I look across at Grzegorz, dangling off the same sling. “Where is the rope?” I shout, throat raw. We look around, frantic headlights stabbing into the white. Behind us, the rope streams up, out of reach. We had left the ropes running through the first point above us so we could move quicker but not securing them near to either of us. We can’t see Merak’s light. We scream into the storm but can’t hear anything above the wind. Merak must still be on the rope. That’s why it’s so straight. The feeble glow of hope had just gone out. We hang there for another cold numb eternity, getting colder and colder. We would die if we stayed here all night. I tried to reach the rope with a walking pole but it was out of reach. Grzegorz suggested extending the sling with another one. I pulled an axe free, swung into the ice and jammed the other hand into a icy crack. I kicked my front points into the ice, put the axe away and try again with the pole, but fall back – the rope is just out of reach. I screamed with frustration, bouncing up and down in anger. I snag the rope but it slips. Finally I catch it again.

I go down the icy ropes and look for Merak but there is no sign of him, no blood or rocks either. I shout as Grzegorz comes down to tell him to find a abseil point. I untie so he can swing across the icy rocky slope until he finds one. Then I have to climb 15m of bowel loosening ice and rock to reach him. I tell him Merak’s gone. The ropes are frozen. We manage to get one down and undo the knot but the other won’t come. After another two short abseils we were on a steep snow slope. We rope up and set off – still about 3000m up and we weren’t sure which slope we were on. We found boot prints – big yeti-like tracks. This must be Merak, no one else on this mountain has size 13 feet.

Relief and anger renewed tired arms and legs. I wasn’t sure whether I’d punch him or hug him when I saw him. We zigzagged through the clouds, the snow and night limiting sight to a couple of meters. The storm had not finished with us yet. I gingerly down climbed until I my head lamp illuminated the maw of a gaping crevasse. Slowly and carefully I climbed back up to Grzegorz. Merak’s footsteps had just carried on over the edge.

We had no way of setting up a secure anchor in the soft sugary snow so I could check the crevasse properly. Tired, freezing and hungry, we moved back and forth unable to find a point where we can jump across the chasm. We ended up digging a hole in the crumbly, grainy snow. Too tired to care about avalanches, we huddled together on the rope, a foil bag above us, and fell asleep in each other’s arms.

A pattering of snow sliding across the foil startles me awake. I pull it off it to see the clouds have lifted. I can see the moon and the warm lights of Argentiere down in the valley. I know where we are and where we want to be. We’re still high up, still a way to go.

We find a snow bridge across the crevasse on the far right of the cwm and tip toe across it before the clouds swallow us up again. We just had to keep down climbing. On and on we went, plodding down. Too tired and cold to care about crevasses or avalanches. Finally, in the predawn gloom we stumbled onto the glacier. We knew then that we just had another 2 hours to the bivy site.

Two young British clcimbers walked us back across the glacier. A helicopter buzzed in and of the clouds surrounding Du Chardonett. A quick phone call on a bad signal established they were looking for a three-man team. The chopper left the mountain and buzzed across us before heading back. We couldn’t make out what had been said about the third member of our party.

We passed a group of people leaving the refuge. I was staring bemusedly at a beautiful face when she said my name. It turned out I knew her from London. She started telling me about this crazy scene where ‘this Polish guy staggered into the refuge going on about his friends he’d lost on the mountain.’

I grinned. Merak was ok.