DAY 72: CLIMBING DOWN OFF THE LADDER

NOVEMBER 3, 2022 – This morning at daybreak while I was on my pre-breakfast, woodland walk, my good friend Linda Hoeschler called. It’d been a while since we’d talked. By way of my 10/10-12/2022 posts, however, she was aware of my encounter with “the stick.” She admonished me to be careful while up here in the Northwoods. I thought it best not to disclose my plan to clean out the gutters later in the day.

After bud-capping my one-thousandth pine tree and tending to some legal biz, I proceeded to the gutter project. As I pulled the ladder from behind the shed, Linda’s cautionary words reverberated. I also thought of “Dr. Killjoy” at the U of MN Cancer Clinic who’d advised against taking risks that he associated with the bud-capping mission, now safely behind me. What would he say about scooping leaves, needles and other fall detritus from the Red Cabin gutters? I donned a face mask.

It’d been a year since I’d climbed an extension ladder. Today my imagination went rogue.

“Wouldn’t it be ironic,” a mischievous inner voice asked, “if after all that you’ve been through over the past 10 months, you fell off this ladder and killed yourself?”

“Nonsense,” I said. “That’s not happening. I’ll position the ladder correctly. I’ll climb it slowly, securely. I’ll always hold on with at least one hand. When I’m at gutter height, I won’t over-reach.”

“Uh-huh,” said Inner Voice.

The tepid response wasn’t helpful. What if my strength and balance weren’t as I assumed? What about the multiple-myeloma-stem-cell-transplant alumni I’d consulted who’d mentioned balance problems for as long as a year after their procedures? I was only at Day 72. What if I lost my grip, my balance?

“And,” said Inner Voice, “if you do fall, look where you’ll land—on big stones, steps, railings, patio blocks. The moss-covered ground will be well beyond your crash site.”

I gulped.

“Moreover, Beth is in New York, not here. If you don’t kill yourself instantly, you’ll seriously injure yourself. Even if you retain consciousness and can pull out your iPhone and call 9-1-1, good luck waiting an hour for help to arrive. Call the neighbors to haul you somewhere? Ha! The closest neighbor is John Recluse. Do you have his number? . . . I didn’t think so.”

“But I’ve got my face mask,” I said, in a lame attempt to humor Inner Voice.

“A lot of good that’ll do when you fall backwards onto that ring of rocks around the garden.”

“I was joking,” I said.

“But climbing up and down this old ladder is no joke,” Inner Voice said.

I didn’t answer but moved the ladder around to the east side, where the ground slopes away, requiring that the ladder be fully extended. Even more cautiously, I climbed the rungs.

“Did it occur to you,” Inner Voice said in continuing torment, “that metal fatigue might’ve occurred; that the ladder could buckle right in the middle like the fuselage of an airplane at cruising altitude snapping in two?”

“You would think of something that ridiculous,” I said, angrily, “and while I happen to be way up here.”

Inner Voice kept further words to itself—until I was cleaning the gutter on the front (lake side) of the cabin. A strong wind blasted my efforts, and whenever I pulled out a fistful of leaves, they were yanked out of my grip and blown skyward.

“I hope you’ve got one hand on a rung,” said Inner Voice. “You wouldn’t want to get swept overboard.”

I resented Inner Voice’s fear-mongering. I recalled the mantra of every extreme skier, “big-peak” mountain climber, Nazaré surfer: “There’s nothing to fear except fear itself.” After more than 30 accident-free ascents and descents of the ladder, I’d finished the project, and told Inner Voice to leave me in peace. It sheepishly complied.

Soon I entered the porch and noticed that the leaves I’d pulled from the front gutter had blown onto the screen. The result was a promising photo op—my reward, perhaps, for harassment by Inner Voice.

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson