At dawn on Day 124, the gale scoured the snow saddle clean of low clouds. That left the sky above the high Spine a hard, ice-blue that stung the eyes.
Kezra Venn stood on the cleared apron outside the Windpit headhouse, buckling the chest harness over her heavy wool coat. Her right palm, freshly dressed in Paxa’s linen and protected by the replacement elk-hide mitten, felt firm and functional. Behind her, Voss, Paxa, and Yseld roped into the four-man line, ten paces between each climber, their crampon points ringing against the frozen threshold.
The morning cold was biting. It sat at nearly twenty degrees below freezing, but there was no wind on the saddle floor. The silence of the high alpine firn was total. It was broken only by the rhythmic puff of their breath and the metal click of carabiners on their harness loops. Voss checked his pick. He tested the wedge head against a granite mounting block. Meanwhile, Paxa adjusted the straps of her medical pack to ensure her balance point remained perfectly centered between her shoulder blades.
“Route check,” Yseld called out. She tested the tension of the hemp line with sharp, rhythmic tugs. “Single file across the firn. Keep ten paces of slack between each harness. If the crust sounds hollow under your boots, don’t try to leap. Drop your center, spread your arms, and let the rope take the load.”
