Brenden was in higher spirits than at any time since his accident. That chance meeting with Lindsey the other night had lifted a load from his shoulders. He knew—he clearly understood—that he had been infatuated with her but that they had not truly been in love, not in the way people needed to love in order to build a successful relationship. They had been—and he smiled thinking about it—in lust.
So what was he feeling about Kat Collins—this mountain girl who exuded so much goodness and enthusiasm? He thought that he was now ready to explore possibilities, and instinct told him that Kathleen Collins might be feeling the same way. They had talked about previous relationships—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and they had learned that their views were very similar when it came to what each wanted in a partner.
So how would he cross the line? That was the problem. And the nervousness in the pit of his stomach told him that he really wasn't as secure as he might have thought. What if she turns me down? What if she isn't really interested?
Automatically, he patted the big dog at his feet to gain confidence, and the animal, sensing his friend's nervousness, licked his hand as if to say, I got your back, Master. Don't worry about a thing.
That day the skiing was awesome. At about two o'clock, the snow started to fall. First in soft, lazy flakes that floated down from high, dreamlike clouds, and then as the storm dropped into the valley and the clouds settled over the Continental Divide, the intensity built as the wind rose and the flakes became smaller, thicker, and faster.
Kat and Brenden had just completed a rundown Mary Jane Trail on the back side of the mountain and arrived at the chair lift with the girl studying the sky.
"I think we'd better call it a day, Brenden," she said, above the wind. "This is getting pretty serious."
"Aw, come on, Kat. It's just a little snow, and anyway this is probably my last run for the year. You guys close up here next week. Let's just have one mote. There'll be nobody up there, and you'll be able to let me ski on my own."
"All right, Brenden," Kat said reluctantly. "Just one more."
"Last run," the chair lift operator told them as they got on. "We're closing the lifts after this. It's getting too tough up there, so make it quick, and get off the mountain."
By the time they arrived at the top, the conditions had worsened by at least 50 percent. Brenden registered the concern in Kat's voice.
"Listen," she said, "I can't really see where we're going. I mean, I can see the sides of the trail with the tree line, but bumps and terrain changes, I can't read them in this flat light."
Having been sighted, Brenden understood exactly what the girl meant, and yet the touch of danger excited him, challenged something inside him.
"We've skied this run a lot. It's an even fall line, and if you just keep me centered, I think I can actually help ski us down."
Kat's laugh held a hint of nervousness. "Oh, you mean the blind leading the blind?"
"That's about it," Brenden replied. "Let's go for it."
Brenden's senses were heightened as they began the descent. He read every nuance of the snow as his skis glided silently through the powder. Keeping his turns uniform, he kept them moving, ghostlike through the storm. Turn and release. Turn and release. Turn and release.
Over the next fifteen or twenty minutes, there wasn't much talk between the two young people, but in their working together, in their sharing, a real sense of partnership was expressed, and they both knew it.
Brenden felt the run leveling off at the same time Kat saw the outlines of the buildings below. The two skiers skidded to a stop.
"Yeah," she cried. "You did it, Brenden. You got us down."
Kat threw her arms around the tall young man. In a magical moment, without either of them expecting it, their lips touched. And somehow, even with their goggles and hats, gloves and heavy clothes, they both felt warmed, melting into the kiss.
After picking Nelson up at the kennel, they headed for a German restaurant called Eichler's to celebrate with an end-of- the-season dinner. Yeager schnitzel with spaetzle and a delicious apple cobbler gave them just the reason they needed for a long walk under the stars.
The storm lessened, and Brenden hated the thought that he would be staying in the youth hostel run by the Winter Park disabled program. So it came as a surprise to him, and to Nelson, when Kat kept walking and arrived at the mountain cabin she shared with two roommates, who were both away for the weekend.
"Hey, Kat," Brenden said, smiling in the dark. "I thought I was the blind man. Aren't you a little lost? This isn't where I'm staying."
"I know," she said, stopping under the stars and turning to face him. "This is where I live, and I'm not ready to have this evening end."
As if it were the most natural thing in the world, the two young people kissed, not with the erotic passion that Brenden had experienced with Lindsey, but with an intimacy and softness that spoke of something much deeper.
Kat pulled back, her breath coming in gasps. Taking Breden's arm and pointing it to the sky, she said, "I wish you could see them, Brenden. I wish you could see God's light show."
"You're the star, Kat," he said softly, drawing her close. "You're all the light I need."
They went inside, lit a fire, and sat, warmed by its glow and by each other.
Brenden knew that he wanted to marry Kat. He knew it at his very core, and yet the shadow of his blindness and what it meant seemed to sit between them in the firelight. Could he make a living? Could he take care of Kat and potentially a family? Would he be a burden, requiring her to do so much more than other wives, reducing him in her eyes as a husband, a lover, and a man?
She watched the expressions play over his face in the light. She knew how much she loved him and how much she wanted him to be hers forever. All evening she had sensed that this moment might be the right one. She felt instinctively that he wanted to ask her to marry him. And now, as she watched his face, she saw—what? Indecision? Conflict? Fear? That was it. It had to be fear—his fear—that being newly blind he would not be able to fulfill what she needed. And so she reached out and touched his face with her fingertips, tracing the worry lines she saw furrowing around his mouth.
