By 2 p.m. on the second day, the rain was falling like steel chisels. Slumped atop Boot Flake, halfway up the Nose of El Capitan, I watched in a detached stupor as one of my partners, Chris Rowins, labored on the rain-slick King Swing pendulum.

The tao of Paul gleason, Stonemaster Emeritus.

I was gambling: two kings face down in front of me, and a third in the middle of the table, along with two spades and half my chips. I shoved my remaining $150 into the middle. Of course my opponent called and turned over two more spades. Climbing photographers aren’t the highest-paid people in the world, so a $540 pot was plenty to fire my adrenal glands into hyperdrive.

Ever hear of Tim Clifford? No? That's because, unlike some boulderers who make their presence known to anyone within spraying distance, Clifford keeps a low profile while quietly knocking off the hardest problems.

The scorched desert expanse surrounding Las Vegas smears together into one terrible brown color as Chris Sharma, Dalia Ojeda, Miguel and I whiz along at 90 miles per hour in an old Jeep Grand Cherokee. The American West, this celebrated frontier, as tame as it has become with commercialism and super highways, is still the last good place I know of for real adventure.

SIERRA DESIGNSWICKED LIGHT | $180 | WEIGHT: 14 ouncesThis sewn-through bag, the lightest Sierra Designs has ever made, is the company's introduction t...