The Icy Dance

“Hold on Chip!” Reg hollered. “Hold the fuck on buddy!”

Both of Chip's hands held onto the ice axe with the might of Atlas. Two crampons dug into a thin sheet of surface ice on the edge of the cavernous opening, slipping and then re-gripping every few seconds. Reg was on his belly, rope in hand, trying desperately to pull Chip up and out of the newly revealed pit.

Snow had fallen over an immense crevice during the dark hours, perfectly concealing the hazard. Chip Larson, a newbie to the Great North, ran before trying to walk the treacherous snow hills, and managed to get himself stuck on the inside edge of that gigantic icy trap. As he panicked to stabilize himself, and avoid plunging into an unknown depth, he forced a quick look down. A rushing stream was at the bottom; it looked neither warm nor friendly to Chip.

“Holy shit, bro. I'm losin' my edge!” Chip squelched. He was running out of gas, and time.

Reg had miraculously caught Chip on the way down, lunging for his tie-off, catching it in a full lay-out with both hands. But he was wearing mitts. The kind of mitts without much to them. You know the kind – the kind that won't keep a hobo warm on a hot summer day. Ya, those kind.

Chip was heavier than Reg too. Slowly, they were sliding further down, inch by frosty inch. Reg tried to shift from his stomach to his ass, but he wasn't quick enough, and they slid five feet before Reg came round, bringing himself to the place where Chip had once been; the edge.

Neither one could hold on though, and finality came with a crash and wave, sending Chip to his doom, and Reg back home.