After our blustery approach, and agreeing that “Nick” was indeed blanketing the cliff in a heavy coating of white, we arrived at the base of The Secret. High in Number Three Gully (a steep snow couloir first climbed in 1895!), an intimidating, vertical crack splits a rime-plastered 60-meter buttress. Due to its prominent location, the climb had never really been a secret at all, but the first ascent wasn’t made until 2007, owing to its ominous appearance and obvious difficulty. Although most people climb it in two pitches, linking the route into one monster pitch seemed simple enough.

At least from the base it did.

Now, looking at the hex in my hand, then down at the four left on the rack, and then up at the wide-fist crack above, I realized I may have misjudged the situation. The rime was epically thick on the wall. Nick was no longer just a guy we’d been laughing about; he was a full-fledged Scottish warrior with a war cry that was making me cower. I decided to slow down … way down. For an hour (or was it two?), I delicately clawed upward, stabbing at Nick with my ice tools as he took swing after swing at me with his giant white spear. Four inches of rime covered everything, and finding the next hold was a precarious game of scratch and sniff. By the time I placed my last hex, I think I’d finally learned the fine art of Scottish gear placement: Put it in a constriction and beat the hell out of it. When I reached the broad plateau atop the route at last, I felt I’d climbed 600 meters, not 60.

The next morning, the walls high on the Ben sparkled white in the crystal blue sky, and there wasn’t a breath of wind. We might have raced for the crags, but we’d learned: No point in climbing when Nick was in such a good mood.

This story first appeared in the 2016 Patagonia Snow Catalog.