From: John Byrnes 
Newsgroups: rec.climbing
Subject: Re: Official rule book to settle ethics disputes?
Date: Thu, 28 Sep 2000 14:00:40 -0600

                                                     September 96
                FOUR PROPHETS AND A CATHEDRAL SPIRE

***************************************************
INTRODUCTION AND THE SERMON, PULPIT ROCK
Preaching by Inez "Gnar-Gnar" Drixelius
***************************************************

Last year when Brutus of Wyde put forth an inquiry over 
rec.climbing to find a partner/victim to climb Astroman, 
John Byrnes (aka Lord Slime) responded and I was 
delighted to be able to recommend the two climbers to
each other.  I had done some of my finest climbing with 
John and Bruce as partners and couldn't think of two 
better people to team up at that level.

Thus the Evil Twin partnership was formed and Lord Slime 
became addicted to hard free routes in Yosemite Valley.  
My role in this partnership has been that of warm-up 
queen, court jester, minister of transportation, chef 
a la mode and chair of the reception committee atop 
summits and on the roadside.

This time Bruce and John decided to tackle the Rostrum, 
a route originally planned in May but falcons bred in 
their way, so they had careened up the Ho Chi Minh 
Trail instead (a whole 'nother story).

John arrived on a Wednesday in early September and we 
had two days of climbing set aside just for us.  I have 
always enjoyed climbing with John, who is a solid 
supportive partner, far above my ability level, happy 
to lead the hard pitches and happy to follow my leads 
on the "lesser" pitches, which often have me panting at 
my leading limit.  On Thursday we opted to climb the 
Pulpit, being that I have a real passion for spires and 
summits only attainable by technical climbing.  John was 
pleased that "The Sermon" features 3 pitches of 5.10, 
crowned with a fabulous 5.9 chimney and 10a OW exit.

Slime slithered up the 10b start, quite a scary feature 
of rotten, insecure roof moves into a more positive crack 
which was lichen covered and pumpy.  I followed feeling 
pretty good thanks to the toprope and the excitement of
finally getting up this formation I had been eyeing for 
years.  The Pulpit isn't done much because you have to 
wait for the Merced to be low enough to cross to the 
rock.  Thus the rotten, licheny quality of the route.

Pitch 2, my lead, was a sturdy 10a hand crack in a slot 
that had me nicely wedged at one time with the rack in 
the wrong place, forcing me to run out a rather pumpy 
section.  I had a rest before then and was able to 
manage, scaring poor John half to death as he contem-
plated where a fall would leave me dangling.  Off belay!

John floats up, always amazing me how he can make some-
thing difficult look so trivial.  But he did, as always, 
compliment my lead.  This is how it works:  John usually 
leads more than he follows and often is preoccupied with 
how he would have protected the pitch.  The King of 
Stoppers then points out a perfect nut/hex placement 
where I slammed in a friend. This usually gets me 
barking:  "John, just shut up and tell me it was a good
lead...."  "Good lead, Inez!"  Smile--he means it?  
Really, he does!

Pitch 3, the chimney and offwidth were wonderful.  At 
the start Slime tells me that his least favorite climbing 
is offwidth, but he still climbs it so well.  Then the 
opera begins.  The rope isn't moving.  Loud yelping above.
What the hell is wrong?  Finally, the rope is moving 
again, fast, faster, real fast.  Off belay!  I follow and 
can't for the world imagine what the trouble was, for the 
little 5.7 exit chimney is so much fun and so easy.  What 
I didn't know was that John had gotten stuck in it and 
couldn't move.  Couldn't move for several minutes.  Until 
he screamed so loud that his lungs deflated and whoosh,  
he finally eeked through the slot to freedom.

The 4th class off pitch has a 5.5 technical section just 
at the top.  We quickly  arrived at the knife-edge summit, 
enjoying the views, being back in Yosemite and climbing 
together again. We rapped quickly, hopped the river and 
got back to the car in no time.

