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It was a sunny Sunday morning; the spring breeze was evident all around, the kind that says summer in on the way. My best friend called and offered to take me rock climbing up at Indian Hills, I was thrilled but timid. Waiting with anticipation I could hear the sound of his car coming, it was distinct in its own way because the muffler was on its last leg. He arrived in style, no not really. The paint of his car was peeling off and the smell of the exhaust filled the air with a horrible aroma. Every time I got in his car I felt embarrassed, but it was all right because he was the only one who could drive.

As we started up the 225 Highway we were following traffic along the twisting, turning road. Suddenly my best friend cursed under his breath. I looked at him surprisingly and asked, "What's wrong?" He started to laugh, took his foot off the accelerator, hit the brakes, and said "Didn’t you see that state trooper?" I nodded, "Well we were going 85 up this road," he said. Luckily we were not the only cars on the road. About a mile from the turn off we slowed down to 55 miles an hour. When we pulled off the side of the road, we were both surprised to find that there were no other cars parked there. Normally this turn off was packed with cars, with people climbing in the Indian Hills. Although we were both happy that there was no one else around to interfere, there was a lingering feeling of dread. If something were to go wrong there wouldn't be anybody else around to help.

We both got out of the car and decided to go on against our better judgment. The trail up was steep; about two feet wide surrounded, with scrub brush. On the way up I was thinking both about how bad my legs were getting cut from the brush, and about not slipping on the sandy trail. The half-mile long hike was nothing but a warm up for my best friend and I, who are avid backpackers and trail hikers. We reached the top and headed to the...