But Luke seems more keen on ornithological matters than soaking us with climbing spray “Hear that?” he says. “Definitely a cardinal song.” Passing over a slab of sandstone in the trail that I must have walked over a 100 times without notice, Luke points out the Paleozoic imprint of an aquatic plant imbedded in the stone. So much has happened since then, the mind boggles.

We amble further down the line, past the crowded classic lines like Passages, Perquisites for Excellence, Golden Locks, The trail faints out as we go further into T-Wall South, a slight bit navigational embroidery considering we’re actually going towards where the sun comes up. And though I’ve never been one to feel thankful that someone is injured, today I am. This is about the first time Luke’s been able to get out to the crags after having surgery on one of his ankles. A four-inch scar runs up his swollen ankle, the result of a bizarre climbing injury. My excuse amounts to nothing more than wintertime lethargy and the pedestrian talent of an everyman climber. My wife Caroline, though, has some experience on Southern stone to rope-gun if need be. But of course her boldness, as of late, has been diminished by the earthy thought of breeding. So we stand below the hard-man routes with awe before finding something on the more moderate side of life.

Winsome excuses aside, whether you’re pushing yourself or not, I found ratings have nothing to do with quality (though I’m probably wrong having never exactly tasted the benefits of a 5.12). And this turns out to be so with I’m Late (5.7) and Stepping Stone (5.10b), both T-Wall gems with nary a trace of chalk on them.

We climb out the rest of the day like this, happy to be outside. In one auspicious splitter (Sanskrit [5.8]), Luke finds a host of dead lizards, one of which seems to be arc welded onto the rock. We surmise that a lighting bolt must have hit the top of the cliff the previous night, sending a zap of current down the crack, electrocuting the poor little beasts. T-Wall lizards make their home in the cracks, and it’s not uncommon for a hand jam to produce a small swarm of them scuttling out of their home just as you’re making your next move. I’ve witnessed a few that have fallen 50 feet out of the cracks, only to land stunned, gather themselves, and live to tell their reptilian cohorts about it. T-Wall route names like Where Lizards Go to Die, Reptile Analysis, Reptile Paralysis give tribute and honor to the dead and fallen.

In truth, these lizards are actually Carolina anoles. Because they can change from brown to green and back to brown again, they’re often given the erroneous distinction of being a chameleon. Instead, they’re related more closely to the iguana. Their excellent climbing ability comes from the pads on their feet, complimented by a C-5 rubber-like substance. Male anoles impress their female counterparts in two ways: by climbing hard and possessing a flap of skin under their chin called a dewlap. When a female anole takes a “gentleman caller” she will often base his suitability on the size of his dewlap and his ability to dance—a bobbing up and down, hot and bothered affair that at the risk of anthropomorphizing is not unlike something I might have done, well, last night in fact.