At Upper Pines #38, our home for the next few days, we 
set up camp, had some German food (I can't quite resist 
my old country habits!) and beer and were promptly 
greeted by rec.climber Barb McCann from Seattle.  It was 
good to see Barb again, for last time we planned a 
climbing trip we ended up sitting in the tent in the rain 
for 3 days.  Barb and I decided to climb the Higher 
Cathedral Spire on Saturday. Good, that was settled.  
With Barb at the masthead, we soon had a nice long line 
of visitors:

"Loose Cannon" Eric Coomer with his wonderful sweetie of 
a wife Emily, who had forgotten her belt to keep her 
jeans up and was walking about with her belly exposed.  
That tight little belly has one fabulous snake tattooed 
around its button.  Needless to say, some folks were glad 
the belt was amiss....

Allen Steck, who with Brutus of Wyde was planning on 
climbing his route on the Higher Spire, perhaps freeing 
the aid pitch???  Need I say anything about the legend?  
Yes, he is one of my closest friends, a loyal loving
person who has greatly enriched my life in the past few 
years.  A solid climber who is good natured, has a great 
sense of humor and tells a damn good story.

Pleasant folk from the Seattle Mountaineers club.  McCann 
protege's.  McCann is one hell of a good woman, a great 
climbing partner and party girl galore.  Her sharp tongue 
and good humor make her one of my favorite people.  
Poopsie and Gnar-Gnar.  We make a good team!

Brutus of Wyde.  No comment.  I love the guy!

Karl Baba.  There can only be one!  Yosemite local, 
hardman, free-solo master and Karlee the Teddybear who 
gives burly support when you least expect it.  Thanks 
for hanging out with me waiting for the boys....

George Bell and Steve Schostak.  Good to see you again 
George, good to meet you Steve.  Two expecting fathers, 
wearing full armor for safety.  They should be done 
with the Nose about now.


*****************************************************
THE CENTRAL PILLAR OF FRENZY, MIDDLE CATHEDRAL ROCK  
By John Byrnes, aka Lord Slime
*****************************************************

This Spring Inez and I had walked up to the base of this 
climb to find over a half-dozen parties climbing it, 
rapping it or waiting for it.  It was one of the most 
amazing cluster-f*cks I'd ever seen, so we walked away 
to find a route we could do without a reservation.
 
This time we planned to do the route on a "school day" 
to avoid most of the competition for the route, but 
Friday dawned grey and cool.  Strong downdrafts of cold 
air invaded the morning coffee ritual. Hmmm... whaddaya 
think about this weather?  More coffee.  More 
procrastinating.  Maybe we should wander over and see 
what happens.
 
So we finally arrive at the base at about 9:30 hoping
to do the 8-pitch, 10a variation.  Well, no dice. 
There's a party from New Zealand scratching  up the
first pitch, and another from Santa-Cruz-via-Jamaica
(massive dread-locks) waiting at the bottom.  Well
shoot, let's wait, we can probably finish the standard 
5-pitch variation before it rains.
 
We finally get off the ground about 11:00 (waiting is
tough on three cups of coffee!) and race to the first
belay.  Nice pitch!  Wait, wait, wait.  Inez  fires the 
second pitch.  Super rock, good moves!  Wait, wait, wait.  

The roof pitch succumbs to a stylish undercling/backstep/
cross-through to a perfect handjam.  Now for the dreaded 
offwidth I'd been warned about.  But it turns  out to be 
perfect fists for me, and I run it out to the belay. 
(Inez has to OW it, hee hee, but only a little whining!)  
Then it's back to the grind: wait, wait, wait.  
 
Inez fires up the 4th pitch as a light drizzle begins.  
The other two parties  immediately begin to rap.  As 
Inez is belaying me up, one of the other guys asks her 
if we're gonna rappel.  Inez looks down at me running up 
the pitch, a look of total concentration on my face,  "I 
don't think he's gonna wanna rap."
 
I'm a pillar of frenzy as I grab the rack.  Are we gonna 
rap?  No f*ckin' way! I don't want to have to come back 
here again!  I take off up the pitch in a thickening
drizzle.  
 
