The Humpty-Dumpty pivot at Torrington Towers

For a few seconds, you feel like Humpty Dumpty in a harness. Your legs are dangling from a wall that is 111 feet high. Straight down — or as straight as you can make out without leaning forward too far — is the Naugatuck River, narrow and shallow and rocky and strewn with artifacts from the Brass Mill days before the Flood of ’55. You don’t like this view. And you don’t know why these men with helmets and blue uniforms are asking you to face forward like this when you know you are going to walk backwards, not forwards, down this wall.

“Okay, now put your right foot back on this side,” the man behind you says.

“Why? You just asked me to put on the other side,” you say.

“That was so I could align the ropes,” he says.

I straddle the wall. Now I can see off to the east, toward the bridge over the Naugatuck that connects Main and South Main streets in Torrington. It is a toy bridge, a perfect scale model, with miniature SUVs and a red Toyota crossing it.

“Now put your right hand on the wall behind you,” the man is saying, and I look away from the miniature scene and into the man’s calm face. Calm. Sure, he’s not about to go over the edge — I am! And his “OTE” logo all over his uniform and helmet seems to mock me: “Over the Edge!”

“The other guy said I should hold onto the rope with my right hand,” I say. This part of the rappel was not covered in the brief training session on another part of the roof.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get to that. You’re safe. Everything is secure.”

Suddenly, I remember the elevator ride getting up here with two other OTE men and a fellow “edger,” Debbie Hart of Torrington. The numbers above the door kept changing, lighting up from left to right: …3, 4, 5, … 9, 10, 11, until I realized the last number to light up was 13.

Thirteen. And the elevator door opened.

There was a sign on the wall as we exited the elevator: “Floor 13.”

“There really is a thirteenth floor?” I said. “I thought they skipped that number, went from twelve to fourteen.”

“Nope. Thirteen,” one of the men said.

And then we were on the roof. An OTE man got our names, checked the QR code on our bracelets, showed us where Jeff Martin, the trainer, was showing the edgers ahead of us how to stand on the two cinder blocks near a wall that climbs to the fourteenth floor and maneuver the speed-control lever with your left hand while holding the rope with your right hand. Jeff eventually hooked me up to the practice ropes and I stood sideways on the wall, suspended by ropes through various parts of my harness.

“This other rope is if you get in trouble,” Jeff said. He indicated a scary-looking, gold-colored mechanism that you could adjust if something goes wrong. “The technical term for this mechanism is ‘the gold thing,’” he said.

That left-hand rope and “the gold thing” I put out of my mind. I didn’t want to have to think about having to spread my arms in a distress signal so OTE men and women above and below me could help me fix whatever might go wrong, communicating with me through walky-talkies if necessary. Luckily, it wasn’t necessary.

Back to my HumptyDumpty position, now straddling the wall, my right hand behind me, I hear the calm-faced man say to bring my left leg back over to the roof side of the wall.

Soon I get into a squatting position with both feet on top of the wall, my back to the abyss.

“Now lean back,” he says. “Excuse me?”

“Lean back.”

The ropes above me are swinging loosely in a breeze. The day is overcast with a slight chance of rain. Somewhere families are taking carefree drives in the country on this September Saturday; somewhere young couples are making love; somewhere older couples are strolling in the park and holding hands; somewhere art aficionados are in galleries, leisurely wandering from picture to picture with hands clasped behind their backs. Somewhere else.

Not up here.

Up here a man is trying to kill me by asking me to lean backwards into the Naugatuck River.

“I don’t think so,” I manage to say.

“It’s okay. Really. Everything is secure.”

I remind myself that I had promised myself that this dreaded moment would not bother me, that I would trust these professionals. But I’m not in position. “Shouldn’t I have my right hand on the rope instead of the wall?” I ask.

“You can. Or you can find it later.”

Fine. I’ve lived a good life. I have no regrets. Here goes.

And just like that I am standing horizontally on the outside wall of Torrington Towers, the tallest building in Litchfield County, and I am not going anywhere.

“You’re good!” the calmfaced man says. “You’re over the edge!”

And down I go, squeezing the control slightly to find a reasonable speed. The edger to my right – another journalist named Jack, Jack Bourque – is keeping up with me – or keeping down, whatever. I tell him I won’t race him. We keep up a light banter like this most of the way down.

I hear cheering, clapping, people calling my name – or the name of the other man named Jack next to me. Jacque J. J. Williams, the radio personality DJ-ing the event, plays “Jumping Jack Flash” over the loudspeakers – my request. Jack and Jack slowly descend, walking backwards, looking up at the calm-faced man who is slowly getting smaller and smaller.

It’s a long trip, and my gloved hands are getting tired from squeezing the control and the rope. The cheering and clapping are getting louder. Spider-Man (me) and Superman (the other Jack) make a nice contrast in red and blue against a greige building. Above us, clouds are dispersing, sunshine is rappelling down with us, familiar voices are now definitely calling my name. I glance down – I’m about at the fifth floor – and I see my brother Tom waving up at me. I let go of the rope with my right hand and wave. Emily Olson, community editor of The Register Citizen, waves and takes a picture. A hemlock branch brushes my helmet. I am almost down.

Jack Bourque is one floor above me, or about that – there are no windows on this wall, so it’s hard to judge distance – but I allow him to catch up – or catch down. We touch down at about the same time.

OTE men and women help us to get free of the ropes, and we face the spectators and acknowledge their cheers. I duck under the yellow safety tape and hug or shake hands with my friends and family, mug for pictures, flash victory signs. Tom gives me a brotherly hug, says he will take me to lunch.

Meanwhile, another edger has made the Humpty-Dumpty pivot and is standing horizontally on the wall, so scarily high above.

Would I do it again? Yes, and so would every other edger I talked to. Some wanted to go right back up, as if this were a carnival ride with unlimited free passes. Me? I’ll wait. There is already talk of doing this again next year. I’ll be there.