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"Alpha, Beta, Charlie,
Delta, Echo, Foxtrot, Golf, Hotel, India, Juliette...damn. What
was K again?" That's as far as I would get, reciting the
pilot's alphabet. I had been working on it all night, along with
jokes and other sundries that were meant to keep us awake. Now
the word is in: spending a night on Upper Cathedral Peak with
no sleepies is overrated.
 Tom,
Nicole, and I ventured down from Vancouver, BC to Yosemite with
plans of high adventure. With the aid of caffeine, and the idiocy
of youth unbounded, we drove 21 hours straight, stopping only
to enjoy a Billy-Bob burger at a truck stop in Coburg, OR. Tom's
Jetta performed well, which is more than I can say for it on
a subsequent journey, which ultimately foreshadowed its death
(it is now has a space in the Great Parking Lot In The Sky).
We slept in a parking lot in nearby
Mariposa. I found a snug bush under which I tucked myself, only
to be awaken in complete horror by a nearby dump truck doing
its early rounds. This reminds me strongly of sleeping in a floppy
tent alongside a desert highway, where 18-wheelers roared by
at speeds that shook the tent and made the bladder tremble. With
each set of headlights, my pulse quickened in anticipation of
gruesome death.
 Eventually
we found ourselves in El Cap Meadows, standing as I had done
once before, transfixed. The Cathedral Peaks were so huge and
sexy. We were helpless to resist the lure of the stone.
Around the fire that night, at Camp
4, we decided that Upper Cathedral Rock housed an enviable route,
Braille Book. It was moderate in grade, and well off the
beaten path. It would be a worthy prize. We set off early the
next day, passing under the shadow of El Cap. The hike to the
base was demanding, wending its way through a steep forested
slope for quite some time before merging with a long talus fan.
It was over two hours before we reached the base of Braille Book.
 The
base of the Cathedral was still surrounded by a ribbon of late
snow and ice. But eventually we were standing below our long
and featured dihedral. Racking up, we packed no more than what
we needed for the day (yeah, this is the part where you're supposed
to groan). Since the descent was fairly lengthy, we included
our shoes.
I found the first pitches delightful
and low in stress. There were many indicators that people had
passed here before us, although it was hard at time to determine
where the belay was intended to be. At the second belay already,
we had a commanding view of the valley. Of some concern, were
the packs. Nicole and Tom were understandably struggling somewhat
with sections where the dihedral narrowed. I was bothered by
the inconvenience of it. On the following pitch we decided to
try hauling the packs (yeah, this is another groaning part).
 Leaving
the ledge, I encountered the first of the problems that would
hamper our progress and ultimately have us assuming very intimate
positions to maintain body heat. An exhilarating bulge move gave
way to a ledge, some thirty feet above our previous belay. On
this ledge was a huge rock with a tattered collection of slings.
That I didn't ascertain this as the intended second belay is
a link in the chain that we call experience. I paid no
mind, and headed up the tasty crack above. After quite a while,
I found that ledges were in small supply. I saw a candidate some
distance ahead. A yelling match about remaining rope length ensued.
Somehow, in the cacophony of echoes, sense was made, and I reached
my candidate. It was a doubtful slot with a largish chockstone.
I slung the stone, but it made disconcerting grinding noises
when I committed my weight. Out of options, I forced my skinny
ass into the slot above, rigged an anchor, and crouched in the
vomit position. Ages later, Tom and Nicole were both thirty feet
higher, at the intended anchor. I wrenched my aching body from
the slot and ventured on.
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