One of the most influential books I read early on was Reinhard Karl's brilliant account of his Yosemite climbs. Hidden in here between epic adventures and hard climbs is a short story about soloing the Great White Book as a wind down after a long day of climbing in Tuolumne Meadows. Something every hardman would do and kind of trivial. Hardly worth mentioning. But a gifted writer like Karl took this common event and turned it into a captivating and meaningful tale full of joy for climbing and life. A few months before I read the story, Reinhard Karl had died in an avalanche on Cho Oyo. It all hit me strongly. His many books and brilliant photography had started my own path to try and seek the adventure in climbing rather than a performance and number related pursuit. I promised myself to pay a tribute to him by heading to the Meadows and soloing the Great White Book one day when capable of such.

6 years would pass before I sat tying my climbing shoes in the late afternoon shade on the slab below Reinhard's route . It was August 1989 and I was six months into an epic climbing roadtrip on my first ever visit to the US.

The Great White Book is on Stately Pleasure Dome, above idyllic Tenaya Lake. The setting is quintessential Yosemite high country. Domes of flawless granite above expansive pine forests and sparkling water. Tourists pass endlessly by on the road, most unaware of the climbers right above. The route is 5 pitches long with a 5.6 crux low down, followed by a bunch of pretty sustained liebacks and OWs, most of which are so wide that even with a rope you're essentially soloing. It is not a hard route by any standards, with its moderate angle and good friction. Compared to the soloes of Croft, Bachar, Potter it is definitely tame. Childs play. But it is my own little triumph.

I felt strong and motivated, having climbed hundreds of routes in the past months, from Indian Creek to Squamish. I had never climbed unroped before on anything harder than an alpine scramble or a Joshua Tree descent. The thought of hanging from a pair of manky finger locks without rope and gear 80' up a granite crack made me shiver. Did not feel like I needed that sort of experience in my climbing life. Yet I was so committed to the memory of Reinhard Karl's story and his role in my early climbing days that there was no doubt in my mind about soloing the Great White Book.

The last party on the climb had disappeared over the rim more than an hour ago when I started up the low angle slabs below the route. It felt strange to move upward without dragging a rope or feeling the weight of the rack on my shoulder. In fact everything felt different. I was more focused, yet it felt like I was sitting on the back of another climber, watching as he effortlessly jammed, smeared and liebacked up the smooth granite. I don't remember stepping down from a single move or hesitating anywhere. Being basically a climber of modest abilities that seems to struggle up most routes, I was slightly taken aback by the fluidity and lack of doubt behind my moves.

The route passed almost unnoticed under my hands and feet. Down low there was a transition between cracks with poor footholds. Then the big corner pitch, followed by some more wide sections and nice cracks. My shoes stuck like never before, and the rounded, greasy lieback was as bomber to me as any sharp incut. Today writing this my hands are probably more sweaty than they were that warm, shady summer afternoon 15 years ago. I knew then as I know now that this was a rare moment in my life. That combination of focus, strength and commitment would never coincide again.