![]() When I snap awake from my half-asleep visions, I’m reminded exactly where I am, how I got here. The topo merely calls my location: “poor bivy for 1.”īut I’m clipped in hard to the wall. The topo merely calls my location: “poor bivy for 1.” Every time I extend my right leg, when it succumbs to pins and needles, it goes over the edge, and every time I start to doze, the abyss below seductively beckons me to just slip quietly off into space. The ledge I’m perched on – trying to sleep on – is barely wide enough for me to sit upright, and slopes remorselessly towards the bottomless darkness. Laying down or stretching out isn’t really an option. Instead, it’s illuminating the wall in front of me, bleak and pale and bleached bone white, while the menacing shadows to my right funnel into a chasm of incalculable depth and terror, the rest of the valley quietly basking in the moonlight far below. At least the full moon isn’t shining directly in my eyes anymore. Squirming and shifting carefully, a few inches at a time in fear of losing my pad or bag – or both – to the sky below me. Late July in California and it isn’t hot at all – I’m in a big puffy coat, sitting on a half-inflated sleeping pad, sleeping bag wrapped precariously underneath my legs. Maybe there’s a breath of wind here and there. ![]() Only two more hours to sleep, the clock is ticking. Last year he climbed the Nose of El Capitan with Yosemite Climber Stewards, Jane and Alexa. He is traveling the open roads of the American west, chasing the perfect timelapse of the Milky Way. Tristan Greszko is a photographer and writer based out of Jackson Hole, Wyoming. ![]()
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