The north side of the McMillan Spires. Photo © Michael Stanton.
  The McMillan Obsession  
  By Alan Kearney  

T wo towering teeth of black rock rose from the Conan Doyle imaginary world below like the canines of a monstrous dinosaur, spattered with vegetated ledges (few), beetling with dark overhangs (many), and sparsely seamed with cracks (hardly any). On the backside of Fury, my first encounter with McMillan was with Dave Neff in 1973. We gazed across the brushy jungle of the McMillan Creek basin, with its hanging waterfalls, densely woven slide alder and vine maple, to the glacial-scoured slabs leading up to the McMillan Spires. I knew then I had to someday climb the most impressive face we viewed. But I didn’t know the meaning of the word obsession, I had to look it up in the dictionary later.

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