I watched my body fall backward into the street. For a moment I was indestructible then I was a ghost. I still vividly recall one low point: A mysterious smoke filled my 17-year-old lungs. I was caught between worlds: too cool for one club and not cool enough for the other. In high school, I buddied up to the cool kids, who reluctantly allowed me to hang around, though I felt more comfortable reading comics and playing Dungeons and Dragons with the geeks in the library. But somewhere along the pathway to adulthood, I got lost. While Lucho was a young gangster patrolling his block, I was happily bushwhacking across my familyвЂ™s 11- acre northern California вЂњhippie ranch.вЂќ I played in the dirt and climbed to the top of the huge trees that peppered our property. When I was young, things were fine- great, in fact. вЂњAhhhhh!вЂќ Lucho and I both scream in unison. I can hear the scratch of his fingernails against granite as he puts the death grip on a micro-crimper. Ping! The hook pops off, slapping his chest, and LuchoвЂ™s body arches under the force. Relax.вЂќ He places a teetering hook on the hollow flake and slowly weights it. Lucho is just a stoneвЂ™s throw above me, yet thereвЂ™s nothing I can do for him but say, вЂњBreathe. That was the moment where I was like, вЂThis is fucked!вЂ™вЂќ We dragged him into our car and blew every red light to the hospital. вЂњEveryone was talking shit, with bats and pipes, when the littlest dude of the bunch pulls out this Dirty Harry pistol and starts shooting. He had gone with his crew to face off against a rival gang. The reality of LuchoвЂ™s life path became clear when he was about 16. If they were wearing blue, theyвЂ™d get approached.вЂќ вЂњWeвЂ™d hang out in the local park at night, walk up and down 24th Street, and try to control what people were walking around the block. Lucho grew up in a rough neighborhood in the concrete jungle of the Mission District in San Francisco, and by age 11 had joined a gang. Not because this particular situation is dangerous-although it is-but because itвЂ™s a small miracle that he isnвЂ™t dead or in prison. вЂњYouвЂ™ve got this, man,вЂќ I say in a fairly less-than-convinced tone.

вЂњI donвЂ™t know, manвЂ¦вЂќ LuchoвЂ™s voice quavers as he hunts his harness for the hooks. He dances his fingers and toes back and forth on small nubbins, trying to devise a plan that doesnвЂ™t end with broken legs. The North and South DragonвЂ™s Horns jut out of the jungle floor. He hurriedly clips a draw to it, gives it a tug, and promptly rips it right out. With accelerating gasps and groans, Lucho weasels in a small RP behind a suspect flake. We are six pitches up the South DragonвЂ™s Horn on Tioman Island, off the coast of Malaysia, living proof that climbing can go from fun to fubar in a microsecond.ДЄ moment ago, weвЂ™d given knuckles at the anchor, raving about another classic pitch as we enjoyed a view of the jungle and the South China Sea below. вЂњAt least thereвЂ™s no rope drag,вЂќ I quip, trying to make light of his predicament. The rope arches in an unbroken loop from me to Lucho, 30 feet above. Get access to everything we publish when you

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