"What's wrong?" she asked quietly. "What's going on inside that big brain?"
Brenden reached up, took her hand, and pressed it to his cheek. "Kat, I . . . I . . ."
"Brenden McCarthy"—she laughed quietly—"are you trying to ask me to marry you?"
His sigh was audible. "Yes. Yes, I am, but maybe ..."
She interrupted. "Maybe you won't be able to drive? No problem. Maybe I'll have to tell you what's going on in a movie when we snuggle in the dark? That sounds pretty great, doesn't it? And about your clothes, I'll have to keep them organized so you don't go out looking like Stevie Wonder. And then there will be our bills and the mail and the Sunday paper. I guess you'll just have to put up with me reading those things to you, which means we'll have to spend a lot of time together. Isn't that too bad?"
"Kat, I need to . . ."
"Brenden," she said, leaning forward and kissing him, "don't you know how much I love who you are? Who you are as a person? I love the way when you talk to me nothing else seems to exist in your world. You're always right there with me all the time. I love to look at your smile because it's so real. It comes from deep inside you. It's as if your soul is speaking to me. I love how you touch me in a way that's intimate and reserved only for us. I know you'll work hard and that together we'll have a great life because we fit and because God made us for each other."
Brenden was crying now. He couldn't help it. But he pulled it together and dropped onto his knees in front of the girl.
"Kathleen Collins," he said formally, "will you marry me?"
He was surprised, very surprised, when Kat rose and stepped around him, going to the corner of the room where Nelson lay quietly.
Dropping down to the rug and taking the dog's head in her hands, she said, "Your master is asking me to marry him and make us a family. I'm saying yes, yes, yes, if that's all right with you."
The dog stretched and looked up at the young woman as if he understood the importance of her words. Holding her eyes and reaching up, he licked her cheek and thumped his tail in a rhythmic response that said, "It's okay with me, Kat."
Brenden joined them on the floor, and the group hug said life is going to be okay. No, more than just okay, much, much more.
As Mora watched Brenden and Charlie shooting baskets in the backyard, she considered the way he had learned to cope with his blindness nothing short of a miracle. She credited most of that miracle to Nelson, the marvelous guide dog that right now worked to bite a hole in the basketball. Every time Brenden dribbled it, Nelson tried to grab it. And Gus tried to grab Nelson while Charlie kept calling fouls on everybody.
Mora loved the peals of laughter and the enthusiastic play barking of both dogs. She heard another sound that also warmed her heart: the girl in the room with her, humming as she set the table.
She really liked Katherine Collins, especially because the girl never in any way patronized her son's blindness. Actually Kat didn't cut Brenden any slack when it came to taking responsibility for the ordinary things of life. Though she was always there to help him, he cut his meat at the table, kept his clothes organized, cleaned his apartment, and held the door for Kat like any young gentleman should when they were on a date.
They set the Columbus Day weekend for their wedding, and Brenden had done the right thing, going back to Vermont and formally asking Katherine's father for her hand.
So here they all were, including Charlie, preparing a special dinner to acknowledge the anniversary of Brenden's accident. That was the only word Mora could think of—acknowledge. It wasn't to honor it or celebrate it, or even to remember it with sadness. It was simply to acknowledge the fact that on June twenty-first a year ago, a major event occurred that changed everyone's life, most of all Brenden's.
The ball stopped bouncing, and Charlie fired up the grill. Moments later steaks were sizzling, soon to join a feast of baked potatoes with all the fixings, a Caesar salad, and an apple pie. All Brenden's favorites, along with an expensive cabernet that Mora selected as appropriate for the occasion.
"So what should we toast to?" Kat asked, raising her glass.
"I suppose you want me to say 'to us.'" Brenden laughed. "And that is important, the most important thing. But I think tonight it's important to toast to life and how precious it truly is."
There was a pause of a heartbeat before the people at the table clinked their glasses, as if they all were taking in the message and feeling it deep within their hearts.
"Slainte," Charlie said. "Isn't that the Irish toast your dad used to say?"
"Slainte" Mora intoned, and the glasses clinked again.
After the dinner dishes were cleared away, they all settled down around the fire. Nelson and Gus, who had finally played themselves out, sprawled on the cool cement of the patio, not at all interested in what was going on with the humans.
For the first time Charlie broached the subject of Brenden's last climb.
"Do you miss it?" he asked. "I mean, climbing?"
Brenden took the last sip of his wine and placed the glass on the table thoughtfully.
"Sure I do, Charlie, and when you talk about climbing, I think about how much it always meant to me. But not being able to see, well, you lose an awful lot."
Mora was surprised when Kat jumped in.
"Brenden," she said, taking his hand, "when we ski, I can't get over how much you get out of sharing the sport. You use all of your other senses. I mean, you've taught me so much about how to feel and listen, smell, and even taste. You're the guy who broke down the wine tonight, talking about its bouquet and all of its nuances. I certainly hadn't thought about any of that very much. Isn't it possible that the mountains could offer you new sensory levels that you hadn't considered before? It seems to me everything else in life does."
Brenden thought about it. "So what you're telling me is that I should get right back up on the horse and ride?"
"I think that's what she means, pal," Charlie said, "and I'd be happy to climb with you. I'm sure we could figure out how to do it."
