Illusion Dweller, .10-
Now in my book, this is probably one of the finest routes in JT. Or at least among the few I've done, which is by no means an exhaustive list.
Back on the day I remember here, John Bachar was celebrating his 32nd birthday by soloing that exact number of fivetens. In a few hours, mind you.
I had just come off Illusion Dweller myself, battered and torn and completely wasted. At a spot halfway up I spotted a miniscule edge off to the side. A plan to gain some much needed respite for my wasted forearms emerged, and I tried to arrange myself to take advantage of this foothold. But the marginal rest I had hoped for was nothing after all, and I had to struggle on.
From the ground I watched Bachar reach this spot and nonchalantly chalking both hands simultaneously, while turning to chat with friends on the ground. Instead of breaking down crying, I swore I would get good enough to replicate this maneuver. With a rope that is. Today, older and wiser, I would have sobbed quietly, knowing that such outrageous display of skill and confidence will never happen to me.
Moments later, while still rubbing my raw muscles, Bachar was seen gliding up Run for Your Life.

Left (right) Mel Crack, .10
Approaching across the flat desert floor, we spot a gathering of some 3 or 4 guys at the base. No ropes are up and a few of them already have packs on. They are clearly leaving, so we move in.
This is a hard route, cruxy and strenuous, with not an abundance of pro. A bit of a mouthful for me. I'm nervous and would rather not have a bunch of people looking.
One man asks which one we'll do. I point to the right one, as another asks if I'm doing a lead or TR. I study them for the first time. Older, gnarly, fit.
'Leading', I say. This seems to interest them, and after a bit of back and forth comments, they decide to stay and watch. Great...
One guy, gray, wrinkled with a moustache tells me that they toproped the climb. He sticks out a rough, strong hand. 'Allan'
Another tips his cap, 'Steve'. He's softer looking, a little heavier. The tall, quiet one, with the intense eyes is Eric. Present is also a younger man, a ropegun type.
It dawns on me suddenly. I know these people. They don't know me, but I know them because they are famous. Not Dean Potter-like icons, but well known and quietly respected. Partly because they were there when it all started in this country, but also by still being at it, climbing hard and graceful, getting dirty and tired, so many years later. I silently put the full names together in my mind: Allan Steck, Steve Roper, Eric Beck.
Instead of being intimidated by the presence of a bunch of strangers, I'm now honored that they think it worthwhile watching me. This puts an incredible calmness over me.
In the end I flash the route, gliding up in a style not typical of my vertical endeavors.
Thanks, guys.

Walk on the Wild Side, .7
I was fresh in JT. In fact I had only been in this country a week or so, when hooking up with another young dude in the campground, via the much frequented message board. He said his name was Perlon, and the man represented a type we didn't have many of in Denmark: Hippie. In a fascinating display of the fashion of the time, he climbed with swami, leather cuffed EB's and cut off jeans. His face and head was all hair and several layers of braided, banded ornaments hung from his neck.
His ethics, based on those of the legendary Stonemasters of Camp 4, was shared as liberally as the ubiquitous stash of herbs. But he was young, as was I, and we had not climbed much. I took his convictions with a grain of salt, thinking most of them was learned rather than experienced, yet he came up with the brilliant idea of us climbing Walk on the Wild Side at sunset. We brought our sleeping bags and a few supplies and bivouacked on a ledge along the way on this classic JT multi pitch outing.