The rock of Middle Cathedral is glacially polished, and 
with the rain the face holds glisten treacherously.  My 
feet slip several times, so I just jam them both in the 
crack.  In five or six minutes I'm up, and Inez follows 
at  warp speed.  DONE!  NOW we rap!  The rain actually 
lets up a bit until we get to Housekeeping for showers, 
when it turns into a wholesale downpour.  How come it 
always rains when I'm here?!
 
We're filled with dread as we drive back to the campsite.  
All I can think about is sitting in the little tent for 
hours while it rains.  Gack!  How much wine will I need 
to drink to make THAT enjoyable?  We'll have to cook in 
the rain.  Maybe we can storm one of the Winnebagos?  I 
imagine the headlines in the Chronicle, "Climbers Hijack 
Motorhome, Take Hostages -- Demand Good Weather".
 
Now I can't find the site.  The spot where our site
should be has a huge blue tarp over it, and people
standing under it are smiling and waving at us.  It's
the Cannon and Em!  They're dry!  They have beer and
snacks!  We're saved!  
 


*****************************************************
HIGHER CATHEDRAL SPIRE
By Barb "Katrinka" "Barbley Goat" "Poopsie" and
"Hardwoman" McCann
*****************************************************


Saturday September 14th and I'm supposed to be getting 
up at 5:30 a.m. when the alarm goes off. That Gnar-Gnar 
girl is gonna be by at 6:30, and I very much want to be 
primed and ready to tackle the Southwest Face of Higher 
Cathedral Spire.  I glance at my cheap, plastic alarm 
clock...in the early morning light, I see that it's only 
5:15 so I can snooze a bit.

Light?  How can it possibly be light out???  Earlier in 
the week some of us were stumbling around in the darkness 
at 6:00 a.m. at the base of Royal Arches - - the clanking 
Ghosts of Climbers Past who haunt the Ahwahnee Tourons.  
I scrabble frantically for my wrist watch.  

"Oh shit!" I scream as I see that it is 6:15, and
Gnar-Gnar will be looking for me any minute now.

"What?  Huh?   Mmrrrr...uphm."  The sympathetic reply of 
my tentmate, Margie, who has the good sense to sleep in 
late.

I start thrashing about in the tent, throwing on clothes, 
grabbing my toothbrush and sticking a wad of Colgate in 
my mouth.  I emerge from the tent just in time for 
Gnar-Gnar to walk into our campsite - - and what a sight!  
She finds this wild-eyed critter frothing at the mouth, 
mumbling "Mmmm shooo shhoooorty, sit!  Mer larm cluck 
wuhn n uhr if!" Gnar-Gnar nods patiently - - somewhere, 
someone has told this woman that it is important to act 
calm when confronting a raving psychotic.

I spit out my toothpaste and start forming intelligible 
words.  No problemo!  Brutus and Allen, who'll be heading 
out with us to climb the "next route over" on the Spire 
(the Steck route on the southeast side) are still asleep.  
Silently, I thank the heavens for every sip of alcohol-
laden libation they had the night before.

Okay, so we pile into Brutus' truck a short while later 
(like about, mmm, 9:30 or so), and head for the little 
turnout which will be the start of our hike in.  The 
steadily uphill hike requires cairn-hunting, boulder-
hopping, and a few fights with sticker bushes.  I'm eager 
to "get on with it," so I bounce ahead and am dubbed 
"Barbleygoat."  An okay name by me, but I already have 
three names that I climb by - - Hardwoman, Powerful 
Katrinka, and Poopsie Tenesmus. 

You see, when I climb, I sorta have "multiple personal-
ities."  I'm rarely Plain Old Barb. Sometimes I'm 
Hardwoman - - tough, determined (dare we say butch?), 
and a bit of a poser to boot.  Then there's Powerful 
Katrinka, a big, silent woman of Scandinavian stock who 
enjoys carrying heavy loads, and speaks in monosyllabic 
grunts.  She pretty much sticks to glacier climbs, so 
she stayed back at camp. Finally, there is the sweet and 
adorable, but somewhat timid, Poopsie Tenesmus.  She gets 
pretty wide-eyed on just about everything, but whenever 
it's someone else's lead, she has an absolutely wonderful
time.  When she leads, however.....well, you DO know how 
she got her name, don't you?