"Well, that's just the point, Charlie. If I were ever going to climb again, I'd still want to feel that I was sort of doing it on my own."
As if on cue, Nelson stood and shook himself. Brenden called him.
"Come here, Nelson. Come here, boy."
The big dog immediately came to his master, dropping his head on the man's knee.
"Are you telling me you'd like to climb a mountain, Nelson?" Brenden asked. "Because if I'm going to do it, I'd like to share it with you."
"How would that work?" Charlie asked.
"Oh, we'd climb together, Charlie," Brenden said. "I'm not about to go up there alone, but maybe I could build some kind of special harness that would allow me to follow Nelson from directly behind. That way when the track gets narrow or we need to step up over rocks, I could read him. I'll talk to Smitty about it."
The trainer was intrigued when Brenden called.
"Hm," he said. "Well, I don't know much about climbing mountains, but if you want to work from directly behind Nelson and get the most possible flexibility, it seems to me that you'd want a two-handled harness. This would give you the ability to gain your balance from exactly the way the dog moved. It would also allow you to be even more sensitive to the angles when you step up or down. The harness would have to be quite a bit longer, so that when you go downhill you can still stand somewhat straight up. I mean, you wouldn't want to be reaching all the way down to Nelson's back, causing you to tip forward. Am I right?"
"I think you got it, Smitty," Brenden said. "I think that's exactly what I need."
"Let me work on it," the trainer said. "Let's see what the boys in the shop can come up with."
Two weeks later, the device arrived. Smitty made it about three times the length of a standard harness with three separate two-grip handles spread out along the shaft. This way Brenden could be as close or as far from the animal as needed, depending on the pitch and the angle of the mountain he climbed. Also, Smitty attached clip links to the harness that would allow Brenden, if necessary, to tie equipment or climbing ropes to the big dog just in case they came to a place where the man had to feel his way up a rock face and then help the animal clamber up.
"Wow," Charlie said, studying the apparatus. "This guy really thought it through when he figured out that both of you might need to help each other. Now look, Brenden, if we're really going to do this, I'm going to be right there with you."
"I know, Charlie," Brenden said, "but it's really important to me that Nelson and I handle this ourselves. I won't be stupid. If we encounter a problem we can't solve, I'll ask you for help. And I'll certainly be asking for directions. This whole thing is about interdependence, like Smitty always said. We need to be able to rely on each other. Actually, I think that's the way all of life's supposed to work."
Charlie shrugged. "Okay, pal, but you know I'm right there for you."
Brenden clapped his friend on the shoulder. "And we're right there for you too, Charlie."
They both laughed.
They decided that their first climb would be up Grays and Torreys, two fourteeners. They knew these were easy climbs, really just walks in the park for physically fit young climbers. But as Brenden found out quickly, the problem with teaching Nelson to guide over this kind of rough terrain was that the dog's instinct was not to go for it. To him, the loose rocks and angled steps were too dangerous for his master.
And so the day began with a problem. Nelson would not allow Brenden to make progress up the mountain, and no matter how much the man asked the dog to go forward, his friend said absolutely not.
"How do we get him going?" Charlie asked.
"Well," Brenden said, thinking about it, "the issue is you don't want to confuse his instinct to take care of me, get him pulling too hard and taking chances. But we have to encourage him that I want to do this. So here's what we'll try. At least for a while, Charlie, I'll follow you, holding on to your climbing rope, and I'll let Nelson be independent. Let's see what that does."
After about fifteen minutes of climbing, with the dog moving on his own, the men once again put the harness back on and encouraged the guide dog to follow Charlie. Though he was still careful, this time he got it, and Brenden was overjoyed as they snaked their way up toward the summit, never missing a step.
Charlie found it uncanny that the dog could pick out loose rock even better than the humans. The animal seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to placing his feet just so, and when Brenden followed him carefully, the blind man actually climbed over loose stone better than Charlie.
Arriving at the top, Brenden took it all in, and Charlie wished Kat were there to see his smile.
"Wow," he said to his friend. "Charlie, this is awesome. Can you hear the trout stream down below?"
Charlie listened. "Now I can"—he laughed—"because you pointed it out."
"And how about the smell of the pines? The wind is just right, and even though we're above timberline; can you smell them? And the air up here." Brenden took a deep breath. "It tastes so fresh and light. You know what, Charlie? Even the rock we're sitting on feels good, old and warm and good."
The young men were quiet, thinking their own thoughts but bonded—as they had been since boyhood—in the shared experience of the outdoors. Only the sound of the big dog's panting broke the silence, but he, too, seemed at one, relishing the beauty of this exquisite environment.
Brenden was surprised to find the climb down much harder. Even though Smitty's harness worked correctly, he often was forced to reach down when Nelson stepped off an outcropping, and there was something frightening about groping in space for the next footfall. Climbing up, he decided, had been much easier because everything was in front of you. Going down, the trust factor between man and animal had to be even greater.
And often Brenden felt, as he searched for a footfall hold, that he was placing the dog under great stress, torquing the harness as he tried to find the appropriate purchase for his feet.
"What do you think, Charlie?" he asked on one of their breaks. "Do you think all of this works? Am I putting too much pressure on Nelson?"
"It's amazing to watch him, Brenden. When he knows that you're not sure of your balance point, he drops down, almost onto his haunches, and spreads his paws out so he's as solid as the rocks up here. Talk about adapting, Nelson really has it together."
