. There's a rift, oozing spongy moss, a natural trail leading to the cliff's midsection. It's the only path to the cliff, presumably the same path Jack took. But once it ends there's no concrete direction. It's basically a guessing game, a chess match--my feet against the wall. "Show him, Benj, show him you can do this. Do what Jack couldn't," I coax myself. I place my hands in a pair of crevices and hoist myself up, straddling a rift with my legs. Spying another crack, I hug the slate, then pull my body closer. The cold numbs my fingers and I feel my muscles tighten. This reminds me of doing pull-ups, or, more accurately, trying to do pull-ups, in seventh grade gym class. I was lucky to do five, and embarrassed that the other boys could do more. Perhaps that's what's kept me from doing these physical things for years. I couldn't fail in front of Jack. And the truth is, he wouldn't have cared one way or the other. But I would. What a double-edged sword I've impaled myself with. Damn myself for not wanting to fail in front of him, then damn myself for not being here to save him. I swing my leg and gain my balance, then push with my feet, raising my body, my hands clutching a cedar limb. Keep pushing, I remind myself. One after the other, my fingers, my hands, legs, and feet are like the appendages of a spider, suctioned to the cliff. I’m robotic in my movements, just instinct guiding my body. This is easier than I imagined. I'm rising faster, the wind whipping my jacket strings, cutting across my face. I climb, grasping another crevice. Suddenly, I hear the sharp pop of loose slate as the crevice gives way, crashing into rubble below. My hand tears, peppered with gravel as my body bounces like a rag doll down a rock stairway. I land abruptly, lodged in a saddle. There is no sound except for my short, hurried gasps. I lay still. My body burns as blood spots through my shirt. I lift it slowly, revealing a purple scrape across my chest etched with a myriad of razor thin cuts. Shit. I'll never get down now. "Jack!" I scream. Nothing. Only the rock howling at me. I can't see him on the ridge. "Jack. God damn it, get me down from here!" Tears pinprick my flushed cheeks. "Fuck you, Jack! Fuck you for bringing me here!" I take a slow breath, then another. Crisp air cleans my lungs. I lean back, eyes transfixed on the ice blue sky. I feel my face, then touch my shoulders. "Climb the cliff, Benj," I whisper, stumbling to my feet. I stare at the summit and take another deep breath, wiping the water from my eyes. I grasp a branch, pull myself up slowly. I feel nothing, though my body trembles violently. My blood paints a map for my feet. One after the other, upward. The summit grows closer. I can't see through the fog in my eyes, but my hands are being pulled, my feet finding toeholds. "Climb it, Benj, just a few more," I cry as my left hand clutches flat rock. "Push," I grunt, dragging my body onto the smooth surface. I roll onto my back, my breath rising to join an orphaned cloud. The wind settles into soft breeze, sifting through my graying hair. I sit, my eyes squeezed shut, cradling my knees. "Jack, I made it!" I beam, hopping to my feet. I feel his hand on my shoulder. "I knew you’d do it, Benj," he whispers to me. "For you," I whisper. "And me," I add. "I want you to see something." He grabs my hand, leading me to a twisted trunk among a clump of cedars. Beneath a sappy glaze, his pocketknife's carvings are preserved. With my fingers, he traces the engraved words: JACK LOVES BENJ. I stand on my tiptoes and kiss his forehead. "So, you did make it, Jack." "Yes," he gestures to my backpack, "now set me free." I unzip my pack and remove his silver urn. A puff of gray mushrooms as I lift its lid, sifting my fingers through the soft ash. I release a handful and gaze as the breeze grows into gusts, lifting Jack across the valley.