High Times

In the garage, a bouldering surface made of plywood covers the walls and ceiling. Someone presses Play on a VCR in the corner and, as if on cue, the place becomes a jungle gym. College kids sit on the floor -- it's padded by carpet-covered mattresses and old wrestling mats -- and pull against the plastic holds. Three kids make it onto the wall, then four, all pulling and swinging and sometimes falling off the ceiling on top of each other before swigging more beer and trying it all again.

One guy sips beer and fiddles to light a 4-foot space heater in the corner while the VCR blasts techno beats and climbing footage from exotic places out of state.

The party goes past 3 a.m. It's now Friday, and no one has made any plans to climb this weekend. Scattered throughout the living room are the KU contingent's only contributions to the Lawrence climbing scene: five empty cases of Natural Light.

"That's about all there is to Lawrence," Collins says later. "They are pretty much just like the rest of the campus, except they wear Patagonia and 5.10 rubber."

Though Wolfe and Byrum both claim to have met Collins and Burns over the years, Burns says he doesn't remember meeting Wolfe. But he did meet Byrum at a local climbing competition.

"He got on my nerves while I was there," Burns says.

If Collins had never met Burns, maybe things wouldn't have gone this far. It takes a certain type of person to break the law, and a Jesus-lovin' kid usually doesn't make the suspect list. Until 1996, Collins' climbing experience was limited to tromping the rust-colored hills of Lee's Summit. Then he met Burns, a self-described skate punk and high school burnout. Both had a competitive spirit.

Both packed up their separate VW buses in the late '90s and left the state, looking to climb. Jeremy went to Arizona, supporting himself by drawing caricatures from a sidewalk stand for $5 apiece. He was good, and he made enough money in a day to last for the rest of the month. Burns went to Colorado and wound up working at a liquor store. "It was the closest climbing-related job I could find," he says.

It's 3 p.m. downtown, and Burns is late. He's often late, but Collins doesn't care.

Collins has just driven nine hours straight from Colorado, where his animation took the form of big-screen advertisements for his first climbing publication (a comic-book-style instructional manual titled Betty and the Silver Spider) before the premiere of a climbing video. Collins has gained national recognition among climbers -- not for climbing but for drawing. Now he earns his living as a senior illustrator for Rock and Ice and Trail Runner magazines and as a contributing illustrator for other outdoor publications.

He has arrived from I-70 in a car other than his Civic -- a black Honda Passport with a bumper sticker that reads "God is my Rock ... Climb on."

It rained last night. The sidewalk is still damp, and puddles rest in the street. Wet conditions once forced the French climber Robert off the upper stories of a building. Collins will park his Passport on top of the garage and use its trailer hitch to anchor his rope if he makes it all the way to the top.

When Burns arrives, Collins runs over the game plan. He will wire his rope through cams ("spring-loaded Batman toys that open when slammed into a crack") as he climbs.

Burns is distracted by a redheaded waitress leaving a diner up the street.

"What? I know her," he says.

"The whole thing should be over in a few minutes," Collins says.

Neither man comments on the two unmarked police cars at the end of the lot.

At 3:25 Collins pulls the Passport into the garage. Near the roof, there's a steel security gate. It requires a passkey, but Collins manages to time his arrival with another car's exit.

The Folgers coffee plant is right across the street. It is seven stories, with thirteen windows on each floor; from on top of the garage, each of those windows offers a different glimpse of long wooden desks, blue-screened computers and tiny flashes of office lamps.

"Lots of windows around here," Burns says uneasily.

From the top, the route looked simple: a 1-1/2-inch crack between two four-story concrete blocks; beside the crack, a rectangular red awning 10 feet above the street. But the fissure is deceptive, narrowing to half-inch "fingertip" holds in the center, Collins says.

On their first attempt, they realize something of primo importance.

Collins is a bumblie. He has brought the wrong size gear for the crack. Burns looks mildly annoyed. It takes more than an hour to get to his house and back with more gear.

At 4:30, the sun is low on the horizon, and the wind has picked up. It's rush hour now, and headlights shine from cars along the Broadway Bridge. A black BMW exits the garage, and seconds later, a red Jeep Cherokee enters.