"Thanks, Charlie," Brenden said. "I just wanted to make sure."
By the time they reached the bottom, Brenden's confidence was as high as the fourteener they had just summited. He believed he could return to the Maroon Bells. He believed he could make the climb on North Maroon that had cost him his eyesight, and he believed he could do it sharing with his two friends—the man he had known since childhood and the dog who had given him back his life.
Brenden couldn't sleep. He and Charlie drove to the Crater Lake campground to get an early start on the North Maroon climb. The blind man accepted the idea that as he worked his way up with Nelson, the overall climb would take considerably longer than when he had sight. In fact, they doubled the time allotted to complete the ascent and descent of the mountain. They figured if they left at first light, around 5:30 a.m., and assuming a ten-hour climb with an hour of rest, they could get down by four or five in the afternoon, barring any complications.
It was mid-September, so they were still operating under daylight savings time, with sunset not occurring until around seven fifteen, plenty of margin.
They also decided to carry sleeping bags, an additional layer of warm clothing, and food rations just in case they were forced to spend the night on the mountain. As experienced climbers, neither of them took anything for granted when dealing with the capricious nature of the sport.
So why was Brenden feeling so much anxiety? Why was he lying awake in the dark? The big dog lying at his side was probably wondering the same thing because he, too, was awake, as always, supporting his master at all times and through any changes in the man's emotions.
As Charlie snored on, oblivious to his friend's tossing and turning, Brenden tried to figure out what was causing his anxiety. Was it fear of failure? He didn't think so. Was it the memories of his accident? Not really, he thought. It all happened so fast. The painful memories were only about his post-accident trauma, not the fall itself. So why was his stomach churning, and why was he awake? He remembered his football days and how he felt the night before a big game. Was this the same thing? Not really.
His coach once told him that there were two kinds of nervousness that people could experience when preparing to take on a major life moment. You felt instructive nerves when you were very secure in what you were going to do. In these cases your nerves weren't concerned with the consequence of your effort or the possibility of failing. They were only about playing the game to the best of your ability. Brenden remembered that at those moments his emotion was always to "bring it on, let's get started" because he was secure in his ability to quarterback the team.
He knew that people felt destructive nerves when they weren't sure of their talent, or when the fear of failure became more central than the belief in achieving the goal.
As he tossed and turned, Brenden decided that the best way to deal with his concerns was to commit to the certainty that he and Nelson were a team, and that the team was unbeatable.
Finally he fell asleep. But when five o'clock came around and Charlie touched his shoulder, he found himself immediately alert with so much adrenaline pumping through his system that he wasn't tired at all. With the temperature hovering around the freezing point, all three of the climbers were eager to get started.
This climb was quite different for Nelson because of the nature of the rock steps that wound their way to the top of the mountain. The animal quickly learned to stop when the step was high, allowing the man to touch it with his hands, drop the harness, and step up. The dog would then get a sort of running start and leap up onto solid ground. Or, on a couple of occasions when the dog and the man assessed that the leap was a little too high, Brenden would give the animal a boost from behind until he gained his balance on the top of a ledge.
This was not to say that the man helped the dog more than the animal helped him, but as Charlie watched, he was fascinated at the ease with which the two supported each other. In the eight months the man and dog had been together, it was obvious to Charlie that their bond was completely based on trust, and it was that trust that made their work such a process of sharing.
Arriving at Crater Lake, the men stopped for an energy bar and some Gatorade with both of them truly appreciating the beauty of the place.
Here they were at 9,600 feet, overlooking a deep mountain lake as clear as could be found anywhere in the world. The water was pure enough to drink, and it reminded Brenden of how fresh water really could taste as he took in large gulps. Nelson joined him in the refreshing drink, lapping until he was satisfied.
After absorbing the water, a shiver ran down Brenden's spine.
"Hey, Charlie," he asked, "do you think the temperature is still dropping? I mean, where's the sun?"
"I know, Brenden," Charlie said. "I've been watching the sky, and frankly, I don't like what I'm seeing."
"What do you mean?"
"Some pretty heavy clouds are beginning to drop over the Divide. We could get some big-time snow, pal. Did you listen to the weather last night before we came up here?"
"I didn't. I probably should have, but I was so excited I just didn't think of it."
"Well," Charlie said, taking a deep breath, "let's get going. Assuming we've got another two hours to climb, we should be able to summit before it gets too bad."
"Okay, Nelson," Brenden said, picking up the dog's harness, "let's boogie on up, boy."
The three of them began to work their way up the steep Minnehaha Trail, and here Brenden was able to outclimb Charlie because the big dog on four feet could actually almost pull him along. Brenden laughed to himself as Charlie struggled to keep up.
Reaching the last of the campgrounds at Buckskin Pass, Brenden felt the first snowflake on his nose as he pulled his stocking cap down over his ears. Now the wind had come up.
"Sirocco," Charlie said, above the howl. "The Canadian Express. We're in for it now."
Brenden considered but didn't ask the question. Should we turn around and go down? He was surprised at his own reaction, as a fierce need to accomplish the mission burst out from inside him.
Patting Nelson, he said, "One more push, Charlie. One more big effort and we'll be there—you and me and the four-legged guy."
