As the week passed, and the majority of climber's traveled home to start work again, company for Mr.Checky began to dwindle; in fact, we were pretty much the only one's left. Mr.Checky is not the man's name, but that is what we came to call him amongst ourselves because it is the name of one of his first ascents, a 5.14 (one bitch of a route) done supposedly around the second or third try, so we figured it was only right to name him after it.

Unfortunetely, his indifference towards us did not reside with a lack of company. He still stared through us like glass, answered with grunts or jumbled moans, and quipped with squinting eyes "You...want...another?" whenever we asked for an additional baguette in the morning. Yes, the four of us would like another piece of bread unless of course we would be offending Ghandi. And we would also like more oil, McDonalds, scattered war in the Middle East, and a thirteen-year old cowboy for a president. Thank you.

Until one night changed everything.

I was wasted of course, running my mouth and sputtering irrational vulgarities like any red-blooded, college student should. Mr. Checky sat cross-legged in the back corner, reading some Spanish Guapo Conquistadoro climbing magazine. Me, Kurt, Neil, and Vasya giggled as we huddled around one of the hardwood tables, buzzing off of whatever mixture of beer, Vino, and Dry Gin turned in our stomachs. It was just us and Mr. Checky. The stage was set.

I stumbled to the serving counter. Thinking that no one had taken any notice, I started talking to myself.

"Mr. Checky, I need two beers, pronto! I'm splashin' the pot. Look, I'm splashin' the pot baby!" I cheered as I threw a few euros down on top of a bunch of dimes and nickels.

"Hey, look at me, I'm Mr.Checky. I bolted and climbed every route in the world, including your mother!" I continued, flexing and grunting, all the while unaware that he stood right behind me. He crossed to the other side of the table with a wry grin on his face, and gave me three beers.

"Thanks for the extra beer! Why do you hate Americans pal?" I rattled off without a pause like some sort of incoherent robot.

He started smiling like the Grinch Who Stole Christmas. "No, no, no. I don't," he answered unabashed in an awkward sounding Spanish accent. My eyes did not falter or shift. He could tell I wanted to know more. More about him. This place. So we started talking.

It turns out that the seemingly infinite number of routes put up among endless orange and dark-gray limestone walls began with Mr. Checky, who is actually Toni Arbones. In 1986, Toni left his family, friends, girlfriend, schooling, and just about everything else essential to his life behind to pursue rock climbing in Siurana. He and five other climbing partners moved into the dry, desolate mountains without food or water. No plan.

All they had was passion.