“Tension,” I shout to my brother Tom as he works the belay rope forty-five feet below.
His movements vibrate through the nylon rope which tightens around my waist and upper thighs. Tom literally holds my life in his hands. His hands slip; I plunge from the rockface.
Despite the clear sky and bright morning light, I see shadows of trees, and the granite horn I cling to is a muted gray, camouflaging vertical handholds. I use a shoulder to rub stinging sweat and dust from my eyes, then strain them to sharpen my blurred vision. Stress triggers the worst flashbacks of the accident that took my sight, though the memories are reels on continuous play in my mind.Continue Reading This Story