I'M TRAMPING UP the Sheila Glacier in the dark, following my own frozen tracks by headlamp along the route I scouted yesterday. There are two tenuous snow bridges to cat-burgle across and perhaps 20 crevasses to cautiously end-run around. With no rope and no rope mate, it is essential I do this stretch during the coldest part of the night, when the ice is at its most stable.
I reach the bergschrund in less than an hour, only to find that I've miscalculated. The snow is treacherously soft: I can't cross where I'd planned. I lose an hour traversing left to a dubious bridge, from which I leap onto the face, metal-clawed hands and feet stabbing into the snow. At the top of the snowfield I chop a tiny ledge, swap double boots for rock shoes, and move upward on dry rock.
I cover a thousand feet in an hour. It is still night, but day is coming fast. I don't want to be on this face in the sunshine. A little sun and the snow begins to melt, ice blocks begin to shear off, rocks start falling from the sky. But the sun won't hit the face until noon, and it's only 7:30. I remind myself to take my time and enjoy the climb. I stop, sit on my pack, eat a little, and drink a lot. Check out that smooth sunrise turning all the pointy peaks and deadly icefalls a soft, deceiving pink. Little by little, last night's anxiety is giving way to a reassuring sense of calm.