Starting at 9:00 AM, we guessed that we'd all be on the summit by noon. This is important when you consider that a storm slams into these mountains every afternoon. Getting caught in a storm after a climb is one thing. Being caught somewhere on a 800 foot lightning rod during a thunderstorm is another.

I decided to let Tim "lead" the climb. He agreed with my reasoning. Just climbing this cliff would tax my resources to the max. Leading would be beyond the bounds of my capabilities at this point. "Leading" means that you go first and place some sort of mechanical device in a crack and then attach a rope so as to arrest a potential fall. I had done some lead climbing before - the most recent being a few weeks earlier in Virginia. At that time I did something silly and took what we call a "screamer" - i.e. a 12 foot fall. Ouch. I had landed on my feet with my knees slamming against the cliff. I walked like RoboCop for the next several days at work thus eliciting a lot of abuse from co-workers.

We refer to these mechanical devices as "protection" or "pro" for short. We didn't pound any pitons in (but did take advantage of a few that had been placed before us - probably in 1955 for all I know). Instead we use a variety of specially shaped wedges and spring-controlled, retractable cam devices. One person (the "leader") climbs and places these pieces of pro every 10 feet or so. He (or she - women make the most elegant climbers) then clips in their rope via a ubiquitous oblong metal ring device with a spring-loaded gate called a carabiner ("biner" ala climber lingo).

In other words, every few feet, we place a pulley of sorts and drag a rope through it. Should someone fall we use a high-friction or "belay" device which locks off very fast to prevent the rope from moving. The person in control of this device is called the "belayer". Assuming that the pro holds and the belayer acts in a prompt manner (we like to assume such things) the leader can fall no more than twice the vertical distance above the last piece of pro - plus a few more feet owing to rope stretch.

We measure the distance we climb during these tag team ascents in what we call "pitches". A pitch tends to be 20 feet or so less than the length of a rope. In our case that was around 120 feet per pitch. Our guess was that this would be a 6 pitch climb. The leader climbs and is followed by his partner who "cleans" the pitch - that is, they remove the pro and place it back on a sling which is called a "rack". The first pitch was a breeze. Second pitch involved a horizontal move called a "traverse". I almost pulled a big rock off of the cliff when I grabbed onto it. Oops. Won't do that again. The guys below might get mad at me.

Belaying the third pitch, the altitude and lack of food (OK, OK, we had a couple of light beers with that Mexican food the night before) started to get to me. I started to feel a little drowsy. Almost yelled up to Tim. No. No backing out now. I did a self-restart like I had done innumerable times during college lectures and got myself going again. You see, once you start a multi-pitch climb, you DO NOT stop unless a really bad storm comes up or someone is hurt. Serious injury could result - not to mention the fact that expensive equipment might be left behind.

As I began to climb another pitch I discovered that I felt less drowsy. Maybe it was the increased activity pumping more blood into my brain. I didn't stop to analyze the why of the situation. All I knew is that movement worked. I decided to tell Tim that I would feel a little more energetic if we could just keep moving please.

As I moved along the pitch I had to stop every few feet to take out a piece of pro. I noticed that I became intensely focused upon the act of removing each piece, almost forgetting where I was for a moment. Time would dilate and I would find myself doing 5 minutes of thinking in a few moment's time. Then, as soon as I placed each piece on my rack, the reality of the climb reasserted itself. My only companionship was the piece of hard candy I sucked on and the occasional replay of the Tom Petty tune "Learning to Fly" in my head. Curiously, each piece of candy lasted just long enough for me to reach Tim.

I also found myself taking special notice of the living things I encountered (I am a biologist and am prone to do such things) - My boss at NASA has made a habit of bringing in a wildflower everyday and leaving it and a short description in the main entryway for all to see. As I climbed along, I would find myself toying with the idea of collecting something only to realize that the sample would certainly be mutilated by the time it got back to Virginia. Of course it is also illegal to remove plants or animals from a National Park. Enter a fatigue-induced mental image of a ranger hanging out of a helicopter with a bullhorn placing me under arrest for molesting wildlife on a cliff.

