Istare up at the never-ending slope of ice looming large in front of us, trying to discern if I have a good or bad gut feeling or no feelings whatsoever. As we tie the figure-of-eight loops into our harnesses, I find myself rubbing the tiny brown toy horse I carry in my pocket that belongs to my nephew. While I am used to assessing risk, especially out on the water, I am unfamiliar with assessing risk on ice, and the uncertainty is daunting. We are very remote, with a real chance of both crevasses and moulins, with no room for error.
The ground crunches beneath our crampons as we begin the climb, one step at a time. At the crest of the hill, I stop to scan the horizon. In front of me is a plateau of white, ice, and snow as far as the eye can see. Vast, pure, and unlike anything I have ever seen. When we reach the lake, it is breathtaking. We stop, taking a moment to take it all in. We are really here. After years of planning and hoping, it now lies in front of us, magnificent in its azure tranquillity. A lake here for maybe only a moment. This moment.
We are more than
