Or what about that time with Galen Rowell on Half Dome in 1968 when you got nailed down for three days in a little depression on the south face by a November storm, with all the frigid water in God’s grand heavens sluicing down on you? Fun, indeed. You nearly froze into a solid little ball of Batso that time didn’t you? Rowell, who we all know is no lightweight, says that in sixteen trips to the Himalayas, including winter traverses, he’s never experienced anything like those three days with you, you godless elf. Oh, yeah, lots of laughs.

As long as we’re on the subject, what about that abortive  winter attempt of Mt. Shasta in…oh, who cares when it was. The point is that you were stuck again, and it got so cold that when you spilled some brandy in your tent you watched it freeze solid right before your eyes. You damn near bought it there, too, didn’t you, Batso? As you did that time on the northeast ridge of Mt. Williamson in the Sierra with John Orenschall, when you got so strung out on the descent that you hallucinated a hay truck, for Christ sakes! Orenschall says he didn’t really get worried until you started arguing with the imaginary people standing around the truck.

So, speak not of your twisted ideas on the topic of fun, my diminutive friend, and let’s get down to base rock. Why in God’s name do people like you go out and do these things? One means, what is the overarching motivation here? And none of that Mallory crap about climbing the mountain because it’s there, either. We’ll have no such cop-outs today.

Harding rubs his whiskered chin with a gnarled knuckle and stares out the window. Suddenly a delighted leer rips across his face. “Welllll,” he says, that reedy voice cracking like a top-weighted serac. “I guess it’s no sillier than anything else.”

Perhaps you’ve never heard of Warren Harding and his extraordinary exploits, both on and off the rock, but be assured that in the Sierra his name is hammered in the granite pantheon of climbing immortals. Truth be told, there is passionate debate as to whether he belongs in a hall of fame or den of infamy, but all who ply the big walls agree on one central truth: There will never be another Batso.

Galen Rowell says that if Harding had lived in the 1850s he would have ridden in the cohort of Wyatt Earp or the Sundance Kid. My feeling is that he more closely resembles Rasputin, the devilish monk who brought down the Russian royals, at least in terms of one of his defining traits -- his feral sex drive. “I could possible be a contender for the horniest man on earth,” Harding cackles. “It’s what keeps me going. Following a well-formed fanny up a wall is just marvelous incentive.”