Page 4 of No Hope of Rescue

Up here, we can see as far as the “real” Echo Mountain, the ski resort, part of the Front Range, a hairline piece where Loveland Pass lies, and way out, Gray’s Peak.

Adjusting my gaze closer to the other side of the gorge, I spy something glittering through the trees. “Codie, what is that?”

“What?” She tries to seem disinterested.

“About two o’clock, maybe a hundred yards in from the cliff, on the other side.”

The binoculars move to two o’clock. She’s silent a moment, then hands them to me. Now she’s warming up and slightly breathless. “I think it’s a plane.”

I adjust the binoculars.

It takes a split second before the silvery curve of a fuselage catches my attention. I quickly scan the surrounding trees. Many branches have been snapped, plowed through and tops bent, but it’s hard to tell if . . . I fiddle with the binoculars again.

I can’t tell if this is old or new. If a plane’s just gone down, someone could be hurt. If old, debris may need to be brought in and identified.

“Codie, grab the radio.” There’s no cell service this high up, and the two-way radio is my only connection. The first place I call is the airport in Morrison.

No downed plane. They put me on hold for half a minute as they reach out to other airports.

Nothing.

Codie’s listening to the back-and-forth between me and air traffic control.

“They’d have to file a flight plan, right?” I ask. “Even a small plane?”

The voice, though filled with static, is clear enough to hear. “Affirmative.”

The radio off, Codie and I look at each other. “I know where I’m climbing,” she says.

I shake my head. “That’s not a good spot. There’s just the rope bridge. The covered bridge is further up.”

“So?” She’s back to pouting, though she’s not actually angry.

“And the river runs really close to the cliff.”

“Oh, am I too young to climb? Gives new meaning to Big Brother.”

I laugh. “You win. But we better get going.”

We climb back on and make our way down the north side of the mountain, find a place to park that’s not easily forgettable, leave the packs, grab our climbing gear, and make our way down the rest of the mountain to the rope bridge.

It turns out to be quite icy.

Even though it’s constructed out of nylon and impervious to weather, it’s still going to be slick. I clip her to the guide rope.

“I’m not five,” she says, making a face.

“Neither am I,” I say, snapping myself to it as well. I toss her another bone. She gets to lead.

I have to hand it to her—watching her negotiate the ice-encrusted rope bridge, with water and chunks of ice crashing five feet below us, is impressive. The bridge is a good thirty feet wide, and when we get to the other side, I tell her to towel off her face. Being wet out here can get you killed.

She climbed this last summer but had to descend. I spotted her twice after she was too tired to finish and caught her with the belay. Since then, she’s been training with Carter. He says she’s ready.

The river under our feet churns with chunks of ice, and the gorge is so swollen after yesterday’s partial thaw that we can’t hear each other. She steps carefully, testing the ropes and her clip, brushing ice off as we make progress. I should have gone first, I realize, to set both the pace and break the path for her.

But she’s doing it.

It’s beautiful here. So different from the Midwest, where I spent a few months in high school, and rawer than the Maine coast, where I spent summers as a kid. A dusting of snow releases from a huge Ponderosa pine, glittering in the slight breeze and against a brilliant blue sky.