It was a song, he later explained, about the beauty of such a place and the tears it brings. "They are tears of gratitude and sorrow for my ancestors," he said. He sang of sacrifice and thanks. I felt honored that he shared, and honored that he trusted.
I would not find myself at the end of that rope for another hour. But when I did, I concluded the least I owed him was a similar trust. He had warned that the rope was too short but that the drop would be safe. The fingers of my right hand, which had controlled my rappel and now held fast, did not agree. I forced them open.
