I've been here before, strung-out worlds from my couch between dreams and reality, and still I can't understand it. Closing my eyes, I envision Cerro Torre's otherworldly beauty and inhospitable nature, and I can't believe it's something I could know, even for a fleeting moment. Maybe someone mickey'ed my water bottle with peyote.

     I poke my head outside and look for bro-brah-braus, but see only a disheveled heap of climbing gear and a handful of real-deal climbers. I shake my head again, in case I still have cobwebs, and then crane my neck upward at Cerro Torre. Incomprehensible. No way. Silently, I thank Colin and laugh at my laziness, my old-guy-crustiness, and my hesitation. When have I ever regretted going? Funny how that works, but they say the wind does things to people.

Kelly Cordes, of Estes Park, Colorado, still doesn't slackline, and he sure as shit don't bongo drum.