It was easier before 9/11.
Still a risk, but easier.
Scaffolding stood invitingly against both eastern pylons and tempted us to scale a national icon.
“Only one main light stays on after 2am,” Greg’s recon missions had discovered, so we’d donned black clothes to keep us warm and obscured. We rendezvoused under the bridge at midnight -too much time to wait and think – and read signs warning of $20,000 fines.
2am, lights off; Beanies on.
Now!
We bounced up the scaffolding, but the gap to the main frame was measured in feet and fear. One long stride carried me onto the bridge and the cold wind pounded my ears even louder than my beating heart.
‘Stop!’ Steve whispered.
We froze.
A police car just metres below…
Safe in the darkness.
Cold hands gripped salty, moist rails and the loud metal stairs were determined to betray us.
“Softly”
With darkness as our ally, we gazed at the flags on the summit. We might make it.
Then it appeared.
Big, grey, imposing, immovable. The tall, flat, slippery wall of the painting trolley blocked our ascent. The only ladder hung off the right side, over the edge.
We exchanged panicked glances.
Delivery vans and taxis whizzed past below. The city was waking up and there was no time to waste. One by one we straddled the safety rail, and left one sweaty hand on the main frame. The other reached agonisingly for the small ladder on the side of the trolley.
Breathing deeply and steadying shaking limbs, I stretched for the hand rail and reached it with hesitant fingers. I slid my palm onto its cold, wet surface and grasped it too tightly. Will power alone separated my foot from the main frame and around the hard edge of the trolley to hang 100 metres above the dark water below.
I knew that If I fell, I’d be a fisherman’s surprise catch.
My foot slipped on the greasy wall and my heart leapt into my throat as only three fingers grasped the rudimentary ladder. I cursed the worn grip on my black shoes and finally placed one foot on the rung before swivelling en pointe to make way for the second foot. I was now completely exposed as I swung an arm and a leg through the night sky and onto the ladder. Forcing myself to breathe, I climbed the ladder onto the roof of the trolley. I shuddered with relief then slid myself down the other side back onto the metal stairs.
Excessive testosterone and youthful bravado then drove us to the summit, but blinded us from the realization that the flags are constantly illuminated.
“Quick, a few photos”
Elated and relieved we picked our way quietly down the metal stairs while scanning for police or security. Exiting the scaffolding, they headed north, I headed south.
Greg saw the sign.
“Don’t walk back via the cycle path, It’s a $200 fine.”
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