ad the mountain spirits been angry at us, bad weather would force an attempt the following day. The morning saw cloudless skies, and, as the sun hit our little camp, hopes rose that today would bear the prize fruit of our Venezuelan campaign.

The route began as a rock scramble with the occassional class 3 section. At an anchor point we tied-down our packs and placed just food and water into Bob's daypack, which Edward then carried. This saved weight, and more importantly, enhanced maneuverability amidst tight spaces later in the climb. We wore helmets to guard against accidental rockfall.

Edward (at left) and Enrique warm up by standing atop rock slabs enjoying direct sunlight.	Edward (left), Enrique (thumb "up") and Adam at the summit of Pico Bolivar. Note the knife-like rock projections.

Using the rope we negotiated a class 4 section. Immediately afterwards was a short pitch that involved crawling on all limbs as one rounded a cliff face with a steep drop. Although the exposure was not great, perhaps just ten or twenty feet, falling would likely have meant an uncontrolled slide for hundreds of additional feet.

There followed more rock scrambling, unroped, culminating in a high class 3 section, perhaps eight or ten feet in extent, of nearly vertical rock, smooth, yet with excellent handholds. We were suddenly on the main ridge, and I would not have guessed the route were it not for Enrique pointing out a traverse to the north side of the summit.

Adam caught photographing Edward atop Pico Bolivar. Note the bust of Simon Bolivar.

An awkward rock fin was passed, followed by a nearly level section leading east to the base of the final, crux pitch. Enrique free-climbed the pitch, and then belayed me from above as I negotiated the low class 5 rock with 70° mean slope. A final move around a massive boulder and I was "off-belay" mere meters from the summit.

Bob and Edward followed. Once joined, we gingerly scrambled atop knife-like rock projections to the very summit. Edward and I make a ritual out of simultaneously touching the highest natural point of land, and today was no exception.

The bust of Simon Bolivar was not overly pretentious. Out of respect to the Venezuelan people, Edward did not touch the top of Mr. Bolivar's likeness even though it was higher than the highest rock.

The requisite photographs were taken, including one with Enrique that I insisted upon. I enjoyed a gourmet chocolate/chocolate chunk cookie saved for the moment, a bite or two shared with others as is my way.

These extraordinary few minutes culminated our trip. The highlight par excellence and without peer. It was windy and cold - I did not care. I wanted more food, and again I did not care. This moment atop a high temple of Earth geology is of life-affirming significance. To a climber these words ring truer than any bell: nothing can replace this moment of oneness with earth and sky. Nothing.

Adam rappels down the final pitch, estimated at class 5.2 with a 70° slope. Enrique watches from above.

We rappeled down the crux pitch. I downclimbed the earlier high class 3 section, figuring that a fall would be only five feet or so. Halfway back to camp the packs were retrieved and helmets thankfully removed.

By 1:30 p.m. the tent invited me to enter. Warmer than outdoors and windless, I lay in my sleeping bag until seven the following morning. Not that I was sick. There was simply nothing outside that I wanted to do more than just rest inside. I did not even miss supper - a classical case of dampened hunger at high altitude. Even the snacks taken into bed with me were not enjoyed until the next day.

We had the option of breaking camp that afternoon and beginning our descent. However we would only reasonably be able to reach the top of the aerial tram by sunset, lacking the time to reach the main station, Loma Redonda, farther below at a mere thirteen thousand feet.