Reaching the top was like waking out of a big dream in the middle of the afternoon, blinking in the unexpectedness of continued daylight. Dave [Yerian] looked as disoriented as I felt. In a self-deprecating way, we decided to call our line the Bachar-Yerian, an echo of grander routes such as the Chouinard-Herbert or the Steck-SalatheĢ. Weād tried, in our own fashion, to be true to their spirit. In the end, Iād only placed thirteen bolts on the whole route: four from hooks, and the rest from no-hands stances including six for belays. Some people might criticize my use of aid, but Iād never intended to call it a free routeājust to keep it as free as I could. Over and over Iād felt my whole life come down to one small move, one crystalāand within those tiny spaces and moments, Iād tried to get a measure of myself. Dave, meanwhile, watching me struggle, had stayed poised at each moment to protect me, despite the exposure that whirled about him and the weariness of his long-sustained fear. [1]