yeah, I got benighted my first time on the route finding nightmare known as New Diversions on Whitesides. We had even dumped our water
about 3:00 in anticipation of topping out, then I took more than an hour figuring out a W'sides '5.8' crux (an overhanging lip with a 20 yr. 1/4"er 15' below you. It actually is only hard 5.8 if
you diagonal up the exact holds exactly the right way. otherwise it's several grades harder. I read later that it took Rotert several trips on the FA to figure it out, so now I don't feel so bad, then I was pissed.). Then Mark took forever on the 10+ crux just because the old bolt sticks halfway out and is bent over. Pansy. Now it's like 15 minutes to black with one more hard crux before easy street. I fly across a 40' traverse with no time for gear and look for the critical bolt above, and there is just a sea of that brown leafy lichen, with a rusty brown hanger hidden somewhere in it. I cried.
We rapped back down to a ledge, but below that the raps would have been diagonal down some overhanging rock, and we decided since the night was supposed to be clear and still (late Sept.), the high percentage move was just to stay put. Mark's house is right below the cliff, and his wife hiked up and yelled did we want a rescue, but that would have been just way too embarrassing. The sliver of a moon dawdled, paused, and I swear went backwards. I at least had a light fleece shirt, but Mark just had a long sleeve T and shivered like a dog, but at least we didn't get up close and personal like we had to when we got nailed by a snowstorm on the Beckey-Chouinard, but that's another story of surviving stupidity and ignorance. And we got thirsty, real thirsty. It finally got light and I led out, and along the way there was a little pocket in the rock with about a couple of ounces of water and a whole bunch of dead bugs floating, and I slurped it right up. When Mark got to it he cussed me like a dog for drinking all of it, but like Kor used to say, Fuck the second.