We are half-way up, before I finally look down. My climbing partner and new husband is just below me, by less than fifty feet. We are the only ones scaling Capitan today.

I rest, as Marty inches closer and a bald eagle flies near, as if checking out intruders to his realm.

"Come on, Marty, we're almost there!"

"I'm right behind ya, babe."

His face beams up at me, sweat glistening, handsome and kind. My heart swells with love for him. We met here, at the base of El Capitan, now, we climb the daunting face of the mountain together.

Closer to each other now, we advance upward, not talking, our energy saved for the climb. A wave of hot air washes across the face of the cliff, taking both of us sideways. It is unsettling when this happens and we both dig back into the rock.

There is nothing like putting your life on the line, literally, to feel so alive. We both felt it; it was what had brought us together and today, it would be what tore us apart.

There is no warning. Or word spoken. My new husband is there one second and gone the next. There is nothing but a small ripping sound. When I dare to look, he is already a speck, falling, gone.

I cling to my rope, unable to cry ... unable to look again. I can't move. I can barely breathe.

It will be a very long time before someone comes to find us.