I awoke to find my face smeared up against a window staring out at clouds. In front of me was a generic airline breakfast. Kevin was slightly more awake and was picking at his own feast skillfully avoiding a small greasy sausage. After inhaling my breakfast, I settled back in my seat. Just as I was about to go unconscious again, I remembered that I had several small pieces of rock I had collected at the summit of Petit Grepon. I reached in my pocket and handed one to Kevin. "Gee, thanks!" he said. "With all that was going on I forgot to get some souvenirs." After a moment he said something like "That was one hell of a climb". Whatever he said, I agreed with him and then faded back to sleep again.

Several months later, while scuba diving off of the cost of Florida, after yet another NASA meeting at Cape Canaveral, I pulled out a carabiner and that piece of the Petit Grepon out at a depth of 60 feet. Kevin was there too. He managed to smile despite the regulator in his mouth. This stuff stays with you.

After a week of space station meetings in Torino, Italy (aka Turin, as in the shroud thereof) I managed to make a side trip up to Chamonix, France, the center of haute tourism. Chamonix is surrounded by some outrageously close mountains. Adjacent to Mt. Blanc, by far the largest of the peaks, are the Chamonix Aiguilles which include the Aiguille du Grépon , first climbed in 1881. I think I was able to see it from the center of town. Overpriced souvenir photo murals show it much better. In shape and height (11,420 feet) it does bear some resemblance to its "petit" namesake in Colorado.

I had hoped to take the tram (téléphérique) up to the top of Mt. Blanc for a better look, but the second leg is out of order for a while. I decided to check out the local climbing stores and gawk at the scenery like everyone else. Yvon C. even has an outlet here. They are closed for one of those exaggerated euro-siestas. How convenient. I ended up in a local climbing shop buying a piece of pro and a climbing guide book (written in French) for Valle D'Aosta, a region in Northern Italy I had passed through on the drive up from Torino.

Meanwhile, my shoes and harness sat in the rental car getting no quality time whatosoever. No one to climb with. Oh well. More luggage space which could have been better used to ferry souvenirs and other sundry trinkets back home.

Photo: This is the statue erected in 1887 in the center of Chamonix to commemorate the first ascent of Mt. Blanc.

Eventually, I ended up standing in the center of Chamonix looking at those magnificent peaks, all the while rolling a small piece of the Petit Grepon in my hand - like the sort of talisman one might carry on a pilgrimage.

Perhaps that is what I was doing in Chamonix - making some sort of connection between here and there. From what I was later to learn, I was not alone in seeking to make such connections. You see, one of the crew of STS-40, Jim Bagian, carried a small piece of Mt. Everest into space - one which had been collected by Tom Hornbein in 1960 - the highest height any piece of the highest mountain had ever been. I later wrote about this in an article which appeared CLIMBING magazine.

Tim and Luke told me that this experience would settle in over a period of time. It has. During 6 of the 7 weeks since the climb I have been on incessant travel nearly all of it business (NASA): 2 weeks in Alabama, 1 week in California, 1 week in Connecticut and Maine (vacation), and 2 weeks in Torino, Italy. I have been living in the same clothes packed into the same luggage. I have only been able to bring a few things with me on all of these trips: among them, this narrative which I am still tinkering with. When I have managed to retreat into my own inner sanctuary, my thoughts have invariably turned to this event and my attempt to capture - to preserve - its essence.

Perhaps the most pervasive impact of this climb has been a feeling of confidence and contentment with myself the likes of which I have not felt for a long time. The day after I began writing this recollection, I was in Huntsville in the midst of a somewhat tense exchange regarding a rather minor yet important technical detail which I felt someone was ignoring. Just as my opponent was challenging my assertions, I had a flash of a moment on the climb when I simply had no choice but to go with what I had with me. With that memory shimmering before me I proceeded to win the point I had been trying to make. Later in the day I found myself immersed in a room with a hundred engineers listening to someone drone on about some arcane legalistic procurement regulation. I found myself wishing that I was on the summit again playing with the spider and watching the clouds roll by. This happens almost every other day.

We have been out on the water for two days now. Life aboard the boat is not unlike life upon a cliff. Things need to be stowed when not in use, you have to work ropes very quickly to keep the sails filled, and you need to secure yourself at all times from being tossed about. Living in the cramped quarters below, where I am jotting down these thoughts, is not unlike the accommodations within a space shuttle. I have been inside the astronaut's shuttle training mock-ups in Houston: the crew cabin is precisely the same size as the cabin of this boat.

Tonight, as the sun was setting on the water, I showed my photos of the Petit Grepon climb to my crewmates - something I seem to have done a hundred times since the climb. Their faces registered a different mix of expressions ranging from outright awe of my abilities to outright puzzlement regarding my sanity. This happens every time I show the photos to non-climbers. I tried to explain, but again, fell short of providing a true reason why I do this sort of thing.

Later, we all huddled together on the deck and engaged in profound after dinner talk about our place in the cosmos - our thoughts enhanced and lubricated by a bottle of well-chosen Merlot. Eventually, everyone went below. I decided to go back up and sleep on the deck. After the Moon had set, the stars came out in a riotous swath which stretched from horizon to horizon. Meteors and satellites galore. Once again I was alone with a vast panorama before me. So far yet so near.

The current and wind interacted ever so subtly so as to rotate the ship very, very slowly making the Universe look as if it moved about me. The water was so still that I could see some of the brighter stars reflected in the water thus adding to the illusion of an all-encompassing firmament. I fell asleep on the deck looking up at the mast as it moved against the sky.

I dreamt I was on Petit Grepon again. I awoke to find myself floating on the sea with the stars all around me. I really am getting to like this recurring feeling - one of dynamic balance between the universe within and the universe outside. That is what this climb did for me. It took me so far away from things that I ended up moving closer to them.

Ask a climber how they climb, and they'll be quick to spew forth volumes of technical minutae, scenery descriptions, and ironic asides. They'll also offer to take you up and see what it is like. Yet ask them to explain why they climb and they are are curiously silent. I am no different.

But you really should try it.