The rope I was dangling off wasn't designed for a long impact fall like mine. It was lightweight, thin rope that got replaced every few days as the ice, on the move, tore it from its anchor point. The rope was more of a guide, a support; not like proper, dynamic climbing rope. I knew that it could break at any point. The seconds felt like eternity. Then suddenly I felt a strong tug on the rope. I kicked into the walls with my crampons again. This time they bit into the ice. Up I pulled, kicking into the walls a few feet higher, in time with each heave from above. Near the lip I managed to smack my ice axe into the snow lip and pull myself over. Strong arms grabbed my wind suit and hauled me from the clutches of the crevasse. I wriggled away from the edge, out of danger, and collapsed in a heaving mess. I lay there, my face pressed to the snow, eyes closed, holding Mick's and Nima's hands, shaking with fear. If Nima had not heard the collapse and been so close, I doubt Mick would ever have had the strength to haul me out. Nima had saved my life and I knew it. Mick helped escort me the two hours back down the icefall. I clutched every rope, clipping in nervously. I now crossed the ladders like a different man--gone was the confidence. My breathing was shallow and labored, and any vestiges of strength or adrenaline had long left me. That thin line between life and death can make or break a man. And right now I was a mess. Yet we hadn't even begun on Everest proper.