"Perhaps," I continue, "such climbing is a pleasure reserved for those a little jaded by the deluxe routes of great centers for the sport. Is it possible that the very grandeur of the best walls and consequent chain of ascents can cause one to turn away? Imagine, Vancouver, a long and lovely flake of rock shaped like your boot there, seemingly glued high on a shimmering, 3000-foot granite cliff. And great roofs and towers, all eventually connected by a marvelous climbing route. Do you see how even this might become dull from the doing? Where the elation, once so private, becomes so common, so implanted in a growing collective that the heart becomes a little tired and sad from it all? It is then that we turn to darker jewels—elusive, out of fashion, even fragile—as if in search of anti-climbs."

Resurrection Wall was Ruprecht's dark jewel. Ruprecht Von Kammerlander schemed and teamed with several different partners, until in 1978 he completed a route on this magnificent wall. Mossy on its lower reaches, then building to a dangerous pink higher and finally streaked in black over several intervals, the entire vertical mass suggests an ominous megalith. Ruprecht's friends will peer into this shadowy face, celebrate his climbing courage, remember his fatal motorcycle accident, and perhaps feel something like a haunting about the great wall.

Resurrection Wall Munge Pitch 

I fall again into the void, dangling below the bulge on Resurrection's second pitch. My partner, Frank Sarnquist, looks on impatiently. Above, I can see Ruprecht's fifteen aid bolts dotting the bulging wall. These are the only aid points on the three-pitch climb, and we are trying to pass them free. Surprisingly, the rock here turns solid after the fantastic mounds of fuzzy moss and fragile holds on the first pitch. I try again to surmount the bulge, this time finding a sequence of holds leading right of the bolt ladder to a small pocket. Here I can rest without using my arms. Ten more bolts remain on a slightly overhanging wall. As I begin this section, I find that the moves are consistently 5.9 and 5.10. Clipping into the bolts is a desperate struggle. Five bolts up, I lose all strength and float once again into space. Frank lowers me to the pocket, and I begin again, now more efficiently. At the last bolt I face the final move to the belay ledge, and I see exactly what to do. I know such a move by heart. It is 5.8, but it might as well be 5.30. My arms are spent. I rush the move, make it, then fling a hand onto the belay ledge, a melon-sized stone embedded in the wall. A hold breaks under my foot. I can't keep a grip on the massive stone and am off again into space! Frank lowers me to a poor resting point. One arm can dangle, then the other, but not both at once. I repeat all the sequences as fast as possible up to the last bolt. A little less tired this try than last, I grab the belay stone. I don't trust any of the knobs this time and instead friction my feet flat on the face as I mantle. I'm up!