The ice is a hair steeper than vertical now, and it forces my chest back a bit, tipping me off balance. If I keep free climbing, using my tools and crampons, I might lose my purchase and fall, maybe crashing past Mike, maybe dropping all the way down until I’m corked. But if I can just make another move or two before I begin aid climbing, I can get a little higher before tapping my limited gear supply. I am almost twenty feet above the ledge—above Mike. Every foot I ascend gets me closer to the sunshine, closer to the warmth. But it’s a good-news, bad-news situation: The higher I go, the easier it will be to crank in the screws, but the easier it is to twist them in, the weaker they will be. I’m only a quarter of the way out, and already the ice is noticeably softer than it was down in the depths. Up toward the surface, the ice is rotten—that’s why the snow bridge collapsed beneath my feet; that’s why I’m in here. When I hang from an ice screw to rest, the weighted harness bites deep into my thighs, even through three layers of clothing.
