Page 77 of In a Word, Yes

Already I’m gathering my car keys. “I’ll just buzz home and change. Dot, can you cover the front today?”

Besides, this is glamorous stuff, photographing a big-time author at one of the most famous, most breathtaking climbing spots in the world.

I mean, what’s the huge deal? We’re only talking about taking a few pictures.

Right?

Twenty-Eight

sublime(adj.): tending to inspire awe

“October’s about as good as it gets for climbing at Smith Rock,” Meg says forty-five minutes later, as she pulls her lifted Bronco into the parking lot of the state park known to climbing enthusiasts worldwide. Meg is always a pistol, but I’ve never seen her so hopped up. She’s prattled nonstop, leveraging every moment of the drive for a vigorous training session, readying Steph Stoneback for their adventure.

Probably for the best. It kept me from peppering Steph Stoneback with inept jibber-jabber. Going forward, I’ve set what I hope are realistic expectations. If in the presence of one of my all-time favorite authors I manage to behaveseminormal, I’ll count it a win.

The drive over also allowed me to familiarize myself with the contents of the company camera bag. The Canon is well-suited to action photography and is similar to the one I learned on in college. I’m probably overequipped with this beauty. I can’t imagine climbing photography requires the fast burst rate of, say, a hurdlescompetition or pretty much any of the annual rodeo events, but I’ve got the speed if it’s needed.

Two zoom lenses and a tripod round out my gear load.

“Long as the winds don’t kick up, we’ll be golden,” Meg says as the three of us funnel out of the Bronco.

Goldenis the perfect word for this. Morning sunlight bathes the panorama, where the Crooked River carves a trough through majestic rock formations. Towering pillars. Flat slabs. Craggy spires. All glowing in autumnal shades of red, gold, and amber.

By the time I’ve scrambled out of the back seat with all my gear, our illustrious guest is already poised by the split rail fence, taking in the view.

“Good golly,” Steph says. “This is ...wow. Justwow.”

There’s something about witnessing this mighty woman of the pen at a loss for words that adds to my own sense of awe.

For someone who spins suspenseful tales, Steph Stoneback is somehow quieter than I would’ve guessed. She moves unhurriedly. Makes amazing eye contact.

Of course she’s quiet, you goof. She’s a writer, nota TV personality.

Steph continues to stare ahead. “How high are those rocks?” she asks Meg, who’s busy inspecting all the doohickeys in her fanny pack.

“Some rise as much as six hundred feet from the river. Smith Rock is the birthplace of sport climbing in the US.”

I had no idea about any of this. I hope she puts it all in her article.

Meg snaps on her pack. “There are nearly two thousand routes here. All levels of difficulty.”

I know from listening in on her conversation with Meg that the author has been working out at a climbing gym to prepare for this. Steph is lean, average height, with hair the color of gun smoke corralled into a ponytail and blunt bangs. She looks to be in great shape for someone with such a sedentary career.

Meg barks out assignments. I’m already loaded down, so she tasks Steph with carrying rope and helmets.

I zip up my light jacket. The morning is clear and crisp, on its way to sixty degrees. But for now, our path descending sharply toward the river gorge is still steeped in shadow.

“Look at that,” Steph says, humor in her voice. A sparrow alights on the low fence. A second sparrow, ostensibly its mate, keeps dive-bombing a hawk circling overhead.

Chree! Chree!it cries, really giving that much bigger bird the what-for. Protecting a nest, I’d guess.

“There’s a title,” I say as Steph and I take off hiking side by side, following Meg’s lead. “The Sparrow and the Hawk.”

“Indeed! Standing up to the bully,” she says. “Something we all have to do from time to time.” Chuckling, she elbows me lightly. “Especially when that bully is me.”

A moment later, curiosity gets the better of me. “How so? The bully thing. I mean, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Oh, girl, I am my own worst critic. Mean as nails! I wouldn’t talk to my worst enemy the way I berate myself.”