Chad Cassady was set to head to the Tuolomne Meadows to serve on the Yosemite Search and Rescue team for the second year in a row. He was checking out our new house before he split, with the 20-year-old carpet and the newly started picket fence. "Yıall out to come out," he casually invited over Donnıs Bar B Q. "You would be able to climb so much stuff."

"Well, maybe." I replied. (We already had an Arizona trip planned, I had a new job and very little vacation time accumulated.) "It would have to be at the end of august, like around Labor Day."

Left to my devices, I would have procrastinated on such a trip and plans would have ended with us saying goodbye at Donnıs. But Suzanne was emailing and calling airlines and finally worked it out with Chad. We would fly into Reno and Chad would pick us up and drive us back to Tuolomne. Simple.

In the coming weeks we ran into Srin several times. "You better get practicing on your trad, not so much physically, but mentally. I mean it." O K Srin, what ever you say.

The what-to-avoid advice: Do Not get on the Backtiarian route. Shit, my wife is Backtiarian.

We didn't 'practice' any trad. We hardly 'practiced' any sport. And the beastly hot months whittled down to weeks and days and we were off.

We left 107 degrees to get to Reno at a cool 55 degrees. In the meadows it was probably around 40 degrees and snowy. We rolled into an otherwise abandoned camp. Three or four hangers on of the season were tossing kindling on the fire and we suited up for the northwest books on the Lembert Dome.

The modest hike had me desperately sucking the raw air as I was not used to the altavation and my lungs were wearing calluses on the back of my heart. Chad was trotting along like a gallant fox of dubious origin. Little did I know that even on the hike down the dome he was sporting super stuck up rubber on his shoes. He ran up the 5.3 ramp as I was hunching and balancing my death wary body from unforeseen 200-ft tumbles.

Suzie backed off from the approach as it was getting colder and rainier. With an unprotected belayer and a wet slab, I backed off the lead for Mr. Hubris to give 'er a go.

What the hell, 5.6 and I backed off? Chad chalked and rechalked his hands and feet as he sauntered up a mellow crack to his seated belay around the corner. I was next. Ok this is not so bad. Could have lead it. But you never know. And well, you never know. And I didnıt know. At the belay, Chad handed me all of five remaining cams to lead the next pitch.

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