Standing, staring, hemming, hawing.  I'm pawing at the dime edges with my right foot, with both hands.

"Can you commit?  It's just one move. Granite dimes for hands.  Swing the left foot up, eeeasylike, into that pocket. Once you've got that foothold you're there.  I think."

I'm straddled across a fairly deep chasm.  A big flat chockstone is directly below, about 6' down.

"You probably wouldn't hurt yourself if you fell.  If you fell right."

The skeptic breaks my reverie with musings on how our unknown retreat route might be complicated by a broken ankle.  He's sitting back about 10', on our spacious ledge, lashed to chickenheads.  The sun is bright.  The afternoon is wearing on.  I rock across, over the chockstone.  Finger the crimpers. Toe the smears.

"Can I commit?"

"No."

Rock back.  Repeat four times, walk about, work out a less obvious "hidden" variation or two.  Repeat.

Up above, there's this big crazy flake.  It's left-facing and vertical and shoots more or less straight up for seventy feet or so.  It starts about squeeze size, then varies in its distance from the wall.  At one point it narrows down to tips with what looks like a sharp layback edge.   Mostly though, the edge is rounded and bulbous.  Near the top there's a horizontal jog left that may, or may not, be simplified by some of those lovely Cochise `heads.  The flake glows with that cool green Cochise lichen.  It looks classic, and scary; but, it's about 15 feet above us, and well, I'm having a time trying to get there.

"This move will go. Probably.  I just need to roll on up to that good foot, then balance.  Clip that bolt."

The bolt is fat and rusty.   It sports a Leeper, rusty of course.  Into the cool breeze the skeptic floats a continuous litany of the virtues of retreat.  I'm chewing up the time, rocking back and forth, refusing to commit. "This has to be the move.  Will those edges hold me in?  If only they were a little more positive.   If  I pop, will I hit that boulder right?" Then it just happens.  I don't know what drives me to it, but one of the hold-pawing forays becomes the real deal.  The skeptic's briefing on the suitability of the local chickenheads as rapell anchors is interrupted as my center of gravity shifts across the gap. Grind those crystals into my fingertips, as deep as they'll go.  Smear on that polished edge.  Swing the left foot up.  Perch across the chasm.  Left hand to the rear loop and grab the draw.  Do a minute-hand thing, around and up, to the Leeper at one o'clock.  Clip.

"Hey, whattaya know", blurts the skeptic.  "What I'm thinking now is...Now what ?"

He's right you know.  It doesn't look like it gets any easier.  The squeeze pod is still about 6' above the bolt.   No jugs in reach.  I finger a couple of polished holds, but I'm wearing thin, so I just yard and stretch for a hold that's pointed the wrong way.  Walking up my feet, my angle with the scary bolt is now straight out.  In my head, movies of bolt excision play. Still no jugs to grab, just little, slopey, glossy edges.

"You know, just getting into the squeeze might not even be a rest."

My confidence reserves drop to "E".  My resolve dies.

"Fuck it!"

"Psycho Arizonans!"

 I lower back to the balancy stance, unclip the bolt, and leap back to the ledge.  Time to choke the chickenhead.