Nursing a splitting hangover, nursing a delicately placed front point of a crampon, calf muscles screaming for release, every fibre of being searching the ice for a lifesaver axe hold, no other thought beyond that. Forget the feel of vomit rising in the throat; I want the flood of relief when it appears at last (the axe placement, not the vomit). A flick of the wrist and the teeth of the pick bites the ice and you know its good. The relief is tangent, muscles relax, for a while. Then, the vacuum behind the flood of relief is instantly filled once more with a growing unease and we start all over again.

I took a deep breath and as I slowly exhaled, I instructed my mind to exhale the fear with it, as if the fog of my breath was my disquiet. It hung in the air against the blue sky and slowly dissipated. Calm was restored, regular breathing restored, a sense of well being reigned.

I found myself thinking about Ceska Lipa, where I had been in a motor accident. How strange the silence as the car went end over end, the unbelievable noise as it landed on its roof and how there too, a moment suspended in time, had ended with relief only to be followed again by fear. I was brought back to the present by a voice from below. "Get moving, I'm bloody freezing!" Peter stood below impatient in the cold.

I took a deep breath, studied the ice and purposefully struck with my right axe, it rebounded sharply with a metallic ring. I struck again and again this time a spark flew from the point of the pick, “it's a bloody rock” bellowed Pete. I teetered on my front points and in desperation struck out, somewhere, anywhere. Thud, relief! Thud again from my left axe and more relief and then I moved up on my feet, repeat again and another set of good axe placements were satisfyingly felt.

Far above between the shreds of clouds the occasional star twinkled down upon the ruffled blanket of monochrome, and they our only witness gazed down as we pulled over the top. Hands deep in duvet pockets we walked up for the bus to Rjukan, the hotel bar and its waves of seductive heat.

As the bus travelled to town night overtook us and only enough shade and shape of mountain and sky could be discerned from our window for the mind to give texture to silent frozen lakes and black cold rock where here and there strips of white ice hung. These unnamed strips of white undoubted classics if they had been formed above the Wasdale screes or Great End.

I looked across the aisle to Peter and could see his face reflected in the window but could not tell if he was seeing the same things I did or whether he was asleep. I didn't know then that this first lead was almost the last, I did not know then how much of him is so much a part of who I am and this tale is as much for him as it is for me.