But today, on the approach, I discover Barbleygoat, 
thanks to Brutus, who recognizes this critter and bestows 
a name upon her.  We arrive at the base, and Hardwoman 
emerges.  She eyes the route with a mean squint, and sets 
about fussing with gear and paring down to the bare 
essentials.  She makes some cool calculations and 
announces she wants the first lead, she can't wait to get 
on the sharp end.  (Of course, this was all calculated 
rather carefully; the climb goes 5.5, 5.9, 5.8, 5.9, 5.8 
-- no fools here!). Yeah, Hardwoman.  Gonna lead 3 
pitches.  Yeah. Dhuuudette!

The gracious Gnar-Gnar relinquishes the first lead,
and Hardwoman starts climbing the pumpy and technical
5.5 pitch, boldly running out the rope, and basically
feeling way cool.  She exerts her routefinding skills
("Does it go over this way, Inez?  Traverse over
there?  Then go up?  To which tree?  Huh?  Huh?"). 
She brings up Gnar-Gnar, who announces that the pitch
is probably about a 5.3.  Well, poo-poo.  Probably
right!

Gnar-Gnar grabs the rack from Hardwoman, and starts up 
the (presumably) straightforward 5.9 pitch (which, based 
on the McCann derivation of the Yosemite expletive 
system, is actually rated "five-nine-my-ass."). Gnar-Gnar 
starts struggling up a somewhat overhanging crack ("five-
nine-my-ass"), gives up on that, heads left on a tricky 
traverse ("FNMA"), and climbs up a "bouldery" bulge to 
the famous bathtubs.  All this time, Hardwoman is eyeing
the route, and thinking, "Yeah, cooool, Gnar-Gnar!  I 
can dig it!  Yeah...").

Hardwoman starts up after Gnar-Gnar has her "on," and 
works her way over to the bouldery bulge.  "Oh yeah!" 
as she starts the moves, "uh, Poopsie? After you...".

Wide-eyed, Poopsie struggles over the bulge, after 
hanging a bit while collecting herself.  She flops on
the rock and giggles with delight, then pads up to Gnar's 
belay.  "Oh, such fun!" she exclaims, "I am soooo 
delighted you led that."

Gnar hands off the rack to Poopsie, who startes heading 
for that area known as the "improbable traverse."  
Improbable indeed!  And such exposure, too!  Poopsie 
basically figgers she'll be traversing out on big juggy 
holds, but then will have to flail a bit at the air and 
reach around to gain access to the 5.8 chimney.  She 
clips a really manky-looking relic, and is delighted 
when she completes the move with ease.  Even more to her 
delight, is the chimney is hardly a chimney at all -- a 
flaring thing, really, calling for a few basic stemming 
moves, and easily protectable.  Especially given the 4 
fixed pins pounded in at the start, which is a secret
climber code meaning "many people have soiled themselves 
here."

Finishing this delightfully playful pitch, Poopsie laughs 
brightly and brings up Gnar-Gnar, snapping pictures of 
her in the chimney.  After another efficient hand-off of 
gear, Gnar-Gnar heads up the next five-niner.  To her 
delight, it's pretty easy for a Yosemite 5.9 - - and she 
announces to Poopsie that there is a stuck Friend in it!  
Like any good climber, Poopsie is a booty-hog, so she 
starts snorting in delight at the prospect of extracting 
the Friend.  When she gets just below the ledge where
Gnar-Gnar is belaying, she asks to be held while she
spends a good twenty minutes whacking away at the Friend.  
Finally, Hardwoman gets pissed.  "Look, Poopsie, it's my 
lead after this....you get me too exhausted for it, and 
I'll make YOU lead it!"

