Earlier that day, Dan had wandered upon the Chilean boys taking turns missing a beer can with the pistol. Dan politely asked for the weapon and proceeded to drill the can with nine out of 10 shots. He’d thanked the guys, and then walked on like the Outlaw Josey Wales. Dan’s odd knowledge of close-quarters combat did nothing to dispel the ubiquitous notion abroad that all Americans are gun-wielding nutjobs.

In the week after that first foray to Trinidad, we had managed some cragging on a couple smaller cliffs during the rains, and Katie and I had tiptoed up several pitches on Vista del Condor, a 12-pitch 5.12b on the featured slabs of La Gorilla. Still, we had not yet completed a big route. Early on, we lost a couple sunny days mucking about in the alluring waterfalls near the meadow — me and the boys ineptly chatting up the bikini-clad Chilean girls who’d materialized from the jungle. Then the rain returned more relentlessly than when we’d arrived.

The hikers who came to the valley provided a distraction from our growing despondency about the weather and our success rate. Late on this night, the fire was stoked to an inferno and the pistol prudently put away. The drunken college kids howled into the heavens, with Dan, Matt, and I trying to hold our own. (Katie wisely snuck away to her tent before the booze got out of control.) The next day, the Chilean boys waved from across the meadow and made chopping motions to their aching heads. We knew the feeling.