fter 1,000ft of climbing, we reached a platform marked with an old bolt and a piton, the likely high-point of an attempt 50 years earlier. Above soared the crux, an 800-ft headwall that promised difficult climbing and dubious protection. As I began run-out 5.9 face climbing, I passed a rappel anchor of the 2005 team, the most successful to date. Three years had rotted the anchor, composed of two nuts rattling behind a flake that I did not trust whatsoever. Twenty, thirty, forty feet above my last piece, I was relieved to find a thin seam that admitted a chock. Higher, I was plagued with nagging cramps in my hands—apparently I had not drank or eaten enough after the previous day’s march. After belaying Rolf up this pitch, I explained my problem. We hoped that food and water would help, but we couldn’t wait to find out. We had to keep moving.