I came to Yosemite early this spring — alone, since Beth Rodden, my wife and usual El Cap partner, was still recovering from a broken foot. When I arrived in the Valley, the weather was crisp and clear — perfect for anything my heart desired.
I spent my first days bouldering. Most of my bouldering time in Yosemite had been after big El Cap projects, and my memories were of mosquitoes and greasy fingertips, but this time I had perfect conditions. I had some of my best Valley bouldering days, putting up some new problems — yet something was missing. I wanted an adventure. I wanted to dive into something huge that would take over my time, drive me, and bring me to the next level. So I headed up on the Dihedral Wall.
I worked the route solo at first, toproping on my fixing lines. Alone, I was better able to appreciate the beauty and magnitude of the climb. I did not have to worry about anyone else’s concerns, and this allowed me to focus more intensely. I got used to the silence. I memorized every gigantic dihedral, fingertip edge, and hairline fracture. I took time to watch the swallows tackle each other in mid air and plummet towards the ground, separating just before the treetops. I would say out loud, “That is so cool,” even though no one was around to hear me. The view from the route became etched in my mind, as did the thousands of moves I rehearsed. I was alone with my thoughts and motivation.

The Dihedral Wall route consumed me. I climbed more intensely and for longer each day than I ever had before. I climbed four or five days a week from sunrise to sunset. On my biggest days I would start at five a.m., climb from the ground to the end of the last hard pitch 1800 feet up the wall, rappel back to the ground by noon, eat lunch, and then go bouldering until dark. I would call Beth at night and fall asleep on the phone. I climbed so much that my fingers wore down to bloody stumps and my toenails fell off. My muscles were so sore so much of the time that I forgot what it was like to feel normal.