In 1980 my college roommate, Mark Herndon, fell 100 feet on a two-pitch route. I was belaying from a stance at the end of the first pitch, cooling my feet, shoes off. Mark had just cruised the second-pitch crux, a near-holdless paddle up granite glass, and was nearing the end of a 50-foot runout above the route’s only lead bolt when he slipped.

And you thought your last climbing trip was tough.

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.

I met Chris Goplerud at Rifle during a photo shoot, when I asked him to spray Josh Wharton in the face with a Super Soaker.

At this the most lovely old man got up at the furthest and humblest end of the hall, as he had got up on all similar occasions for the past half-century.

THIS UPDATED SPORT-CLIMBING harness from Petzl is literally cool.