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Although there were few moves that were technically difficult, the climbing was continuously insecure. A thin crust of ice lay over deep, unstable powder snow. It was easy to see how Ragone had fallen; it felt as though at any moment the snow underfoot was going to collapse. In places where the wall steepened, the snow cover thinned and our ice axes would ricochet off rock a few inches beneath the crust. It was impossible to find anchors of any kind in or under the rotting snow and ice, so for the first two thousand feet of the climb we simply left the ropes in the packs and “soloed” together.

The wind dropped a little but the snow fell more steadily and more thickly. Snowflakes whirled round us, snow heaped on every irregularity of the rocks and plastered the wool of our caps, jackets, and trousers with an icy crust. Thus we started the descent, doubly difficult as we were retracing our steps not only because of the blizzard but also owing to the fact that we had been technically defeated by the rocks. Clinging to my small holds, I peered down into the fury of the elements, trying to locate a red arrow in all this white hell.

Coming,” I answered, partly because I had no breath left to give him a longer explanation which would have been unavoidable had I said “No” or “Not yet”; and partly, I have to confess, because I felt ashamed. Why this was so I do not know. Who can fathom completely his own feelings? There was, I imagine, some loss of face for having failed in a pitch which my companion had overcome brilliantly, if not easily; but there was also, I know, more than a prick of conscience for having dared to attempt more than my training should have allowed me to undertake.