So, Poopsie moves on to Gnar-Gnar, and Hardwoman snatches 
the rack, growls and paws at the ground with her Boreals, 
and struts over to the final, short steep crack to the 
summit.  She burys a couple of cams in the crack, starts 
into a pumpy and committing layback while Gnar-Gnar snaps 
pictures, then starts cursing and swearing as she moves 
above her last piece and realizes she's coming off.  
She's airborne only briefly, and looks up at Gnar, who 
is now wide-eyed.  

Hardwoman grits her teeth, squares her shoulders, then 
struts to the base of the crack again.  She pretty much 
repeats the sequence.  Twice.  Only no pictures this 
time.  After the third time, Poopsie turns to Inez and 
says, "Oh, please, won't you lead this?"  The gracious 
Gnar-Gnar agrees, moves efficiently past the initial 
crack and out of sight, scores a number 13 stopper left 
on the route, eases past a final tricky section, and tops 
off on the summit.  New rating, McCann system: 
"five-eight-my-ass".

Excited now, and delighted to be the second, Poopsie
huffs and puffs her ample mass through these last two
sections and joins Gnar-Gnar on the top. It was a
delightfully sunny day, and they were soon joined by
Brutus and Allen.  It was a wonderful time on the
summit:  Hardwoman prancing around on the summit,
unroped, making Brutus nervous; lots of pictures;
Gnar-Gnar looking off in the distance at future
prospects; and Allen bouncing yodels off the walls.

Not bad for such an early start!!!

************************************************** 
THE NORTH FACE OF THE ROSTRUM 
By The Evil Twins
************************************************** 

[Brutus begins our final chapter] 

In the cool darkness of evening, September 14, 1996, 
refreshed from a wonderful day on Higher Cathedral Spire 
with Allen, Barb, and Inez, I fingered a beloved #4 
Camalot, a recent addition to my rack.

Hesitating to bring the subject up, (Knowing full well 
my partner's fanaticism about rack weight) I cleared my 
throat, then waited until John finished another cup of 
wine.  When he was mellowed by this, I broached the subject.

"Hey John. I know that you have the narrow cracks and all..."
 
John knowing full well my tendency to bring a wheel-
barrow full of unneeded doo-dads up every climb, and 
still far too alert for my purposes, cut to the chase: 
"What is it, Brutus?"
 
"Well, I was thinking how nice it might be to have some-
thing a bit bigger than a #4 Friend on this climb..."
 
[nipping the conversation in the bud] "The topo says
pro to 3.5 inches. We have enough stuff."
 
[sprouting green conversation-shoots before the clippers 
are put away] "True. But the topo also says 5.10 offwidth 
on a few pitches. Look, we don't have to carry the thing 
on every pitch. We can leave it stashed with the pack at 
the top of the lower pitches when we rap to the base. 
[employing a tempting stratagem] After that, I can carry 
it on my waist if it's a problem." (This bit was a hollow 
offer, because John was certain to leave it behind on his 
5.11 thin-crack leads, and I was certain to want it at 
hand during my battles with the offwidths.)
 
"We have enough stuff."
 
(Acting as if I were discovering the perfect compromise, 
I played my ace card, proposing  what I had originally 
had in mind) "I know what you mean.  Hey, look. I've got 
an idea. How about we leave the #4 Friend behind and take 
the #4 Camalot in its place?  It'll fit everything the 
Friend will fit, plus another inch larger."
 
"Well, I don't know. It's a lot heavier than the #4 
Friend."
 
[Craftily, sensing him wavering, I pressed my advantage] 
"It's not THAT much heavier. [reflecting] Sure might be 
nice in those offwidths..." 
 
Finally John caves in to my incessant wheedling.  
Victory is mine!

                       -----

Morning. In the pitch darkness I fumbled for the alarm. 
yeech. Too much too early. Just a few more minutes, I'll 
get up, I promise....

Finally I threw off the down comforter, and struggled
out of the truck.
 
I roused Chef Gnar [who has volunteered to support us 
with well-wishes and morning coffee] and John with a
gentle voice: "Its OFFFFFFwidth time!!!               
                      
I hear a chuckle in response. Today will be a good day.