Charlie registered the passion in his friend's voice and nodded, forgetting for a minute that the climber standing with him against the wind couldn't see.
After fording a creek, they began working their way up the face of the ancient glacier, trying to hurry but also being very aware of loose rock. Here Nelson shone, faultless in his step and constantly in balance as he danced his master toward the summit.
Now they were on the last couloir, a nearly vertical face that forced them to wedge themselves against the smooth wall, looking for hand and foot holds as they spidered their way to the top. Here the dog really struggled, so Charlie and Brenden took turns supporting the animal with climbing ropes, having him follow them to the top rather than lead. The dog is so adaptable, Brenden thought. He just gets it; he's a real member of the team.
They were just feet from the summit, with the snow falling at a rate of at least two inches an hour and the wind whipping it in sheets that stung any open area of the body it could reach.
Charlie's yell, "Summit!" was barely audible over the howl of the wind, but right on cue Nelson barked as if he, too, sensed the achievement.
Though it was a special morning for Brenden, they only stopped long enough to sign the mountain ledger, eat another power bar, and take in some water.
"It's bad," Charlie said, cupping his hands against the wind, next to his friend's ear. "It's really bad, Brenden. Honestly, I'm having trouble seeing."
For the second time in Brenden's recent history, a person he loved was blinded by snow, only now he wasn't sure how he could help.
"Listen, Charlie," he said, "do you think we should hunker down in a couloir and just stay here?"
"I don't think so," Charlie replied. "Looking at the sky, I'd say this could be a two-day deal. The clouds are as low as I've ever seen them and getting worse. We have to get down."
With four or five inches of snow on the ground already, it was not only slippery, but it also became very difficult for Brenden to feel where to place his feet. Now he was really dependent on Nelson, even sitting down occasionally to slide down rocks.
Bad had been an understatement. This storm was worse than bad, and both young men, along with a focused black Lab, knew it. There were moments when Brenden could feel the animal turn his head, looking up at his master as if he were trying to will the man to place his feet just right on the snow-covered rocky surface.
For the first time in his climbing life, Charlie Evans was afraid, and not just for Brenden and Nelson. Charlie was afraid for himself. As his field of vision grew less and less, he struggled to decide whether or not they should keep going. He knew from his experience on the rescue team that calling the emergency 911 signal on his cell phone would send out a beep that could be tracked. But in this storm it would be many hours before even a fast team could reach them, and that was only if the tracking system was truly accurate. So he determined that they had to push on.
The wind gusted well over sixty miles an hour, and it was becoming almost impossible to stand upright. Charlie wondered how Nelson followed him so closely. It had to be by smell. He couldn't possibly see much in this storm, and yet the dog seemed to be performing far better than the men.
Charlie worked hard to remember the route they had climbed. Though he had been on this mountain many times before, he had never faced it in conditions that not only blurred his sight but played tricks on his brain. The raging storm made it seem that up wasn't necessarily up, and down wasn't necessarily down. The driving snow confused all angles. Where was he exactly? Looking over his shoulder, he saw the silhouette of Brenden and Nelson just above him. Waving to the dog and clapping his hands, he moved forward.
Brenden felt the dog come to a stop and encouraged him above the storm. "It's all right, Nelson. It's all right, boy. Let's go, boy, come on."
The animal didn't move, and Brenden didn't question him. "It's all right, Nelson. Which way should we go, boy? You tell me."
The big dog still stayed where he was, and in seconds Brenden understood why. The scream pierced above the wind as Charlie fell.
"Charlie!" Brenden cried. "Charlie! Oh no. No, no ..." Brenden said to the dog, "Where's Charlie, Nelson?"
Pain seared through Charlie Evans, but the reality that he was alive gave him hope. He came to rest deep in a crevasse, with his legs pinned under something. He tried to move and nearly passed out from the pain. Looking up he could just barely see the outline of Brenden's jacket and gauged the distance at about fifty or sixty feet.
"Brenden!" he screamed. "Stay where you are! Stay where you are!"
"Charlie! Charlie! Are you all right?"
"I don't know. I'm wedged under some rocks, and I'm finding it hard to breathe. I think some ribs are broken."
"Can I throw you a rope, drag you out?"
"I don't think so, man."
"What about coming down? Can Nelson and I get to you?"
Charlie studied the face of the rock above him.
"Maybe, but if you did, I don't think you could climb out. It's a sheer face, and I don't see any hand or foot holds." Charlie was wrenched by coughing. "Oh no," he said. "Something's really busted up inside, Brenden. I'm coughing up blood and stuff."
"Do you have your cell phone, Charlie?" Brenden yelled. "Can you dial in emergency?"
"I already checked, man. It's on, but I lost it in the fall. They'd have to dial us to get a signal."
Now the cough came again, and Brenden could hear the sound of gagging as blood clogged his friend's throat, choking him.
"It's got to be internal bleeding," Charlie said, his voice weakening. "I don't know, Brenden. I don't know if I can make it."
Brenden struggled to maintain emotional control. All the feelings relating to his own accident flooded his mind, as if he were watching it on a big screen, only this time in slow motion. He was instantly ravaged by guilt.
