I too ponder the moves above the handle for a long while. It’s a committing grab to side-pull crimps for either hand, then balance feet on the “handle” and hoist to a higher jug for the clip. But for some reason, I’m grabbing the wrong hold on the left, and just as I stand, my balance gets squirrelly. “Coming off,” I yell down.

Falls are so much less scary when they take you by surprise. But what can be observed reliably under the grip of fast-acting adrenalin—a time-warping narcotic that morphs milliseconds into crisp articulation—is when you’re about to peel you have what feels like ten seconds to contemplate your fate. There’s enough time for this conceit to work around my thoughts before the “love handle” whooshes before my eyes and I land gently below it. Luke jumps up to give a dynamic belay to ease the weight on the tied-off feature. It holds, otherwise I would’ve had even more reason to overdramaticize this simple, clean fall into the biological aspects of fear. Wimpy? Why yes indeed.

Looking down, I see that Rob Robinson has joined Luke to witness my groveling. So much for impressing the legend of T-Wall himself. Giving it another go I get to the same spot and once again I’m airborne. Another try, same thing. At last, fourth time a charm, I grab the Beta that Luke calls up, and finally stick it to the jug. But this flightless bird has another crux to negotiate before becoming fully humbled. By the time I reach the second roof I’m way pumped and the big jugs beyond the sloper are beyond what strength I have left. Four tries only make it worse. I’m lowered and sheepishly introduced to Rob.

Dressed in around-the-back-yard hospital scrubs and knit shirt, Robinson is incapable of passing on the chance to insert humor into every situation. He does so, heart proudly on the sleeve, with the assumption that you’re not a Bible-thumpin, sexual prude. This being Easter Sunday our water bottles would no sooner turn into wine flasks than we would chance upon the devout. All those good folks are up-river, filling the white little Baptist churches bursting at their holy holler seams. He may have risen, but our Easter services begin and end on the sandstone sermons writ large on the wall, rising under our own effort with the miracle of cams to save our souls.

So it’s no surprise the conversation lands on religion as Rob ropes up for Love Handles. “I mean, god damn, I really don’t see the difference between a bunny laying eggs and a guy living in the belly of a whale for three days,” he says. “And the virgin birth, well that’s the oldest excuse in the book. All kinds of fallen girls around here use that one. And nobody would believe any of this stuff if there weren’t some reward. At least Muslims have 72 virgins.”

“Yeah, but have you ever had sex with a virgin,” I say. “It ain’t exactly the most enlightening experience.” (I never actually got the pleasure.)

“Well they should have 72 porn stars, then,” says Rob.

“Except,” I say, “there wouldn’t be a skyscraper left standing across this great land.”