Suspended 60 feet above the ground, I kick the sharp frontpoint of my crampon and swing the toothy pick of my ice axe into a frozen waterfall. My arms shake with exhaustion, my biceps screaming from months of neglect. A discomforting millimeter of metal keeps me in place. The blood has drained from my hands, which I’ve been vigorously swinging overhead since my feet left solid ground. My fingers don’t hurt anymore because I can’t feel them, though I know the searing pain that will come when they begin to warm up — like my fingernails are being pulled off by a pliers.... Read more

I take a step forward with my right foot, at the same time flinging my left arm towards the sky. The hawk gripping my leather-gloved wrist reluctantly spreads her wings, catching the wind and flipping momentarily on her back in the air. She rights herself with two beats of the wing, catching an updraft and gracefully soaring to the nearest raised perch.... Read more