His friend Charlie was in danger, maybe dying, and it was his fault. It was his idea to come up here. His vanity. His need— to what? To overcome his blindness? To deny its power over him? He knew that it was up to him to save his friend. But how? How could he convince the dog to keep working his way down the mountain to find help? And how would he—a blind man—be able to return and find Charlie? Could he make the animal understand? Would God hear his prayer and give him the ability to communicate with the magnificent dog?
"Charlie," Brenden called through the storm. "Charlie, we'll get help. Just hang on, Charlie. Hang on."
Brenden knelt on the ground next to the animal, cradling the dog's head in his hands, trying to look into his friend's eyes, working to communicate.
"Listen, Nelson, we have to do this alone, boy. We have to get down. We have to go home."
The dog tilted his head up toward his master as if he were listening, trying to understand.
"We have to get help for Charlie, Nelson. You're going to have to do this, boy. You can do it, pal. I know you can."
Brenden wondered if the dog was reading his fear.
"Okay, Nelson, are you ready? Let's try it, boy. Let's go."
The dog took his position facing down the mountain. "Let's go, Nelson. Forward. I'll be back, Charlie!" Brenden called over his shoulder. "I'll be back!"
He heard his friend cough again and prayed he wouldn't be too late.
Mora and Kat sat in the living room of Mora's house sharing a glass of wine, but not sharing much conversation. Both of them looked at the storm outside, and each tried to keep the other from seeing the worry in her eyes. Though wind and sleet were pounding the windowpanes in Denver, they both understood that up there, up on the Bells, Brenden and Charlie would be experiencing whiteout blizzard conditions.
Mora had tried Charlie's cell phone five or six times over the last half hour and got no answer.
"He said he'd always have it on," Mora finally told Kat. "He said he'd call us when they summited and then again when they got down, and I haven't heard anything."
"Do you think it might be time to alert the rescue team?" Kat asked, her voice quavering.
"I don't know," Mora said. "They're both incredibly competent mountain men, and I don't want to be an alarmist, but I think we'd better have a conversation with Aspen Rescue."
"I'll call," Kathleen said. "I've met some of those guys through Charlie, and I can probably talk to someone I know. I'm not sure what they do in these conditions. I mean, climbing at night is dangerous enough, but climbing at night in a storm like this? I just don't know."
When the Aspen Rescue team leader learned that Charlie Evans was on the mountain and that he was up there with Brenden McCarthy, it didn't take long for him to pull members together. Most of them had been up there a year ago as part of the group who found Brenden. Now the blind man and his friend Charlie, someone they all respected, were out there somewhere in the storm.
The team assembled, and by nine o'clock, with Zeon lights and night glasses, climbers began to move up the slope.
Brenden was not only blind, but as the storm worsened, he was completely sensory deprived. Touch was no longer relevant. With snow covering the ground, footing was impossible to feel. He was surprised that the storm absorbed all sound. It reminded him of what it had been like when he was a boy, fishing with his father off the California coast when the fog rolled in. Now he was not only blind, the absorption of every audio cue made him deaf.
With taste and smell meaning nothing, he was—what was he? He was dependent on the black dog who moved through the darkness and the snow-covered ground with instincts cultivated long before recorded time, and love crafted in the day-to-day work of a man and his animal.
Brenden found that he was getting hoarse trying to scream encouragement to the dog above the wind.
"It's okay, Nelson," he said. "Good dog. I get it, pal. Forward. Good dog. Wait. Wait. Let me get my feet set, boy." Somehow Brenden was sure that the animal understood.
There were perilous moments when he slipped and fell, but the big dog dropped to the ground in front of him, breaking his master's slide. Sometimes Nelson would whine and come to a stop because the angles or step-downs were too high. Brenden would drop down and crawl to the edge, searching for a hand-or foothold under the snow.
In every effort, in every slip, in every movement, Brenden knew that the clock ticked on Charlie's life, and the guilt he felt about his friend's predicament became almost overwhelming.
Charlie Evans hovered between light and dark, consciousness and unconsciousness. The thin thread of his knowledge of the mountains became a mantra. Stay awake. Don't sleep. Stay awake. Don't lose it. Stay awake: live. Sleep: die. Charlie understood it completely, and with every ragged breath he focused his entire being on just trying to hang on to life. Sometimes his mantra turned into a prayer. God, help me to stay awake. Jesus, give me the strength to survive.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, he believed he needed a miracle, and he hoped against hope that Brenden and Nelson would be that miracle. From his position at the bottom of the crevasse, Charlie was somewhat protected from the gusting wind, and yet he registered that there seemed to be a slackening in its violence. Shading his eyes against the snow and looking up, he saw what appeared to him to be—yes—a sliver of light. The moon began to break through the clouds. Did that mean the storm was lessening?
"Please God," he prayed out loud, "let that be part of my miracle."
There were other people on the mountain just then feeling the same thing. The haste team noted the same sliver of moon that Charlie saw, and Brenden felt the snow slackening and the wind beginning to die. But where was he on the slope? He still could not feel up or down. He tried to count the cairn steps, but they were not clear in the snow. He forgot to check his watch, so time became irrelevant, except as it related to Charlie. The dog kept him safe and kept him moving. He wondered if rescue teams were also moving. He knew Charlie's cell phone could be tracked if it hadn't been destroyed in the fall, so maybe they were up here, and maybe he and Nelson could find them.
