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Soon, there is a brain whisper, all jumbled like bearings scattered off a shop table. "Do. Go. Wrong foot, but do. Why have I …… ?" The whispering is me but not me. It is like a possession. "Just do. Fall up. Something. Try that. Do. Do." Outside myself, I watch a fool near my shoulder I'm catapulting over little sections, prying and foaming, a little crying sound bubbling out. "Lovely horrible. Lovely horrible." It's a veritable ricochet of thought bits, not passion, not tactic, but a precious drop of madness. "It goes. Lovely horrible goes. Bitch! Sweet bitch! Foot flake. Nail hold. Enough. Go! There! Go!" Finally, there is a platform for most of my foot. With rest, the fire fades and logic returns. The last move to a belay ledge, again 5.10, becomes mere geometry compared to the exorcism below. I pinch the underside of a rock nostril, stem left to a down sloping, button-sized hold, ease onto it and cascade onto the belay ledge.

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Clevenger Nearing End Of Crux Pitch 

Vern follows with beautiful care and control, but, at one place, suddenly and sharply falls and snaps flat against the rock, proof positive it is a pitch for schizophrenics. Back on the rock, Vern machines through the sequence of moves, his hair a great giggle. We sit down and laugh like cowboys. There is no pitch like this as far as the eye can see. It is a threshold between the standards of 1968 and those of 1974, a gate between exacting skill and a touch of madness. I tell Vern that he and Harrington have devised a masterful pitch, but God save us from another like it above! We speculate that if benevolent beings created the pitch, they knew nothing entrances us like torture.