I was through the middle crux for the first time from the ground. The hardest moves were behind me, with only a V5-ish mantle and a 12+-ish headwall guarding the chains. And it was wet. Not damp wet. Soaked wet. Dripping wet.

I'm still not sure how it got that way. It was dry the day before, and I'd decided to hedge my bets on the better temps and better sleep that I could get. It hadn't rained. But there it was, dripping from the mantle onto my face, mocking me.

50 feet prior, at the big rest before the business, I'd had a conversation with a new friend on a neighboring route. She had read my "Don't Squash The Banana" essay, and it resonated with her. I hung out there talking to Katy Dannenberg, shaking out, laughing, and generally relaxing, all the while discussing commitment. And then I was climbing, her reassuring voice just beside me as I stuck the move for the first time.

Drip. Drip.

I was this far, my first real chance at sending, and I had to commit. The entire Motherlode had congregated in the cave, anticipating the battle. The wet V5 above me had gotten into my nerves, and I desperately needed a plan. My next shake, on a hold I called "The Basketball," had water streaming from it. The "terrible tooth" hold above it was smack dab in the middle of the waterfall. However, I could see that the line of holds out right was dry. If I could just get out there, I could recover on the first two good edges before launching into the final terrible crimps.

The mantle never felt easier. I didn't hesitate, just executed. Instead of my normal knee-scum hand-jam lay-back rest on "The Basketball," I kept moving, barely making the hard lateral reach off of "The Tooth" to the incut edges I intended to rest on.

Both incuts were filled with tiny, taunting puddles.