West of Wawona tunnel: John and I performed the last of 
the pre-climb rituals, locked the truck, and started the 
descent. After brief morning fumbling we finally found 
the incredibly steep loose dirt track leading down the 
West side of the Rostrum. Shortly we dropped gear (including 
the day pack and the for-now-unneeded #4 Camalot) in the 
forest near the top of pitch three, and rapped to the base 
as a layer of clouds moved into the Valley.
 
My lead. By prior arrangement, I seemed to draw all the 
easiest leads on this climb: The 5.7 chimney at the top 
of the first pitch was soon below, after only minor 
contortions and dislocations, all easily cured with 
outpatient surgery. 
 
[John reflects]  The first pitch sports a "5.7 chimney";
a  deep dank dungeon of a flare with no pro and awkward 
moves. I was so glad Brutus led this.  My nerves would 
have been shot for the rest of the day.


[Bruce continues] 
John powered to the belay. "Good lead, Brutus!" escaped 
his panting as he stripped the rack of all the big 
pieces. In no time he was across the thin 5.11 face 
moves to the base of the overhanging tips-only crack that 
constituted the crux of his lead.  After a few moves up 
and down to inspect and place protection, he casually 
walked up to the next station, leaving an occasional 
piece to give me an excuse to stop and rest.  
 
I followed, shaking, stretching to clean the placements, 
and scrabbling up with a quaking shimmy, a-jingling my 
rack of trinkets, barndooring up a final wild layback 
flake to the belay.
 
My lead. Above stretched 200 feet of steep 2" crack.  I 
nervously checked the rack for the triple pieces in this 
size range, and started up the  corner. Soon I was at the 
first "Belay station" of this triple pitch linkage.  I
checked the topo, and my supply of 2" pieces, glanced 
below [mistake] and noted that I had only placed three 
pieces on this 5.10 "pitch." 

More 2" crack.... another "belay."  Finally the crack
narrowed into some rounded, powerful sidepulls and a
final desperate grab for the ledge.
 
John flew up the pitch, trotted into the forest, and
returned in no time with lunch, rain gear, haul line,
daypack and the #4 Camalot.
 
Below, another team was cruising the pitches. FAST.  By 
the time we had a snack and racked for John's next lead, 
the crux of the route, the team was at our doorstep.
 
5.11c -- Thin pinkielocks, steep desperate pumping thin 
crack.  John's sewing machine leg as he pulled through 
onto the foothold at the end of the crux was a testament 
to the difficulty of this pitch. The 5.9 finish felt 
harder than the 5.10 on my previous triple linkage. John 
looked down, still pumped, "5.9d Brutus!"  

Indeed. I pulled into his belay, exhausted, ready for a 
nap. 
 
Two more pitches ahead for me. The steep 5.10 corner 
above was capped by a desperate 5.10d roof. I pulled onto 
the belay ledge, arms trashed, still teetering on the 
brink of a 30-foot leader fall even as I clipped the anchors.
 
As I led across the 5.10c face traverse and disappeared 
into the offwidth of the next pitch, our tag-team leader 
pulled into the belay and clipped in with John.  After 
listening a bit, he asked John in concern: "Is he 
gripped, having a good time or what?"
 
John replied, with a serious voice, "Both. He always 
does that in wide cracks." They lapsed into silence, and 
resumed listening to my lead...
 
"UUuunnngh! YES! hurt me. HURT ME! make me cry. Hurts
so good.  oh, god, hurts so good! F*ck me. F*ck me 
HARDER! AAAaaaarrrrgggghhhh! [cough] [retch] HURT
meeeeeeeeee!!!!!"
 

[John speaks up:]
I got some really strange looks on that belay.

After following Bruce's get-good-jams-lose-your-feet-
and-swing-across traverse, I come to grips...  er, 
scrapes with the offwidth monster.
 
It lures you in with some footholds over the first few 
moves, then pulls the rug out from under you. I'm facing 
the wrong way for chicken-wings, my armbar sucks, and my 
feet are tenuously wedged.  So I forget that I can't 
really climb offwidth, turn to face it straight on, and 
start Levittating.  Bruce sounds like a cheerleader above
me, "Hand stacks!!  Go John go!"
 