The big dog came to a stop. Brenden felt his body tense as if he were on point hunting a bird somewhere in a sunny meadow.
"What is it, Nelson?"
The dog was perfectly still, every fiber taut, alert, focused. And then Brenden heard it too—the sound of voices somewhere out there in the snow.
"Over here," he croaked, the sound little more than a whisper. "Over here," he tried again.
Thank God the dog had a voice, and his bark reverberated through the storm.
"Good boy, Nelson. Good boy," Brenden said to the animal. "Keep it up."
The dog did. In less than three minutes, Brenden was surrounded by the rescue party, and in the next few minutes, he described both what happened and approximately where Charlie was up on the glacier.
The team leader radioed Brenden's information about the glacier to support teams back in the valley. He wondered if a helicopter could get in there. He believed it was flat enough, and maybe they could pull it off.
"Listen, Brenden, can you be more specific?" he asked. "Do you know any more about where Charlie is?"
"I'm sorry," Brenden said. "I can't help you with any other information because ..." He spat the words into the air. "Because I'm blind."
Hearing the anger in his master's voice, Nelson leaned against the man's leg and looked up as if to say, What's the matter, Master? And Brenden got it.
"Listen," he said, suddenly excited by the thought, "I may not know exactly where Charlie is, but Nelson does. Take us up there in the helicopter. We'll find Charlie."
Thirty minutes later four men, along with the pilot, were crowded into the narrow space of the aircraft with a guide dog lying across their feet. With the combination of moon and Zeon light reflecting off the snow below, the helicopter descended slowly, hovered, and then skidded onto the snowy surface of the flat meadow just below the glacier.
"Okay," the pilot called, "everybody out. Good luck."
"All right," the team leader said to Brenden, "you indicated that Charlie was somewhere on the far right of the glacier. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Brenden said. "Have you been able to triangulate from his cell phone?"
"No. I'm sorry," the man told him. "It must have been broken in the fall, so it's up to you and your courageous friend here."
"Okay," Brenden said. "Okay." His voice didn't hide the tension he felt.
Dropping down to the snowy surface next to the big animal's ear, he began speaking softly, taking off his gloves and stroking the beautiful head at the same time. He remembered that every time Charlie pulled up to his house in his truck he told Nelson, "Charlie's here. Charlie's here." The big dog had learned what that meant. Charlie was the guy who always played ball with him. Charlie was someone Nelson had come to love, and Brenden used that memory to channel the animal's attention.
"Charlie's here, boy. Charlie's up here somewhere. Where's Charlie?"
The animal looked around.
"Atta-boy," Brenden said. "Where's Charlie? Find Charlie, boy."
Now Brenden pointed his hand up the mountain. "He's up there, boy. He's up there," he said enthusiastically, rising to his feet. "Charlie's up there. We've got to find Charlie. Let's go get him, boy. Let's go get him."
The dog began to animate. Did he know? Was he figuring out what his master wanted? Brenden wasn't sure, but he felt that maybe he was. And then the dog began to lean forward in the harness with anticipation.
"That's right, Nelson. That's right," Brenden said. "Are you ready, boy? Okay. Let's climb. Let's find Charlie."
The dog began to move across the meadow, up over the cairn, and onto the snow-packed glacier surface.
Brenden kept talking, kept encouraging, as the rescue team followed behind them. "Where's Charlie, boy? Where's Charlie? Find Charlie, Nelson. Where's Charlie?"
Brenden wondered how his animal conducted the search. Certainly there was no scent coming from Charlie. The snow covered everything, so there were no visual cues. Charlie wasn't calling out, so the animal certainly wasn't hearing the lost climber. So what drove Nelson across the glacier, angling from right to left, gaining the right side of the mountain? It had to be instinct, Brenden thought, an instinct born of the dog's unique need to please his master.
"Find Charlie," he told Nelson again. "Atta boy. Find him, boy."
The dog came to a stop, whining.
"Where's Charlie, Nelson?" Brenden asked.
The whining continued, and the animal sniffed the air. Had he picked up something? A scent? Maybe, Brenden thought, maybe.
"Listen," he said to the team, "call Charlie's name together."
"Charlie!" the climbers chanted. "Charlie!"
The sound prompted Nelson to bark, and the cacophony of noise cut through rocks and chasms.
"Charlie!"
No reply came, and Brenden understood why. His dear friend was too weak to respond—or worse.
The dog continued to sniff the air, and soon he began to quiver with excitement. Brenden decided to go for it all. Reaching down, he unfastened Nelson's harness and took off the leash.
"Find Charlie," he said. "Find Charlie. Go get him, boy, go get him. Follow the dog, guys. Follow him."
Nelson almost ran now, laterally across the snow. He came to a stop just feet away from the edge of the chasm where Charlie had fallen. The night-lights of the men took in the scene.
"We got him. We got him," they said over the radio to the helicopter.
Hours later Charlie lay in the same hospital that only a year ago had saved Brenden. They had operated on his leg, inserting pins to stabilize the broken tibia and fibula along with controlling the internal bleeding. His ribs were heavily taped, and he was substantially sedated. Then there was the question of hypothermia. Time would reveal the extent of the frostbite. But he knew that Brenden, Mora, Kathleen, and his father were standing around his bed.
"Am I alive?" he croaked, smiling through parched lips. "Or is this just a dream?"
