Dr Weathers wakes to a ridging howl, frostbitten, snowblind, stumbles rudely ahead on cold black feet, & hands that might belong to another – they went solid in the night. He plows white weight as if underwater, the sun suppressed behind banks & steeps. But the mountain also rejuvenates – he is curiously younger, an adolescent dismay of being cut loose and held back, both at once, as the wind steals bellows from his teeth. And then younger still – teetering march step, speech blanches in the throat, his thoughts mirror his needs. Imagine what the lower guides see as he arrives, his face porcelain in the light - venous glaze, stony veil. Imagine his infantile thoughts as they swaddle him, so glad to be awake.