When life gives you lemons … Sometimes you friggin’ bail. Two hundred feet off the deck, Andy and I look at each other’s faces, contemplating the wise words of our friend Jack. The sun has been up for three hours already, yet neither of us can feel our fingers. We’ve battled loose rock, numb extremities, and needless run-outs, and we’re still over 1,000 feet away from the summit. Neither of us is having fun. In fact, we’re both miserable. And here I thought we were supposed to be on vacation. The question hardly begs to be asked: do we elect to continue suffering and persevere? Or do we preserve our bodies and forsake our pride?

Andy and I had arrived in El Potrero Chico, Mexico nearly two weeks before, psyched to explore this international mecca of rock climbing. Friends who had visited in past years came home with alluring tales of cheap beer, sunny days and big climbs — the perfect recipe for an adventurous yet laid back vacation in the desert. Throwing a rope and some clothes in a duffel bag, Andy and I skipped out on the American holiday season and instead, elected to meet up with Fernando, our fellow Cornellian and local host, in Monterrey to head north into the wild.

Fast forward one week: having packed little else besides board shorts and flip flops, we were faced with the worst cold front Northern Mexico has experienced in 60 years. Wearing all of our clothes twenty-four seven, we struggled to find routes that were warm enough to climb barehanded. Multiple times we experienced the screaming-barfies, that awful indecision, which comes when feeling returns to frozen extremities — the one in which you don’t know whether to scream or throw up because the pain is so severe. It is a feeling I’ve only ever experienced while ice climbing, never rock climbing.

Yet theoretically, Andy and I were having fun. We had already climbed 200 feet of this thing, so what was 1100 more? Cold digits and falling rocks aside — we’re on vacation, and we’re going to get to the top, damn the risks! Even if we die trying! OK, perhaps not the best sentiment to express while you’re attached to a vertical rock face by a single tether made of half-inch-thick nylon, but there’s some passion for you, nonetheless.

In spite of the cold, we summited the rig, scaling 1,300 feet of incredibly sculpted limestone to the top of a spindly tower in the midst of hulking mountains rising out of the desert. Rewarded with amazing views and some much-needed sunlight, we descended back into the chaos that was a New Year’s Eve celebration in rural Mexico. There’s nothing quite like no drinking age, liters of beer for less than a dollar a round, and tequila so smooth you can’t tell if it’s really good or really cheap. Oh yeah, and add hundreds of rambunctious climbers, a karaoke machine, and a mechanical bull.

Lulled to sleep by the sound of random explosions, roosters crowing and couples fornicating in nearby tents, I counted my lucky stars to be living such a (mis)adventure. Mistletoe and resolutions are overrated. I’ll take climbing any day of the year. Especially in Mexico.