Sore arms

It is a peculiarity of the Irish that men are often referred to by their nickname rather than their given name. My dear husband answers to "Alfie" on the football pitch (that's a soccer field), and Brian two doors down goes by "Gib."

And so it was that during a chat a few weeks back, Gib freshly cast and on crutches from tearing his Achilles tendon, that we learn that after working a myriad of jobs, he has found his passion in the treetops. With a regular contract to maintain forests under and around ESB power lines, he joyfully climbs trees for a living.

Which is why he was itching to get out of the cast for more than one reason. And as the summer progressed, it came to pass that he promised to drum up another harness and take Marcus up a beech tree across the lane.

This being Ireland, it took a while for it to come together, but it did so spectacularly: with sun shining, blue sky, puffy white clouds and a brisk breeze, the harness arrived, and Gib broke out a new rope. The two started with a relatively small tree close to the block of houses, perhaps only 60 feet tall or so.

Vaguely reminiscent of the REI climbing rock, a rope was fastened to a high branch (with the aid skyhooks), and a series of knots allowed the young lad to pull himself up. Not fast at first, and there was a great deal of hanging upside-down to start.

The entertainment value was apparent, as everyone on the block came out on the stoop and spent a fair time watching.

After half an hour of swinging around, Gib moved the rope farther up, and set a higher goal for Marcus. And left him to it.

At this point it became clear that this was a personal thing. Marcus didn't need anyone watching his every move. Indeed, as he went higher into the foliage, he nearly disappeared. No, this was flying solo, and though Gib was around, doing this and that (including swinging Danny on the other harness, for example), he wasn't actively paying him much mind. After an hour, a tired and hungry Marcus came down for lunch. But not before he'd made it to the top fork of that tree, above the roofline.

The weather took advantage of their lunch break to open up the heavens and soak things, and then the sun came out for their afternoon foray. They had chosen the beech across the car park, a lopsided old beech, for further scaling and branch walking, but the number of stinging nettles at its base made them rethink it, and they moved to a neighboring tree.

Unlike the first climb, Marcus rapidly disappeared into the dappled light of the branches, and except for his red hoodie, disappeared from view. Gib followed him up, and when they reached their goal, Gib asked him to step off into thin air, the rope holding him. Something magical happened: the boy, trusting the man, the tree, the rope, and himself, took the step.

In less than an hour, they were down on the earth again, quiet respect flowing between them. Rope burns on his hands, the boy sought first aid from his mother, but only briefly.