Once you've beaten,
moaned, laughed,
whimpered, yelped,
inched, and prayed
your way up 2,400
feet of granite,
certain inquiries
can seem trivial.

That's how I fantasized about topping out on Half Dome. When I finally did it, the reality was that I was exhausted, irritable, hungry, thirsty, and I looked like crap. I celebrated by taking off my shoes and socks (do you have any idea how bad polypropylene smells after three days?), and my partner and I wolfed the last of our salami and water.

The tourists did, however, shower us with attention.

"How did you pee?"

"What did you do with your, uh, business?"

"Do you sleep on that rock?"

"How are you gonna get down?"

These are not stupid questions. I asked the same ones BBW (Before Big Wall). But once you've beaten, moaned, laughed, whimpered, yelped, whooped, inched, and prayed your way up 2,400 vertical feet of granite, such inquiries can seem trivial. Our wish list was more immediate: Food. Water. Food. Showers. Food. Clean underwear.

Half Dome's Regular Northwest Face isn't a difficult climb, as walls go. The first climbers to top the Northwest Face, almost 40 years ago, were Royal Robbins, Jerry Gallwas, and Mike Sherrick. But it's still a wall - big and unforgiving.

I've been rock climbing for six years, and can hold my own on most sport crags and free multipitch routes. My partner Jeff, another Big Wall virgin, is a longtime bike tour guide and solid crack climber. We both hankered for a Big Wall trophy.

We left Yosemite Valley on a balmy August evening, the full moon rising. Two nights later, we were nestled on the 11th pitch bivy, 1,000 feet off the ground. It's cozy up there, even though the ledge is hardly wide enough for a sleeping pad. There was plenty of room, however, for the plethora of mice indulging in the trash left behind by our predecessors.

The next day offered some stellar climbing, and even better scenery of sun-speckled Tenaya Canyon - a panoply of shimmering granite and cascading water. The rest of the climb, I was reduced to snarling and whimpering. The worst wasn't getting stuck in an off-route squeeze chimney; it was when I finally managed to turn my head, and caught Jeff trying to suppress hysteria at my predicament.

It was dark by the time we reached Big Sandy ledge. We didn't get enough food or rest, but sunrise on the third day was magnificent, creating perfect silhouettes of Half Dome and El Capitan far below in the Valley. The ascent started beautifully, with long arching cracks called the zigzags. I was humming. We could see tourists above us. The top seemed maddeningly close.

By late afternoon, I wasn't humming any more. I heard Jeff talking to some random tourist about Florida. "Shut up!" I wanted to yell. "You can chitchat after we get off this damn rock!"

When our haul bag got stuck for the millionth time, with darkness falling, I found myself banging my helmet against the wall, and bargaining with the gods. Never again ... never....

We topped out at twilight, and momentarily basked in our summit victory. We wanted to get down to solid ground fast. It wasn't until I looked back at Half Dome from the valley that I was jolted out of a surreal state of exhaustion. For three days I had been a speck in a sea of granite; I had been part of a massive rock face.

Jeff and I drove home, indulging in calories, Ibuprofen, and the inevitable rehash. By the time we reached San Francisco, the fears and frustrations had taken on epic proportions. Half Dome was all the adventure we'd bargained for: absolute angst, coupled with clear poetry and a bit of comedy. In retrospect, that is.