“The camelback got in my way and I ended up falling out of chimney,” yells Doug “but I caught myself on the ledge below. I’m ok now.” We continue climbing together for next few hundred feet, stopping once to switch leaders and re-rack. We simul climb through loose rock and even through a large tree. I ask a few times for a belay, but Doug assures me that I’m on toprope, as he already reached the downclimbing section. I grumble and move on.

Mid-afternoon. We’re once again five pitches from the top of the wall. Doug leads the first Zig Zag, a tips 12a corner. I watch as he instinctively positions his body into the perfect sequences. I follow, doing my best to impersonate his flawless style, and fighting off the fatigue of climbing 2,000 feet up to this point. I lead the next, easier pitch, and he offers me the following, crux pitch. I confidently offer to lead the final slab instead, and he takes off on the lead, keeping his gear greatly spaced and punching it between placements. I follow, and one easier pitch later we’re at the base of the slab.

The handholds of the 5.12 slab pitch are all caked in chalk. Ticked feet are everywhere. Creeping up the wall, I soon realize that many of the ticks and chalked holds are not marking the best holds, or even any usable holds for that matter. During a particularly runout section, I cast off into the unknown relieved by the sight of giant poofs of chalk, indicating big, positive holds. In actuality, none of the holds are positive, and I’m relying 90% of my weight on smeary feet. I clip the next bolt and feel a great sigh of relief. At the chickenhead, I see chalk leading up and left. I follow the path, death-gripping the hold and fighting to gain purchase with my feet before falling back onto the slab below. Bursting out a slew of obscenities, I scream and curse until my throat (which is already swollen from the flu) is completely raw.

“Lower me,” I bark. “Not until you work out the sequence,” says Doug. Getting back in position, I get my right hand on the chickenhead, turn my palm out and mantle the hold before getting my feet on adequate holds. I lower, pull the rope and lead again, this time paying close attention to the sequence. I arrive at the next anchor hooting and hollering. From the stance at the next belay, I watch Doug follow the lead, the sun basking the wall around us in a golden light. One easy pitch later we’re on the summit, the sun quickly fading. After shooting pics with Doug’s camera phone, we sprint down the cables, and dart back to the base of the wall without needing our headlamps. An hour or so later we’re back on the Valley floor.

Within minutes of reaching our campsite I crack a well-deserved beer. Next stop is the pizza deck, and more (tall) beer (for me, Doug doesn’t drink). Riding Doug’s bike back to the campsite in the dark, I hear “hey you,” and stop. It’s the rangers, and they have stopped me for riding my bike without a light. I’m given a roadside sobriety test. Focusing all my attention on the task at hand, I imagine I’m back on the slab lead on Half Dome. Knowing the seriousness of the situation — a BUI is nearly the equivalent charge as a DUI — I listen very carefully to the instructions and tap into my focus and balance.

The tests go on and on, one after another until I’m finally led to the ranger’s vehicle. He pulls out a gray box from the car. “What is that?” I ask shaking. He hands me tube attached to a sensor. “Blow in here…How many beers have you had again…You can go… Just don’t ride your bike.” I walk back to the campground, get in my sleeping bag and stare at the stars until sunrise. I’m processing two things: the great feeling of succeeding on a big climbing goal, and being grateful to be sleeping under the stars instead of behind bars. Soon after sunrise I hitchhike out of the Valley and catch my flight back to Colorado.