WORDS & PHOTOGRAPHY PETE SCULLION
The harsh sound of a phone vibrating against hardwood jolted me awake; the sting of the quarter to five start very much present as a feeling in my eyes. It was less than five hours since we’d navigated from sea level, through the sunset and the moonlit darkness, on our way to a hut to be up again at dawn. This was me very much in my element – far too little sleep having hauled a bike to somewhere ridiculous to ride. Luckily, I was in good company. While adventures to mountain huts in the dying light and dawn raids are nothing new, this one would come with a twist… a very icy twist at that. I snuck a cursory glance out of the window in the roof, my chosen sleeping spot to avoid waking the others should the clouds be in full effect. The bright moon had long since gone beyond the horizon so I could see only stars, now growing pale against the imminent sun. Exactly what we’d come to experience.
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