My eyes snap open in horror and I sit bolt upright. Suddenly, I realize I'm not inside a comfy drum circle, but languishing in a bivy tent on the Torre Glacier. Morning sun beats down. Through bleary eyes, I look at Colin, three feet away. Cuts lace his swollen face; he looks horrible. I mumble a few words and try to shake the cobwebs.

     "Dude, I'm a dirty hippie, so smelly people don't usually bother me," Colin says. "But you stink." Is this any way to talk to an AlphaBrah? I feel like asking, but my gummy mouth hangs open.

     My body throbs with exhaustion. My swollen hands won't close. Freaky nerve zingers zap down my arms. I think I'm following Colin's words, but I need confirmation, because I can't believe I'm so damned lucky. Colin tells me he's wanted to climb Cerro Torre since he was 12. Huh? We've climbed Cerro-F —king-Torre? Come again?

     I blink hard, shake my head, and stare into my sleeping bag. Dreamlike images flash before me, visions of fantastic ice sheets, falling debris, and the unforgettable grandeur of the icecap. Of rime-ice towers and snow mushrooms rising in gravity-defying, fairytale-like shapes. Of treasure hunts, seeking wind-carved tunnels that yield passage into the desperate mushrooms, and a landscape so surreal I expect goblins and hobbits to streak past. Exhaustion, hallucination, staggering in the dark on the rubble-strewn Torre Glacier.