So there I was on a portaledge in the dark... It was 9 p.m., 13-plus hours after we'd started climbing. If I'd had the courage to look down, my headlight would not have reached the 400 feet to the bottom. Let's get something straight: There was no actual ledge. The portaledge is a cotlike platform of aluminum and fabric that hangs against the wall, suspended from a single anchoring point. Jimmy and I shared one. I ate cold food from a sharp can, still harnessed up, desperately careful that everything I took out or opened was clipped in and couldn't fall. Listening to Jimmy, Conrad, and Ivo laughing and talking, I was aware that I was a dark pool of doubt. I was getting a glimpse of how world-class climbers—who know all too well the consequences of mistakes and bad luck—deal with nerves and channel anxiety into energy.

Meanwhile, I was clutching the edge of the portaledge, thinking of things that could go wrong. I didn't trust the bolts we were clipped to. Ivo said, "Dave, the protection is bomber; you've got to trust the pro. Each of those bolts could hold 5,000 pounds." After which I did a quick calculation to reassure myself that 190 pounds was less than 5,000. I looked at a label sewn onto the bed of the ledge, which said the fabric was not fireproof, so I did another quick calculation and realized how screwed I'd be if the ledge caught on fire. That is, if we had a stove, which we didn't. Shouldn't we have a stove?