Lithos

Nestled in a broken, ledgy corner of jumbled stone. An unimposing juggy start leads it’s way past nefarious cracks which trickle aimlessly down the wall from a bulge split by a perfect tips crack. An exercise of flexibility in what seems like a convoluted form of yoga delivers you to the termination point. Above, a vast blankness, looming as if a cruel joke. Springing upward with dwindling faith to latch upon a sloping hold, which appears as if a fable, barely believable in its own right. Yet above, shattering what hopes still lie, a mantle of raw power, taunting at its end, a small edge below the precipice from which to gather ones tattered ego.  Delicately moving forward with cryptic elegance, again, cut short by the abstruse, a last stand by the raw power in stone. Relenting abruptly, as if to succeed in quiet reverence, an end in the lithos.

Start just right of Kindle the Fire. The line goes up the prow left of the Bolt Highway.

Cams, double thin to fingers. Bolts.