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Relieved, you finally get to the anchor. Now you have to haul a 100-pound bag all the way up the pitch. You want to cry, scream, slump over, and rest. But your climbing partner is waiting down below so they can release the bag and start cleaning the pitch. You go into beast mode, stoically hauling away before eating or drinking. By day’s end, you’ve switched on your headlamp and fought with the portaledge before eating, drinking, and taking a break. You and your partner eat dinner in silence. It’s late, you’re beyond tired, and the team is in need of a serious morale boost. “I know what we need right now!” you say. “Bourbon!”

Your partner’s eyes light up, and for a moment you forget about the intensity of the day and the 2000 feet of additional climbing waiting for you in the days to follow. After a few sips, you relax, and you and your partner are the best of friends again. You snuggle in for a five-hour sleep on the cramped, unevenly pitched portaledge. Smelling your partner’s stinky feet and the fermented poop bag, you toss and turn all night. You bumble around, as quietly as possible so as not to disturb your buddy, while trying to pee off the side of the portaledge and not on the ropes or haul bag. The next morning—unrecovered, undernourished, dehydrated, inflamed, and achy—you’re at it again. “Wall hands” have set in. Your cramping, swollen, cuticle-battered, scraped-up hands struggle to unscrew your water bottle lid, stuff the sleeping bag in its stuff sack, and tie your torture box shoelaces. Morning chores feel epic. You’re rethinking your poor nourishment from the day before. You promise yourself, “Today I will do better!”