“Are you serious?” I asked my new friend, drawing my gaze down from the ladders that led to the alley rooftops. Snowbird gave me a look that said climbing rusty fire escapes of dubious integrity was nothing new to her. She was sincere; I wanted to hug her right then and there, and I grinned widely at the thought of the childish mischief to be had later that night. But first, we had an inquiry to make at Julian’s Piano Bar.
Upon entering, I was directed to the owner – an old woman sitting alone against the wall. “No, we don’t have any open mic sessions these days,” she answered me pleasantly. Well, that disproved one rumor, which we had hoped would help us pass the evening. But the owner must have made some subliminal gesture to her husband, because before Snowbird and I realized what was happening, the old gentleman was behind the piano, pulling out microphones and switching them on. I guess we were expected to entertain the thirsty crowd, so I dashed out into the streets of Butte, Montana to find my Jeep and grab some instruments before the expectations of us minstrels could rise too high.
That night, I played my blend of percussive and celtic rhythms on the Irish whistle, and the denizens of the mining town seemed to like my style. I received proof when I was handed a complimentary glass of wine and a felt top hat filled with money! Snowbird borrowed a guitar as well and coaxed a beautiful medley of gentle, touching songs from her memory. Despite my protests, the bartender kept passing the hat around, and we couldn’t seem to spend the money fast enough. After making $25 for the evening, we withdrew to Snowbird’s house and donned black clothing, because the continuation of our urban adventures required a bit more stealth and secrecy.
A half-hour later, I was grateful that I’d sobered up. We were eyeballing an alleyway fire escape attached to a decaying, three-story brick structure that had probably not passed building code inspections for several decades. I tested the rusty support beams below the second-story landing, then made to offer Snowbird a boost. To my surprise and admiration, however, the young woman grabbed a beam and lifted herself up with ease. I followed her carefully across the landing platform, which was presently only attached at two corners, like a trapdoor. Then, while Snowbird was halfway up the next staircase, the entire fire escape gave a heart-stopping shudder, and I swear the whole assemblage pulled another inch away from its brick wall moorings!
I arrived at the third-story platform quite shaken, and heavy doses of fear and skepticism coursed through my brain while I examined the narrow metal ladder that led to the roof. I didn’t think I could force myself to do it. I can climb cliffs without a rope to catch my fall, but I’ve always had a hard time trusting man-made structures. Snowbird let me dither for a while, and when I pulled my hands away from the ladder, she took my place and calmly pulled herself up the rungs.
My ego administered several swift kicks to my masculine pride as I watched her attain the rooftop. You would allow Snowbird to face untold rooftop dangers alone? And you call yourself an adventurer? Taking a deep breath and hoping I wouldn’t bring the fire escape crashing down around me, I submerged my survival instincts and crept up the ladder, moving at about half of Snowbird’s speed.
From the opposite edge of the roof, with our feet dangling down above Park Street, we watched giddily as yellow-shirted workers erected fences for the next day’s Irish Festival. With the entire downtown laid out before us, we surveyed other buildings for potential rooftop missions. It occurred to me that only in a rundown, economically-depressed mining town could we get up to this level of mischief. Most towns in America have been made sterile and safe, to the point where even playgrounds are torn down out of concerns for safety. Every hazardous element, no matter how slight, is identified and blocked off. But to have a real adventure, there needs to be a degree of risk and the possibility of failure. Here in Butte, there didn’t seem to be enough tax revenue to bring every building up to code. And so, in this decaying, unsafe environment, the potential for adventure was as strong as it was on any mountaintop I’d thus far encountered.
As if to bolster the argument that crumbling city landscapes are more enjoyable, we were suddenly startled by a loud bang and a shower of bright fireworks, set off by some locals outside the corner tavern. The rockets blazed and fragmented high above the blocked-off street, and from our precarious perch it felt like the 4th of July all over again! Granted, the display was not necessarily safe, nor sanctioned by the local police, but it certainly furthered the impression that it was more fun to be unsafe sometimes.
Our own reckless behavior eventually led us to the rooftop of the highest building in the downtown area, whose fire escape was mercifully modern in design and showed no signs of wanting to collapse beneath us. From eight stories up, we enjoyed a commanding view of Butte in its entirety, and the profusion of streetlamps and houselights made the humble city look deceptively like a sprawling metropolis. It felt quite peaceful to gaze upon the sleeping town ... a fine conclusion to the long night’s adventures. Yes, I punctured my finger on barbed wire while escaping the building compound, and I dripped blood along the streets leading back to Snowbird’s house, but if I hadn’t been receptive to risk-taking, how interesting could the night have been?