My left crampon betrayed my trust, I recall vivdly. I fell, slid, scraped, twisted down virgin snow. Leaving the party, accelerating away towards terminal velocity. (Ironic, that winter survival training, threatened extiction.)
Before the scythe, the ice axe. Try, try, try again until it repays my trust. It grips, the edge of the drop felt mid thigh.
That I can answer is miraculous. Their reply: urgent fuss, and a rope.
Saved, we celebrate defying death by sledding down her shoulder on rucksacks. Later, I raise a dram to my avoided long drop: words of humility, rather than defiance.