As he felt the snow give way underneath his feet, time slowed or maybe his brain functions quickened, like a tape recording being played fast forward. In any case, the fall one hundred meters into the crevasse gave ample opportunity for random thoughts. He ricocheted from one glacier wall to the other, clawing at ice, leaving bits of skin from his fingers along the surface in homage. He had just resigned himself to the impossibility of slowing his descent, when he stopped sliding with a jolt, feet still hanging in the air. The space between the glacier walls had funnelled down to a width narrower than that of his torso and backpack combined, thus breaking his fall.

Adrenaline coursed through his veins, and taking stock of the situation, he was more than grateful to be conscious and still able to breathe. He tried throwing a sideways glance below him and saw what looked like a huge ice cavern, the ceiling of which was just a few dozen feet below. If he had not been wearing his backpack, he would have slipped straight through to certain death.

The good news was that he had rope. The bad news was that he had the rope, and not his climbing partner above, who hadn’t stopped hurling his cries after him as he plummeted. The worst news was that the rope was in the backpack that was currently bearing all his weight and was impossible to access wedged as he was. What a sardonic second chance he had been given.