We searched frantically for an anchor, found one, threaded the ropes, and I led the charge –again- into the inky blackness. After a mere thirty feet, I spied another anchor and contemplated clipping in. Deciding I remembered hearing the ropes hit the ground (yeah right) I continued because — and I quote (myself) — "I'm rapping a sport route, if worse comes to worse, I'll hang off a bolt while Tony threads the anchor I passed." …or something.

I reached the ground. Tony quickly joined me and after a celebratory, and much needed, food and water break, we attempted every conceivable method of pulling the ropes only to fail on each permutation. Boo. I made the executive decision that we were leaving them up and we did just that.

Hiking out took a half hour and we reached the car around nine p.m. (we started at two p.m.-ish)! Driving home we dialogued continuously of food and water, stumbled in the house, accomplished both, and collapsed.

Rousing ourselves at the ungodly hour of seven in the a.m. the next morn, our plan was to sprint in, retrieve the ropes, and drive Tony three hours north to Portland for his direct flight (amen) to Tokyo. Luckily, Tony assured me, his flight wasn't until "three or four p.m.". But, aha(!), upon getting in the car, we — well, he — realized he left at 1:50 (curses only two hours too short)! And so, I executive decisioned again and we went straight to the airport without further incident and Tony (I am assuming) made his flight and got home safe.

The End.

But wait, because the ropes were still up... so here comes the nightmare part of the story because, not only was I Tony-less, but I was to undergo things I wouldn't wish upon DEATH him(her)self.

Driving into downtown, I found the Portland marathon was in full swing! I spent two hours driving in circles unable to find anything remotely familiar. The highlight of which was when one of Portland's finest (a cop) waved me down a one way street the wrong way. He waved, I gestured at the one way sign pointing at me, he gestured again violently (and with both hands), I shrugged, and drove on.

After an agonizing time in the car I found the Lloyd's center (giant mall), watched "Superbad" (hilarious), and then went to my friend's house (which I found without further incident). After dinner we watched "Knocked Up" (funnier than I would have guessed) and went to sleep. Getting woken up the following morning at seven (why god why) I jumped in the car, immediately hit rush hour, and spent forty-five minutes alternately stuck in bumper to bumper traffic, or, driving at a blistering pace in directions I knew not where. The highlight of which was, I got so frustrated I actually took to yelling out the window at the city, to wit: "I hate you Portland! I hate you!"

After a few years, I found myself on the highway and homeward bound. Fuming from all the lost time and nonsense, I failed to notice — until I was driving through deserted mountains- that my gas light was on — yay! Cresting the pass, I put the car in neutral, and coasted twenty-seven miles (at an elevation loss of over two thousand feet) into the Indian reservation town of Warm Springs.

I pulled into the one — and only — gas station and endured yet another horror show of time theft as I waited nine minutes for someone to show up at the seeming abandoned car in front of me, and then eleven more for them to gas up, pay, and leave. Boo! Filling my tank in record time, I hotfooted it out of there, and stopped at Redpoint (the climbing shop near Smith Rocks) so I could recruit help to retrieve the ropes. Luckily, my buddy Lucas was up for it and off we went. After hiking in, Lucas locked off one rope while I ascended the other using a gri-gri and a prussic. An exhausting half hour later I hung from the anchor and found, even after I untwisted the rope an astounding eight(!) times, they still wouldn't pull (due to the angle).

Topping out, I pulled both ropes, coiled them, put them on my back, and spent an hour scrambling exposed fifth class terrain — in my sneakers (trainers to you Brits) — even going so far as having to rappel off more single bolt anchors so I could 'safely' cross crevasse/DEATH abyss's which dropped three hundred feet –or more- to the valley floor! The word 'horrorshow', really, does it no justice. All I could think was, "Thank the gods (every single one of them) Tony and I did NOT do this in the dark — DEATH!"

I finally did a double rope rap to the ground and was so exhausted and dehydrated that, while I hiked out to the car, my legs failed and I fell onto the ground — yeah. Luckily, all I had to do after that was drive to the car dealership, fight with them about my car, NOT get it back, and then go home so I could put the gear away, eat, drink, shower, and fall down (again). The End (again).

And, just because, let's just say it one more time: DEATH!