I began rock climbing in Yosemite Valley in 1965, in the age of giants: Robbins, Chouinard, Pratt, and other now legendary names. My routes were not their grand conquests of El Cap, Half Dome, and Glacier Point but merely well-tread weekend warrior classics - Royal Arches via the rottten log, Washington's Column by Lunch Ledge and the Great Chimney, Lower Cathedral Rock Overhang Bypass - all almost trivial by the standards of the 21st Century.

But each time, as I topped out the third or fourth pitch for a clear view over the Valley floor, I experienced a sence of separateness from daily life, yet oneness with the rock beneath my boots, unique to these vertical landscapes.

Below is not a lifelong catalog of climbing experience (I have little) nor even high points from my own ascents. These are images from a different, much later stage in life where seeing is sufficient and remembering is magic.

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