Dink

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Dink

My job as a guide up these Rocky slopes is pretty typical employment for a man my age in this neck of the woods. In fact, because there are so many of us, it’s quite difficult to establish any kind of reputation. I like to be by myself a lot, so this job gives me the opportunity to wander around, essentially alone, in the most beautiful scenery in the world.

Since I was a kid I have enjoyed my own company better than that of other people. People are usually jerks—especially when they find out my name. It’s Dinkelspieler Platzoidle. I know all the jokes, so just don’t bother yourself. I go by Dink. Ol’ Dink to my friends. So, I got kinda tired of all the stupid jokes and started coming to the mountains for some peace and quiet. And the folks I take up the mountain like to stay on the good side of the guy who holds their life in his hands. They just call me Dink.

Most of the climbers are beginners and they come by themselves to experience the mountain. I like to take them up a dried up old waterfall where nobody else goes that I call the "Spout." I teach them about the tools and the methods and then up we go right to the top, if they can.

First we have to hike uphill for about three hours to get to the Spout, and these guys are usually pretty tired when they get to it. I let them rest for a little while, and then up we go. It’s a pretty rough climb if you don’t know what you’re doing, and there have been some accidents. But I never tell people about that.

So this guy, Mr. Macho, maintained a pretty good speed up the hill and stood looking at the Spout like he thought it might be fun he could handle. I don’t know if he’d been training, or if he was just trying to out macho Ol’ Dink, but we stood together feeling that competition two men of equal size and weight feel when confronted with an opportunity to do battle. But I had the upper hand—I’m the one who knows how to climb.

I showed him how to use the guide ropes and told him to do everything when I told him to. I asked him if he wanted the safety ropes that only wimps usually want, and he said he could handle it without. No real surprise.

We set off quite slowly, Ol’ Dink in the lead, and this guy fast on my heels. Okay, I thought, I’ll pick up the pace until I hear him wheezing along, and then I’ll ask him if he needs me to slow down. But he came along just fine, so I just began climbing at my own pace. I do this rock all the time, so I guess that’s a pretty fast clip.

About three hundred feet up there is a large out-cropping, and I like to scale the thing a different way each time I climb the Spout. This guy seemed so cocky, so sure of himself, I thought I’d take him down a peg or two. I planned to take the toughest possible way and see if he could handle it. I told him to wait until I got to the top and to watch what I did closely because I wouldn’t be able to guide him much from the ledge above.

So I reached backward into the sky and put my fingers in the first fingerhold. I pulled myself away from the face of the cliff, and, finger by finger, toe by toe, I crept outward like some sort of spider, hanging upside down by my smallest weakest parts, out over three hundred feet of nothing. There is a guide rope, but that’s for sissies. I inched myself along until finally, after half an hour, I reached the vertical edge and brought myself upright. Here the footholds are larger and I could rest my quaking muscles without the pull of gravity working against them. The ledge above was deep enough for me to heave myself onto and hang my head back down to call out directions to this guy. When I was ready, that’s what I did.

Well, he couldn’t remember everything I did, and I guess humming my favorite nursery rhyme kind of upset him, so I wasn’t all that surprised when he fell. At least he didn’t scream. I hate it when they scream. It kind of echoes in my head so I can’t hear the thud they make when they hit bottom.

After I finished with the authorities, I headed back out to the lodge. That’s where I get most of my clients, hanging out in the bar. The first taker was a lady who looked like the outdoors type. You know the type; tan, no body fat but plenty of muscle, and a long blond braid swishing along behind her when she walked. So we scheduled to set off the next day.

We met and started the hike after the usual speech about method and safety and doing what I said, and got up to the Spout in good time. I let her rest and then up we went. She’d slowed considerably, so I started to sing just to keep my pace slow enough.

I’ve got this favorite old nursery rhyme my mom used to sing. It’s also the only song I know all the words to. You know it too, I’ll bet. It goes:

The inky Dinky spider went up the water Spout.

Then they were mean and wished the spider out.

But the spider was clever and sent them down like rain.

And the inky Dinky spider went up the Spout again.

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