We are desperate to get out of this baking sand bowl, imprisoned on the glacier and cut off from our team. Fine grains of silt coated everything. Like a deranged castaway, I wonder barefoot and in faded boxer shorts between the tent and a small sandy plateau with a vista of the Panmah Glacier whilst reading, filtering water, or brewing up. My face is encrusted with this fine silt, my lips cracked, and the tan of my skin deepens. The time has come to return to base camp and get on with the climbing.

What a route. Leading this climb was a joy, a little technical challenge, and a hint of what I craved. Firm snow slopes of perfect névé and a high Alpine ridge on rock of occasionally excellent quality. A short stemming corner of loose rock and pieces the size of breeze blocks slide away in my hands. With a dropped knee for stability, I do my utmost to direct them away from myself and the rope. They plummet away in a cloud of dust illuminated by my head touch.

‘The bivouac should be right here?’ I exclaimed. We checked the map. I double-checked the GPS. The bivouac should indeed be right beneath our skis. We peered through the descending mist, scanning our little world for any sign of the elusive shelter. Looking away from the face on the edge of our small bowl, I observed a mound of snow that seemed somehow artificial. I skinned up and saw a small corner of orange fibreglass. The bivouac is buried under nearly six feet of snow.