1995
"Let's go climb the Kate Shelley Bridge. We'll rappel off it before sunrise."
Steve tossed his keys on the counter, and the night was already over — or should have been. We'd just come back from a party. Nothing special. Restless, wired, not ready to sleep.
He'd taught me to rappel six months earlier. His father had climbed the same bridge with two-year-old Steve strapped to his back. Steve was studying veterinary medicine now, like his dad had. None of that was why he wanted to go. He wanted to go because it was high, remote, and still active.
We skipped more drinking and started prepping gear instead. By 4:30 a.m., we were on the road for the half-hour drive to the bridge. We parked as close as we could and set out across a dewy field under a thin layer of mist.
About a quarter-mile in, we reached a wire fence. I reached out to lift it — and instantly every muscle in my body locked. The jolt from the electric fence hit through my glove, snapping me awake faster than any coffee could. I froze, half-expecting another shock, then laughed in disbelief.
Not eager to test my luck again — or relive the "stake incident" from six months before — we followed the fence line until we found an opening and crossed through.
The bridge loomed ahead, rising nearly 190 feet above the river valley. Up close, its lattice of iron supports crisscrossed — diagonal beams intersecting in tight Xs, stacked layer upon layer until they disappeared into the fog above.
Steve didn't hesitate. "Let's go," he said, knowing daylight would ruin our cover. He started climbing, and I followed.
This became a chapter in Born Without Brakes — release date to be announced.
About the book →