On the summit we see a family of foxes shoot through a brushy gully. The sun is low and drenches us in amber light. In the canyon below, lost in deep purples, a host of frogs starts up. The misty air envelops us. I feel utterly remote and safe among the oaks and wispy, gray-green pines. Lower on our walk down, I see Resurrection shooting upward steeply, hazy, as if rubbed in charcoal, and now echoing onto us all the evening sounds.

"Sport never interested me much," Vancouver observes, "but in the realm of sports, this is indeed an odd one.".
"Why do you think so?"
"There is so much useless searching, it seems to me. First you exploit the most exquisite walls in well-known places, then grow tired of it all and turn to inferior, obscure rock for your pleasure. Where does the anti-climber go next—underwater? Is this what modern civilization brings, so much useless leisure?
"It is not so much that Pinnacles climbers scorn all else," I reply. "Rather, this place provides welcome relief from the climbing bustle elsewhere. And it is uniquely beautiful. I am not alone in liking the Pinnacles—just in a comfortable minority. Since the 1930s, small, select groups of climbers have practiced their sport here, particularly in the winter months, when the high mountains are covered with snow. The result has been a set of pleasing miniatures such as the Hand, the Monolith, Freedom Dome, Tuff Dome, the Machete Ridge, and Mechanic's Delight. Yes, these climbs are totally useless except to our 'leisure,' yet they stand in one's mind like gallery prints or Chinese vases on a display shelf. As for the inferior rock, it's strange how quickly one forgets about it when relishing the colors and forms."
"Perhaps the explorer and climber," Vancouver speculates, "share a similar propensity for discounting the past. The horrors of the last adventure dim as the open seas or far-flung peaks call on familiar yearnings. The beauty of the world is indeed to be appreciated, but the climber seems far too preoccupied with internal reactions and sentiments. Are these not the province of poets, not of explorers and adventurous men?"