Crusty Ice on Pinnacle

Making up for that Buick death metaphor.

The old guy in the picture, the three cheery people wearing crampons, the man soaring across the ice - even the fear when my feet slipped - it was all lovely. All unease anxiety stomped into the crust (and when no one was looking I stained the snow yellow).  We all babbled happy to there. Henry - how the hell did that guy fly downhill over crusty ice? I'm guessing he just let everything go and did not give a shit - live or die - it was all the same. Or I am just being romantic? I made it 1.5 miles until it got steeper. Maybe if I had crampons.

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