I’ll never forget the moment we first flew past that wall—it was like nothing I’d ever seen. The hulking mass loomed out of the clouds, a wall so sheer it seemed unreal. Our helicopter skimmed beneath colossal overhangs that jutted out like frozen waves, and that’s when I spotted it—halfway up, like a mirage—a sliver of flat ground where none could exist.
We’d already poured heart and soul into getting there. Six weeks earlier, our team had air-dropped all the climbing gear into the forest, trusting it would land close enough to retrieve. Then came the march: over 100 km through wild, tangled jungle. Moss-draped trees, hidden rivers, jaw-dropping beauty—and constant danger. Every step forward ratcheted up the stakes.
When we finally stood at the base of the towering wall, the reality of what lay ahead sank in. The mountain’s face was obliterated by overhangs—stunned, I wondered if our whole journey had led us to work that was destined to fail. It was more than just rock: it was a test of nerves, logistics, trust, and strategy.
Enter Leo. Calm, methodical, clear-eyed, he suggested a line the rest of us barely dared speak of. “Let’s climb the Prow,” he said, and suddenly the impossible seemed—maybe—possible. Wilson nodded in agreement, his eyes sparkling with that same mix of fear and excitement I felt. Anna and I, though brimming with trepidation, were completely committed. We were lining up the boldest ascent the mountain had to offer.
What followed was two days of relentless ascent: free moves, precise placements, moments of sheer exposure and raw fear. And then—miracle or fate, depending on who you ask—Leo stepped onto the ledge. There it was: nearly 30 feet of flat rock, just wide enough for eight people. Three feet deep, level, stable—a hidden platform in the sky, waiting for us.
That ledge transformed our climb. It was our shelter, our base camp, our vantage point in a vertical world. We not only survived—we home-based eight of us, with gear, food, exhaustion, excitement. We were living on the wall.
It wasn’t just the physical accomplishment—it was everything it represented. Years of preparation, trust in one another, in the line, in the Prow, paid off in a moment suspended in time. We had stepped into a storybook—and we wrote it.