Four Friends

by Michele deBes

After sunset we gathered on the deck behind the caravan where a gas light stood on a table. Brett was the youngest of our group and also the team leader. His large blunt fingers layed out the climbing equipment in a logical sequence on the deck. His voice was soft with a broad country drawl that could still squeak with excitement.

Some one asked about the prusicking.

“Oh yes it will take a long time to get back up to the top.” Brett’s face broke into a wide excited grin. It always appeared when he was describing difficult manoeuvres or possible disasters.

His brown eyes curved up at the outer edges, giving his heart shaped face an elfin look, almost feminine with his smooth cheeks. A marked underbight jutted his pointy chin forward. It could underpin his big boyish grin, or let you know when his mind was made up in no uncertain terms.

Brett’s father, David, hovered behind his son. The family resemblance was obvious. Compact square bodies, big thighs under small shorts, muscular shoulders, the same kindly faces. David was more portly but it didn’t stop him sharing an adventure with his son. David moved back to the open fire and placed a few more logs on with the precision of the mechanic he was.

“If you start a job right ... it keeps working like a beauty” he said. He was always congratulating his skills but never in a raised voice for others to hear. It was his own, private, self worth talk that accompanied everything he did, and I found it comforting. This was a family that prided itself on its knowledge and skills.

Drew was the one among us who looked most like a climber. Of medium height and arrow thin, his baggy cargo pants and jacket hung off his frame in loose folds, hiding his strong, flexibly body. His muscles would tense to heavy duty wiring around his skeleton when climbing. He lounged in a chair, keen eyes watching Brett sorting the gear, narrow face beneath a tousle of brown curly hair.

“How do you tell whose is whose?” he asked. A small bump on the tip of his narrow nose, caused by frost bite in Canada, accentuated his foxy looks.

“Chook’s ropes have black paint on the end.” said Brett, holding up two prusick ropes. “And Taara and I mark our stuff with a black bar, hers has a dot at the end.” He held up two carabeenas and we all leaned forward to look at the black markings on the glinting metal.

David returned from the fire. “I had a lovely little pencil drill at home, just the right tool for the job, could write their names on them no problems ...” His hands held the imaginary tool as he demonstrated his precise touch. His cheeky smile took in the ring of faces as he teased his son.

Drew’s handsome smile widened and his wicked chuckle could just be heard above the crackle of the fire.

“No way, our lives depend on this equipment.” said Brett. There was laughter in his voice as he took the bate, but his jaw was firmly forward as he bent back to the gear. “Can’t damage the structural integrity of the metal.”

“I don’t see how it would.” said David, but he was smiling as he stood back. He was proud of his son and he conceded quickly to his greater knowledge, as long as he could get the last word in.

Ray appeared from behind the fire. “The wombats are getting cheeky, had one watch me take a leak.” he said and we all laughed.

“Gotta watch them, they can be dangerous.” said Drew.

“Stealthy critters too.” David chuckled.

Ray is Drew’s uncle but in the lamplight they could be brothers. They share the slim build, narrow faces and large blue eyes of their German ancestry. Age had turned Ray’s short hair silver, but it made his tanned face seem even younger. He looked the mountaineer in his hiking boots and two toned grey jacket. The laugher didn’t stop as Ray got into conversation mode. His song and dance routine, I call it, because he acts out all his stories with voices and gestures, his lopsided smile never leaving his face.

It was a meeting of two families of jokers and our laughter was fuelled by a tense excitement as we prepared for the next day.