LITMIR.BIZ

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and coming out of the front of it was a great big snap-clip on a short length of thick rope. When I was tired or had to stop for any reason, I had to clip myself onto the first available rung of the ladder.

      When we got to the top, the chief wanted us to clip onto one of the upper rungs, take our hands off the ladder and lean back against our harness, pulling the short tether rope tight. If you had vertigo, it would be completely impossible. Up there, I was higher than the roof of the stands at the football stadium, higher than the big elms that used to fill most of Wolfville’s downtown before the Dutch elm disease took them—huge trees, as big around at their base as the circumference of a transport truck tire. It was so high that I could barely make out the chief down at the equipment panel, so high that the sky was huge, bigger and bluer than I thought it could be, and the town unfolded like a map beneath me.

      The most amazing part was that the ladder was so narrow at the top that I made the last length of the climb almost hand-over-hand, with not enough room on the narrow ladder to fit both of my feet comfortably side by side. The ladder swayed. It swayed a lot, back and forth in the wind, in a gently creaking pendular motion that was painfully obvious. There was nothing up there but me—no structure, no surroundings, virtually no mechanism to keep me from falling. It was like climbing narrow stairs that suddenly ended, and when they did end, it was like you discovered there wasn’t really anything underneath holding them up. It’s the kind of height that makes you suck in your breath and then makes your body refuse to let it out again.

      With me at the top of the ladder was a very small intercom loudspeaker, and I had to stay clipped in and waiting until the fire chief told me in precise and tinny words to come back down.

      I heard him tell me to come back down. I heard him say that I was finished, and I knew that I had completed my last requirement to become a certified firefighter.

      But I couldn’t move.

      Normally, I don’t have trouble with heights—not big trouble. But this was not a normal height. I can work on roofs with no problem, and I don’t even mind the bounce and bow of the big four-fly Bangor extension ladder, a ladder so long—forty feet in all—that it has stabilizer poles both to help four firefighters raise it and to take some of the spring out of the span. But this wasn’t even close to normal. This was easily twice as high as any place I had ever climbed, and this was out in the open air, and what I was having trouble with were my hands.

      I couldn’t make them undo the D-clip on the rung of the ladder. My hands didn’t want to do it, didn’t want to lose that security. I was clearly safe as long as I was clipped in, and my hands were willing for me to stay there forever rather than risk falling on the way back down all that endless ladder. I could imagine all kinds of things happening to me on the descent; what I couldn’t imagine was actually undoing that clip. I had practically convinced myself that I knew what hitting the pavement was going to feel like before I finally managed to pull the metal tongue back and ease the clip off the second rung from the top.

      I could imagine that my fingers were turning white inside my mitts because I was holding on so hard, and I remember thinking that it would be better if I’d taken my mitts off, because I could just imagine their smooth black fabric slipping away from the rungs.

      I ended up having to will each individual finger to break its grip, to actually force them loose, one at a time, until I could move one hand.

      Coming down the ladder, I looked straight out through the rungs and imagined that each rung was the second-last one before the bottom. I didn’t look down, afraid that the pavement would come up and meet me fast. All the way down the ladder, and long after I was safely on the ground, I had that watery feeling in my stomach that you get after a particularly scary roller coaster ride— that feeling that you’ve dodged death in fifteen thousand different ways, that just one old and rusting bolt, barely holding its oxidizing grip, could make the difference between taking the ride safely or pitching inevitably to your death.

      Dave went up the ladder after me, and my legs were still weak and rubbery when he reached the top. Then the chief swore and slapped the equipment panel, and I heard all the big metal locks come on that fixed the ladder in place. I heard them running up the ladder— bang, bang, bang—growing fainter as they got farther away. Then I looked over the chief’s helmet and saw hydraulic oil spraying from the top of the lifting ram on the other side of the truck, shooting out in a high-pressure arc as the seal in the ram failed and the chief locked everything up solid.

      Next I watched him flick open the microphone switch to talk to Dave, everything moving slowly. “Ahh, a little problem down here, Dave,” he said calmly. “You just hang on up there, stay put, we’re going to get someone to come and have a look at this.”

      At the top of the ladder, I could see Dave reach out for the toggle switch and flick it up. “No problem,” his voice crackled from the speaker. “Helluva view.”

      Forty-five minutes later and the hydraulics guy got there from New Minas and had a look. And he told the chief to tell Dave to come back down. Dave was leaning into the top of the ladder, his mask off and thrown over his shoulder, his air tank long empty, looking for all the world as if he had fallen asleep up there.

      He came down slowly, and I helped him strip off the breathing gear and the harness. He was sweating from the climb down and the heavy gear, and when he took off his bunker gear his T-shirt was soaked back and front with a huge sopping curve of sweat.

      “Nervous?” I asked him.

      “Nah,” he said, and shrugged. “Where was I going, anyway?”

      I looked at the big puddle of hydraulic fluid, black against the grey of the asphalt parking lot, and knew it couldn’t have looked anything but absolutely alarming from the top of the ladder. I knew that, if it had happened while I was up there, I wouldn’t have been able to move at all, terrified that any motion might bring the whole apparatus crashing down.

      “I didn’t lean back,” Dave said to the chief, who was still poking away at the panel and swearing. “I’ll have to do it again tomorrow.”

      The chief decided Dave had done enough already.

      Thinking about it, I imagined Dave was always going to be a better firefighter than me. He was better equipped for it, because he sometimes seemed to lack just enough damned imagination, because he just went ahead and did things instead of letting them run riot all around the inside of his head. But I knew we’d worked well together, and that he’d never point out my failings, and that he and I and the chief would add the story to our mutual collection, another tiny stitch of fellowship.

      Years later, while I was fighting fires in Portugal Cove, Dave found my phone number somehow and called me, full of details from the Wolfville department, eager to fill me in on where everyone was and what they were doing. He’d quit long before, and he talked about firefighting as if it was something he had tried on like a shirt: he liked all the people all right, he just couldn’t see any point in continuing.

      Put it behind him. Moved on.

      Lucky Dave.

      Augers pull silage up to the top of the silo—mostly feed corn and corncobs, sometimes hard, dry corn stalks and tangles of green hay and fresh, sweet, green clover. The blade is a great long impeller inside a tube built tough enough to put up with the constant turning inside, all powered by a motor sufficiently strong to keep the silage moving. The whole apparatus brooks no impertinence, puts up with no delay. Augers are an unstoppable force, and sometimes they grab the loose shirt sleeve of someone clearing the roughage away from the fill bin, and they slowly, evenly pull that shirt sleeve, and then the wrist, and then the arm of the farmer up into the auger, winding it around and around and caring not at all for the screaming that results from splintered bone and torn muscle.

      If you’re caught by an auger and have any luck at all, you can reach the kill switch and shut it down. Otherwise, when it gets to your shoulder, it can rip your arm clean off, dejointing and deboning it as cleanly as meat coming off a cooked chicken wing. But even if you can get the auger stopped, you’re pinned there, your arm caught tight and wound in an unnatural shape, and it must be blindingly painful,

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