John Bachar laces up his boots and cinches the sling on his chalk bag. “Ready?” Only then do I realize he means to climb all two thousand feet solo, without a rope. To save face, I agree, thinking: Well, if he suggests something too crazy, I’ll just draw the line. I was the first to start soloing out at Josh anyhow....

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

The tao of Paul gleason, Stonemaster Emeritus....

Cast by chance into the frenzy of a dramatic Yosemite rescue, the author confronts his youthful fears head-on....

Chasing ghosts on Hawaiian sea cliffs....

The search for the source....

John Long relives the adventures of the Stonemasters when they first began rock climbing at Pirates Cove at Newport Beach, California....

The myth of Oliver Moon changed the face of Yosemite climbing forever....

Coming clean on the mysterious first ascent of a Yosemite classic....

The greatest riches lie at the end of your dreams...

And you thought your last climbing trip was tough....

The never-ending pursuit of new routes, fame and glory....

The cement-bucket drop test, swami belts and the beginning of the end of a fabled climbing club....

Calling Buhl on the famous mountaineer’s truisms...

Sammy and I hunkered into the shade beneath the Weeping Wall, Suicide Rock, panting between pulls on a gallon jug of water. The sun had just crawled over Tahquitz Rock, a mile across the Sunshine Valley, and heat waves welled off the Suicide slabs. No big....

Lynn Hill and I spent the winter of 1981 in Las Vegas, climbing daily at Red Rocks and plowing through nights at dead-end jobs. After roughly 10 seasons of climbing 300 days a year, my learning curve had flattened and I found myself singing the same old song....

As far back as I could remember I’d wondered which of mankind’s faiths and illusions I could choose as my sustaining light, and I’d chosen the greatest existential pathology of them all: that if I worked hard enough, and smartly enough, my greatest challenges would someday flow effortlessly under my hands like glassy Malibu swells....

Navigating Commercial Hoopla On A Bellyful Of Bad Fish...