"You're going to be okay, Charlie," his father said, blinking back his own tears. "You're going to be fine."
"We're all going to be all right, Dad," Charlie said, through the haze of the medication. "We're all going to be fine. The mountain's tough, but we're tougher." Reaching out, he touched Brenden's arm. "Give me five, pal."
Instead Brenden leaned forward and gently hugged his friend's shoulders.
"You've got it," he said quietly. "The mountain is tough, but we're tougher, and so is Nelson."
Brenden couldn't sleep. His mind still raced with thoughts of what he and the dog had just been through, not just on the mountain but also over the last year of change, growth, and love. He knew in his gut that Nelson had become an appendage of himself, as relevant to him as his arms and legs, senses and brain. The man and the dog were one, bonded in interdependence unlike anything he could have ever imagined.
So was he better off than he had been when he was sighted? No, he couldn't say that. Certainly he wished he could see Kat or look once more on his mother's lovely face. His love of the outdoors reminded him that he would never again look at the natural beauty of things in the same way or have quite the same freedom and independence he enjoyed before he went blind. But he had learned so much about life through the application of all of his senses and the ability to be empathetic when it came to the issues facing his fellow man. He knew without question that he had become a better person and that much of the change in who he was had been brought about by the example set by the big black dog.
Nelson was a part of him, but he believed he also had fulfilled the animal in a significant way. They were a team that would spend years together getting better at the work. He understood that much of what he learned from Nelson would carry over into his relationship with Kat. Simply put, he thought, Nelson has taught me how to love, and that love, that friendship, that perfect goodness expressed without hesitation or reservation in every experience will make me a better man, a better friend, a better husband, and someday—he smiled—a better father.
Winter had ended, and the big dog had shed his coat for a lighter summer one. Life was a wonderful experience for the magnificent animal. Working daily to take Brenden to classes or anywhere else the man needed to go, along with weekend hikes and climbs with Brenden and Kat. Then there was his relationship with Gus and any other friend of his master's who was willing to play ball.
As winter turned into summer, the three became four. A few grey hairs were beginning to appear around the black muzzle.
They called the boy-human Brian, and Nelson called him his. When he wasn't working, the big dog would lie wherever the baby was. Somehow, like dogs had done from the first when they became man's best friend, Nelson had adopted another person as his responsibility.
Just now, as Kat watched, little Brian was attempting to crawl toward something he probably shouldn't have been grabbing, and Nelson was right with him, eventually reaching down and gently pulling the baby back by the seat of his pants to where Kat had originally placed him. The girl laughed out loud, making the animal perk his ears.
"You're an amazing dog," she said to Nelson. "You take care of Brenden, you love me, and now you take care of Brian. Aren't we the luckiest people to have you?"
The dog agreed with a thump of his tail.
That night the bed was kind of crowded. Brian had a slight upset tummy, so Kat had brought him in to sleep with his mother and father. The view Nelson took of the whole situation was that if three of his family members were sleeping together, it made sense for him to join them.
Feeling the bed shake as Nelson came aboard, Brenden couldn't bring himself to tell him to get down, mostly because as the little boy worked to get comfortable between his parents, he kept looking at the big dog and making cooing noises.
Brenden turned out the light, comfortable in the darkness that had become so familiar. He lovingly took in the smells of his family—the baby's head, as clean as the child's innocence; Kat's essence—musty and magical—wife, lover, mother, friend, and all his—forever; Nelson, a little pungent from free time in the backyard. But it didn't matter. In fact, it was comforting, reminding him that Nelson represented his eyes on the world.
Getting drowsy, Brenden reflected on how things had changed. Oh sure, he thought, I'd love to see again, but I still have pictures in my head of so much—mountains and sunsets and... I wish I could see Kat and Brian—and Nelson too—but what I have now is a dimension I didn't even know was possible.
Am I sorry I'm blind? Oh, sometimes, but I am so blessed by this family and God's grace that I think my life's about as perfect as human beings are allowed to have. Challenge to opportunity, disadvantage to advantage, negatives to positives, growing all the time. Would that growth have happened if I had been sighted? Who would I be today, I wonder?
He was aware of Kat's even breathing and knew she had fallen asleep, as had little Brian.
How right Smitty had been way back then. Brenden smiled, thinking of their phone conversation earlier in the day. He still can't resist an "I told you so" every once in a while.
They remained fast friends through periodic phone calls, and Smitty had even come to visit them a couple of times. Of course, Brenden had no illusions—he knew who Smitty really came to see.
Nelson stretched, taking up a little more space on the bed.
"Hey, fur ball," Brenden said quietly. "Leave a little room for us, will ya?"
As if he understood, his best friend pulled his paws in closer to his body with a heavy sigh.
Sleep came to the whole family then—the deep, untroubled sleep of those bonded in contentment, faith, and the truest love.
To Julie Cremeans and the ladies of EDA: Words don't say enough, so thank you, thank you.
To Dr. Rob Hilsenroth: My friend, my confidant, my eyes on the mountain.
To my agent, Jan Miller: I'll keep writing. You keep selling. We're an unbeatable team.
To Dr. Thomas Larkin: Thanks for all the accurate medical information.
To my daughter, Blythe: You gave me maps, love, and support. What more could a father ask?