CRACK! The jolt back onto the bolt, into which you are still quickdraw-tethered, stuns you. You only fell two feet, but your neck is stiff and your innards feel like they’ve been kicked by a mule.

John Long, original Stonemaster and climbing's most popular writer, spills his guts.

Six-sided columns ran up basalt ramparts like a stack of Grecian pillars. A dike of perfect gold stairs split a strange, 300-foot tower of gray choss. Snowy mountains with slopes of varicolored grasses fell precipitously to orchards, sedge and clear rivers. Gorges of volcanic rock were cloaked in fog.

It's fall, but the Red River Gorge is so humid we're all looking for a break from the heat. The lights are finally set for a portrait I'm taking of a big name, 5.14-sending sponsored athlete, when over walks Nelson Carayannis, a climber of considerably less talent and strength. Carayannis, casually gripping a Gatorade bottle, asks if I'm ready.

Where are all the dirtbags? I'm not talking about these imposter dirtbags, the new-age lurkers taking up all the parking spots at Camp 4, Indian Creek and Miguel's Pizza with their pimped-out, Direct TV-receiving Sprinter vans that look like college dorm rooms on 26s.

I like nothing more than a sweet nothing. Therefore, I like the Magic Anorak. Tipping the scales at just over three ounces (the weight of a locking carabiner), the Magic is a serious contender for the title World's Lightest Shell.