Another series of thoughts popped up. A friend of mine, Drew Gaffney, flew on a recent Space Shuttle mission, STS-40. This was a 9 day flight devoted to biomedical research. As such, I paid considerable attention to the crew's activities. One thing I noticed as I watched the videotapes at home each night was the fastidious, diligent, deliberate care with which the astronauts took out and the replaced their tools and coordinated their movements in zero-G. With 7 people in a small confined space, economy of action and practiced forethought are of paramount importance.

The same is true in climbing. Curious thing though; to be so overtly pre-occupied with a personal battle against gravity yet to be thinking of how people react to its total absence. Images of free-floating astronauts passed through my mind. Luckily, I didn't try and transfer any of the zero gravity procedures to the climb.

Around this time I also became aware of a rather pressing need: to head to the bathroom. Another burden to carry up the cliff. Answering the more "difficult aspect" of nature's urges is a rather protracted proctological procedure when you're living in a vertical universe. The people below don't always appreciate it. I decided to wait until I was on more level ground. There is an analogy here too with spaceflight. Sometimes, there just ain't no graceful way to go. Good thing I never found that cup of coffee.

Eventually we finished our traverse of the south face and reached a ledge that wrapped around to the east face. This ledge was large enough for us to sprawl out upon without bumping into each other. Some belay positions are so crowded that you and your partner perform an intricate dance to reshuffle equipment while remaining clipped into a piece of pro. After three pitches, Tim and I had a system down wherein I handed him the pieces I had cleaned in the fashion he preferred to have on his rack. Another pitch and it was automatic. We spoke less and less. When we did, it was partially tactical, part gee whiz. The universe around you is so impossible to ignore that speaking of it is not only unnecessary, it's unwanted and burdensome.

Tim offered me encouragement when I needed it. I was at a disadvantage: I was not acclimated to the thin air and I had never climbed something as prolonged as this ascent. Tim is an acclimated native and a seasoned climber. I had only met Tim the day before. Within an hour or so we were climbing a cliff. My life was in his hands. You just accept this sort of thing - that John Wayne movie logic again. On this climb, he entrusted his life to me, someone he had known for barely 18 hours. This is a profound sort of trust - one that is hard to explain. You can tell immediately if a climber knows what he is doing. It is almost instinctual - the way they move, the way they talk - the way they laugh. Hard to pin down - but you learn to trust - and like most climbers very, very fast.

By now it had been several hours since we had last had any communication with the team below us. I had traded a "hey dude" with Kevin and Luke a couple of hundred feet back. We were becoming concerned with the lack of recent updates, so both Tim and I tied in and leaned over the cliff to yell out. No answer. We had been hearing voices and the all to familiar clankety-clank of metallic pro bouncing around on a rack. It sounded as if the sounds were echoing back and forth between the Petit Grepon and a triangular tower to the northeast named "The Sabre". We were later to discover that the sounds came from climbers on "Shark's Tooth", another spire located directly northwest which towered 500 feet over the summit of our climb.

With no clear indication that anything was amiss, we decided to press ahead (because of the bad weather) and wait at the summit. We expected to get rained on. Being well behind us, there was no easy way that Luke and Kevin could get off safely without our assistance. Better that we got up there as soon as possible and had everything ready for them.

Tim took off to make the first pitch on the east face. We were now 600 or so feet up. Tim had moved out of my line of sight. I now had to rely on the feel of the rope to tell what he was doing. The rope was not exerting that familiar, reassuringly steady tug that tells the belayer that his partner is moving steadily across the rockface. I was now starting to get a little concerned about our own progress.

This was a really nasty pitch - little place to place pro. Tim was being careful. A yell up got a semi-reassuring - "OK". The clouds were darker. Now raindrops. "Oh no. What am I doing here?" I thought. " I should have been satisfied with yesterday's 400 footer and done that leisurely hike up Long's Peak instead. What are we gonna do if it does rain?" The concern continued for ten minutes or so. Then, almost at the same time the clouds began to clear and the rope began to move. Tim had passed over the hardest part or "crux" of the climb. A few more minutes and he was ready to belay me up the climb.

