In momentary surrender I hunched forward and rested my hands on my knees, breathing short and sharp, every expulsion filling the narrow band of light cast by my head torch with thick shrouds of mist. From behind me came the groan of a man whose energy was long since spent. That man was my cousin Nick Begg, and, connected as we were by blood, rope, and the physical and emotional rollercoaster of the preceding sixteen hours, that groan could just as well have come from me. After a minute or so, I straightened and moved on. The snow was light and dry, my pack heavy with the weight of skis. The combination was a killer. With every step the snow compacted thirty centimetres and then a further ten under the full weight of my body.