Another short nap and I felt much better. By now I had begun an exhaustive survey of my universe. The only living company I had was a small spider which looked something like a lobster and a small bird which kept making dive bomber attacks on me. In the distance I heard several marmots screeching at each other. Way off, on Shark's Tooth, I could see a climber with a yellow helmet barely 100 feet below the summit. I waved. No response. They either couldn't see me or had more pressing use for their arms than waving at some bum sleeping on a pillar.

All kinds of thoughts went through my head: the sheer implausibility of what I had just done, the anxiety that would accompany the long rappels I would have to do to get off of this spire, how weird it would be a day or two from now when I was back at work, how truly special my life has been, and how absolutely apparent my awareness of this moment was.

My mind was also on the death of Luigi Napolatiano, a representative from the European Space Agency who died in his sleep, apparently as a result of altitude-induced stresses upon his heart several days before during our meeting. One thought after another - each of them would have been quite pedestrian on the ground. But here, so very much up in the sky, all of them took on a certain poignancy for no reason other than the fact that I was thinking them in this most unusual place.

Two hours were passed by observing a series of threatening storm clouds, championship marmot fights (or were they mating?), and the curious forays of the spider. After a while, I began to notice a rather curious sensation: one which I had never experienced before yet one which was hauntingly familiar. Remember: I was sitting all alone on a skinny rock spire way up in the air without a rope, no food, and minimal rain gear. It was impossible for me to get back to level ground. If something happened to the guys below, I would be in a sticky situation, to say the least. I had, at most, several feet in any direction within which to move. I had no choice but to resign to my isolation. But these guys were good. The risks were minimal and the view was great. I chose to spend my time admiring the view.

So what was this familiar sensation? I have read a number of astronaut's personal recollections wherein they voiced similar thoughts which occurred to them while orbiting above the Earth. They witness a vista that so few people will ever share. At the same time, they are physically separated in an equally unique way. Meanwhile, Earth rolls by just out of reach in all its majesty. Same with me atop this pillar. The isolation had caused me to feel physically detached from the world around me. Yet the huge expanse that lay before me was hard to ignore. So far yet so close, so to speak.

If you hadn't already guessed by now, I'd really like to make a trip to space. Rock climbing kind of gives your psyche a test run for that sort of thing. Even if I don't ever have the chance to go there personally, I do have the sort of job that allows me to experience it vicariously via the people I know and the hardware I help to fly. Funny though, that friend of mine who flew in space recently thinks I AM CRAZY for climbing things like this, yet HE was the one who rode atop that multi-million pound fuel tank as it jumped above the sky. His daughter had just taken a beginner's course in climbing in Estes Park the day before hence the biased risk assesment. As always, how we internalize and analyze risk is highly subjective. Statistically speaking, the two of us are more at risk as we ride in a car to work each day than we were during our respective ascent and descent.

At 4:00 pm I noticed the shouting from my friends was getting louder. I felt a curious mix of pleasure at the prospect of sharing the summit and displeasure in knowing that my sole mastery of the summit was about to come to an end. Just as that trade-off occurred to me, Luke popped over the edge. "About time you got here" I said. "Hey man, we were just climbing slow, that's all" Luke responded in a mock whining voice. Next up was Tim. Then Kevin. Kevin had to clean up several pitches and was complaining about all of the junk he had to carry. "Shut up and smile for the camera" I told him. A smile exploded from ear to ear as he popped into view. Kevin was having fun too. Boy was I glad to see them all.

So, there we all were. Kevin and I exchanged a warm handshake and a high-five. After the obligatory photo opportunities - or "hero shots" as we call them, we set off to rig up our descent. This would be a long rappel - about 100 feet followed by another of almost 100 feet. As Tom Petty was saying in my ear "Coming down is the hardest thing."

Tim went first. Then me. Owing to the cramped quarters on the summit, we never really had a chance to see what the descent looked like until we were ready to start. Ouch. A sheer drop off of a skinny piece of rock. No time for hesitation - I was off. After a few minutes to orient myself I immediately began to enjoy the trip. Only now did I truly see how skinny this thing was. Next down was Kevin, then Luke.

Another 100 foot rappel and we were at the base of a small chimney. A quick scramble and we were done - except for the three hour hike down. A series of boulder fields, snow fields (which we slid down as if we were skiing), and sylvan trails, and we were back at the cars. The gear took its time getting into the car. On our way out, a ranger stopped Tim and Luke in the truck ahead of us. I heard him describe a suspect accused of assaulting some park visitors and then ask Tim if he had seen this person. Tim said no. Our turn was next. I said "we have been climbing all day. I've only been looking at these guys." The ranger smiled and we drove off.

After a mad dash to a public restroom in Estes Park, we performed a minor feeding frenzy at McDonalds. We reached Tim's house in Denver several hours later. I collapsed into a bed at some time after midnight.

No dreams. Just sleep.