I reach the belay.  Bruce is standing on a triangular 
ledge about the size of a cooler chiseled into the
overhanging arete.  The exposure is startling and 
arousing at the same time.  Bruce, the wall rat, calmly 
hands me a Pepsi.
 
[Bruce resumes the tale]
We hold a conference as the rainstorm moves in. We agree 
to let the other team, still hot on our heels, pass us. 
We have a second, leisurely lunch and watch the rainbow
circle from Generator Crack (Where Gnar plays) to 
Chingando across the Valley. Offwidths at the end of 
the rainbow.
 
Soon the flash team has cruised by and soda finished, 
John heads up the final 5.11 pitch of the climb. 
Incredibly technical, this handcrack is wildly steep. 

[John again]
A few 10+ moves get me a wide stem at the base of the 
overhanging crack.  I put in a piece and look down 
between my legs.  YEOW!  Total exposure!

I make a few more moves and place a stopper below what is 
obviously the crux. As I move up a tiny part of my mind 
whispers, "You just pulled the stopper out with your 
foot."  Another part answers calmly, "I know.  Keep going."  
A third part scream s "You're looking at a 40-footer stupid!"  

A hard move.  Another hard move.  Can't stop.  Still no 
pro.  Another hard move.  A handjam!  I'm panting while I 
slam in a #2 Friend and a Hex just above it.  No time.  
Switch hands, feet high, big move to an undercling-handjam... 
fingerlock...feet...palm the ledge...fingerlock... and 
I'm up!  EEEEYOW!  I scream so loud Inez hears it across 
the river a thousand feet down and a 1/4 mile away.

[Bruce] 
John saunters through the crux up to the belay, and as 
he hauls, the pack shoots out 20 ft. into space before 
beginning its upward journey. Of all the unbelievable 
climbing we have done today, this pitch is the one I am 
glad I didn't have to lead. I am so completely wasted 
when I arrive at the belay under the summit roof, I 
cannot even find the breath to compliment John on this 
wild pitch. I just lay there, like a beached perch, gills 
moving soundlessly.  
 
The final pitch. I flop across a horrible belly-crawl 
traverse, [still in perch mode]. I stand upright at the 
base of the final offwidth,  and....  bump my head. 
[Knock myself silly is a more accurate description.] 
Shaking my head, [ouch, don't DO that!] trying to clear 
the stars from my vision, I grope the skeleton rack and 
set a piece, the second of three on the pitch. 
 
I take a few deep breaths, and look upward, toward the 
top of the Rostrum.  Above stretches 80 feet of 5"-8" 
crack. I finger the #4 Camalot at my side, adjust my 
kneepads, chalk my elbows, and smile. This is what I 
live for.

[John adds]
Bruce names all his packs, and the small bag we've
hauled on this climb is The Goose.  The haul line goes 
tight, "The Goose is ready to fly!"  "Let'er go!"  The 
Goose does a remarkable job considering she has no 
wings, shooting 40ft straight out horizontally from the 
wall. 

However, I don't escape one final indignity.  I want to 
be on the summit so bad I can taste it, but this God, ugh, 
d*mned, grunt, offwidth is blocking my way.  Scrape.  Inch. 
Grunt.  Suddenly my eyes light up.  A foothold!  I step my 
foot up level with my waist and swing into a lieback.  

Bruce, looking down from the belay, sees me.  "Hey!  Stop 
that!  How can you do that to such a beautiful offwidth?!"  

Sheesh!   Some people.  

 
*****************************************************
 
EPILOGUE: [Bruce again]
As I pull onto the summit, I see the welcoming committee 
on the other side of the gap, on the rim of the Valley. 
As she did when we climbed Astroman a year ago, Inez has 
again connived to greet us at the top of one of the 
greatest free climbs of our lives.  Karl Baba is there 
as well. 

In the deepening afternoon, we chatter and babble, then 
ropes coiled, gear sorted and beers in hand, head up the 
slabs and trail through the clean happy air, toward the 
rest of our lives. 
 
                       END
****************************************************