The Golden Desert pitch is a sweeping dihedral with shallow fingerlocks. The light is fading and I'm fatigued, but still moving fast, straining to see the little edges and dimples in the granite. Past the crux, I plug in a yellow TCU, but can't see what the lobes are doing. I could call for tension, give up... But I go for it, groping for holds like a blind man, and fall inches from a jug. The cam rips and I'm dangling in darkness, 30 feet lower, blood dripping off my fingers into space.
That night on the ledge I turn to Jason.
"Dude, I'm haunted by failure."
"Well, there's worse things to be haunted by," he replies.
"Like what?"
"Ghosts. Ghosts would be way worse."
We laugh like lunatics.
Two days later we are on top, the route done, sipping espresso. Then we strap on the haulbags and stumble down the trail, wobbling from the load.
Everything hurts, but it doesn't matter anymore.
