THE VERDICT -- Robert Gardner

I am an omnivorous reader. That means that I am not very selective in

my reading habits. I hate Shakespeare, love Hemingway. But mostly, I will

read almost anything on any subject if either the subject or the writing

style attracts me. My father worked on railroads, and so it was that I

was reading a book titled “Nothing Like It in the World,” the story of

the building of the transcontinental railroads.

I had reached a section of photographs and was idly scanning them when

I came upon it -- a picture of a rock I once climbed. The caption says it

is known as Citadel Rock. I beg to differ. It’s true name is Castle Rock,

although it bears no possible resemblance to a castle. Actually, it looks

like it should be in Monument Valley with John Wayne and a bunch of

Indians circling around it.

Be that as it may, when I was 8, I chose to climb that rock, whatever

its name might be. It was a memorable experience.

I was living with my parents in Green River, Wyo., where my father

worked for the Union Pacific. Outside of town loomed Castle Rock. Unlike

today, there were no organized activities for kids. We ran around quite

independently, making up our own games and exploring the country around

us. As a result, when I decided to climb Castle Rock, it didn’t occur to

me to ask my mother if she thought I should. I just went off and did it.

Castle Rock has a sloping base and, at first, my climb was easy. Then,

as the slope steepened and the going became more difficult, I changed my

mind about the project. Too late. Going down seemed even more perilous,

and I realized one does not change one’s mind in rock climbing. And so I

kept climbing, higher and higher. It got scarier and scarier. But there

was no way to climb down, so I just kept climbing up.

Finally, I came to an overhang. No way over that unless I had vacuum

cups on both hands and feet. So I just hung there, wishing I was

somewhere else, anywhere. I felt very sorry for myself and blubbered a

bit, neither of which did do me a bit of good.

Then I heard the sound of voices. Men were on the top of the rock (as

I later learned, it was an easy climb to the top from the back, rather

than the front I tackled). Rescue was at hand. I could hear them

discussing how they were going to save me. One suggested they put a rope

down for me. Another thought it better to let a man down on the rope to

help me. Either was fine with me. Then I heard another voice, my

father’s. He said, “No, he got himself into this mess, let him get

himself out.”

I knew my father, and I knew that was the end of the rescue attempt.

Since it was obvious that I was going to get no help, I just climbed

sideways until I found a way to the top. When I finally got there, all my

father said was, “Let that be a lesson. It’s always easier going up than

down.”

That may seem a little harsh, but the message stuck. From that moment

on, I never climbed anything without figuring out in advance an easy way

to climb down.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge. His

column runs Tuesdays.