The Gorge
We aren’t supposed to be here. Drugs. Drownings. Injuries. Arrests. Not only had our parents forbidden it, but the area was regularly policed. Every hundred feet or so, signs warn us that we are trespassing, that we are in a dangerous area, that we are putting our lives at risk. I am uneasy, certain we are going to get caught.
My older sister has let me tag along with her and her high school friends. I would be a freshman this fall and was desperate to hang out with the cool crowd. We meet her friends by the bridge, and I see a classmate of my own is with them. We walk up the dead-end road, then turn down a path heading toward the dam. I had never approached the gorge from this side, having always gone from the trail on the opposite bank of the creek.
The summer sun beats down on our shoulders as we follow the wooded trail. It is relatively easy until we have to get into the gorge itself. This requires scrambling down steep hills and rock faces, sometimes scooting on our backsides. We only pass a few other people, but when we arrive at the falls, there are many others enjoying the warm day. We are at the lower falls, home of the infamous “running 60”. The ledge above the falls is flat and leads to a nearly vertical waterfall with a deep pool below. Jumpers need to gain enough running speed to clear the jutting ledge on their way down the 60-foot drop. We ditch our towels and strip down to our suits. I watch as the boys climb up to the top. One by one, they sprint to the edge and launch themselves off, plummeting into the pool below.
I’ve never enjoyed heights. Or jumping. Or breaking rules, though, of the three, the last is what I do most. I spread my towel out and assume what I hope is a flattering pose in my skimpy suit. The boys are egging us on to jump. To my relief, my sister opts to jump off of a 12-foot cliff rather than hucking herself off the big one. My mind is teeming with everything that can go wrong. We could get caught. We could get hurt. Someone we are with could get hurt and lead to us getting caught. The power company could open the dam and we will get washed away down the creek. My ears strain for the sound of the whistle that gives but a few minutes warning that the creek will go from a trickle to a raging river of rapids, rocks, and currents.
My father has been involved in more than one rescue after a sunbather did not heed the whistle. One picture made it in the paper, my father, waste deep in the water, a woman desperately clinging to his arm as the river raged around them. It’s all I can think about now, as with each passing minute I become more convinced that we will be injured, or worse, caught. Each time one of our party clears the cliff I breathe a sigh of relief; and each time one of them climbs up again, I tense with trepidation.
I scan the other people at the falls. Do any of them know my parents? Will they report back to them? Everyone takes a break. We smoke cigarettes and bust balls. The boys are razzing me for hiking all the way out there and not swimming. I reluctantly get to my feet and walk to the edge of a small cliff. It’s only six or eight feet up, but I still fear that I’ll be the idiot to crack my head open. My body pulses with nicotine as I stare over the edge, noting all of the places I could hit on the way down. I simultaneously chide myself for being a wimp as I am surrounded by those who just leapt from ten times the height and went back for more.
I jump. The freezing water assaults me. I pop to the surface, gasping with cold, adrenaline, and relief. I’ve saved face and I’m still alive. Win-win.
Another hour passes much like the first. I even jump a few more times from my mini cliff. Then we collect our things and return the way we came. My tension eases as we walk. The most dangerous part is behind us. There haven’t been any patrols today. The whistle hasn’t blown.
We reach a 12-foot vertical shale ledge. The boys and my sister scale upwards and continue down the path. Full of relief that the adventure is nearly done, I scramble up. And that’s when it happens. Disaster. I lose my footing, yelping as I begin to fall. It’s the end. I’m going to be smashed on the uneven rocks below. We will be caught. They will need a stretcher to carry me out of here. My parents will never let me out of the house again.
And then, like in the movies, my decline roughly halts, a hand appears from nowhere and grips my wrist. My body slams into the ledge and my legs dangle loosely. My classmate, whom I had been coolly ignoring for most of the afternoon, has caught me. I have lost a shoe. I search unsuccessfully for a foothold. I look into my classmate’s eyes and wonder: is this it? Am I a goner? If he lets go, what will happen? My wrist burns from his tight grip, the skin pinching uncomfortably between his fingers. His lips are pressed together with the effort of holding on to me.
The others have already gone on ahead. The seconds tick by. An eon passing as we cling to our tenuous hold.
My classmate says, “A little help here?”
I sigh in exasperation. There is nothing more I can do to help. I grasp his arm in a death grip. My fingers on my free hand claw into the shale. My feet swing beneath me. A sarcastic reply is on the tip of my tongue when a voice exclaims from below.
“Oh! Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”
Two hands firmly clasp my feet and push me upward. One of my sister’s friends had lagged behind us and was now here and able to reach me from below. His boost is just enough to get me to a foothold, and with my classmate’s help from above, I soon find myself yanked over the top of the ledge. We are both panting with exertion. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head at me. I smile with relief and gratitude. Moments later, our group is fully reunited, and we find ourselves back at the bridge. We say our goodbyes, part ways, and my sister and I walk home.
“Want to go back tomorrow?” she asks.
“Absolutely not,” I reply, my response blatantly lacking conviction.
We smile.