Up I went. It became immediately apparent why Tim had encountered problems. While my risk of falling and getting hurt was less of a concern for me than it was for Tim, the nature of the route he took still made NOT falling the desirable thing to do. At several places, the rope zig-zagged through the various pro placements. If I did fall, I would likely swing around and slam into something. This pitch called on every iota of climbing skill I had. On several moves I shouted up to Tim "tension - better have me on this one, bud, I think I'm loosing it." I came very close several times but didn't loose it.

On several occasions I was supporting most of my weight on a couple of fingers and one of my toes as I moved the other arm and foot into place so as to switch off the load. The secret to climbing is to keep moving - to be dynamic. The longer you hang off of part of your body, the faster you overload and fatigue the muscles. Spread the load and you can keep going for a long time. To help us stick to the rockface, we use special, high-friction climbing shoes. Nonetheless, when fancy tools aren't enough, sheer strength is always helpful. I gave myself an attaboy for all of that weight lifting, pull-ups, and running I had done the previous Winter.

As I reached the top of the pitch I reached for the last piece of pro. Little effort was needed to remove it and the piece above it. Had Tim fallen while leading, these pieces would probably not have held the fall. They would both have popped out or "zippered". The placements further down were more robust or "bombproof", so I am certain that he would have not fallen more than 20 feet or so. Still, having taken several falls on other climbs, I can assure you that falling and hitting hard, immovable things like rocks can be colossal drag.

At last: we were at the last pitch. "Really simple from here on", Tim told me. I was now in automatic mode - a careful balance between sheer exhaustion, adrenaline high, and undaunted determination. I was almost there. Nothing could or would be allowed to stop me. Off Tim went. The rope never stopped moving - clear proof that this was a cake walk. Within 10 minutes he was on the summit. At last. The top. So off I went. A short traverse horizontally and I was suddenly standing on a small ledge which straddled the sides of a vast pillar of rock. For the first time I was smacked in the face with the undeniable immensity of what I had climbed. My response was to yell "ausgezeichnet" ("outta sight" in German). Those who know don't speak - they yell.

A few minutes later and I was sitting on the summit. After a warm exchange of a handshake, Tim offered me half of a Snickers bar which he had been hoarding. I turned my head and spat out the half-dissolved piece of candy I had been sucking upon. I watched it arc outwards and speed to Earth. I then turned my attentions to the partial Snicker's bar - a veritable feast.

Around me was a flat expanse of rock 12 or so feet long and 8 feet wide - about the size of my cluttered office. The surface was more or less solid, but there was some sort of erosion process at work. As I was later to discover, freeze/thaw cycles and repeated lightning strikes were the two major factors that contributed to the weathering of this pillar. The surface of the rock was virtually untouched by human hands - rather surprising when you consider that this is a very popular climb. Then again, it is not all that surprising - climbers tend, for the most part, to leave things exactly as they first found them.

The view from this perch was stupendous. On either side were the towering triangular pillars of Shark's Tooth and The Sabre. I would occasionally get a bit of vertigo looking up at them. In back of the Petit Grepon, was a cylindrical pillar or "gendarme" with a summit similar in size to the one I was sitting upon. Across from me was a ring of peaks with large snow fields on their upper slopes. 1000 feet below me was a glacier-fed pond (Sky Pond) who's color alternated between a shimmering turquoise blue and a deeper cobalt blue depending upon whether or not the sun was out.

And oh was it quiet. You almost didn't want to talk. You just wanted to drink things in. Tim obviously enjoyed the view - and took some pleasure in helping me come up here to see it. This stuff is meant to be shared - but not vocally.

After a few minutes we decided that Tim ought to go back down to the last difficult pitch and drop a fixed rope for Kevin and Luke so as to speed their ascent. Rain was inevitable. W'd been rather lucky so far - only a few drops. We didn't want to press our luck. This way, Luke or Kevin would not have to lead and could climb up while Tim belayed. Since we had only one rope, this meant that I would belay Tim down and then let him take the rope thus leaving me alone on the summit. It was now 2:00 pm. Tim smiled and disappeared over the edge. A few minutes later he was in place. I made doubly certain that I was attached to some pro on the summit and removed the rope from my climbing harness. The rope slid off over the edge of the cliff like a snake in fast rewind.