A lone ladder is tied to the rock, stretching upwards to the first ledge, followed by metal rungs continuing upwards as if staples left by a giant. We remove our crampons and secure our ice axes to our backpacks. Jeff graciously goes first, gliding up with ladder with only the barest use of hands. Amy goes next, a little slower. I wait at the bottom of the ladder, peering at the surrounding boulders for any glimpse of the hoary marmot, (for which Whistler Mountain was named), known for its distinctive high-pitched whistle.

The ladder quivers. I look up and Amy is perched at the top, one hand outstretched to the first metal rung. She’s hesitating. “You okay?” I call up to her. “I’m not sure about this,” she answers flatly. “I don’t think I can do it.”

Jeff is a few feet higher, hanging from the rock like a confident gibbon. “It’s cool, just take your time,” he says. I wonder how many times he is confronted with this exact predicament. “My heart is pounding…” Amy answers, her voice cracking. Jeff is reassuring. “It’s quite safe, really. You’d be surprised at what you can do.”

There’s a defining moment in the air.

Amy must choose whether to attempt the shaky descent down the ladder, shrink from the pounding of her heart, and feel like she’s ruining the experience. She’s skimming over in her head how she’ll walk back down the glacier in stinging defeat, head to the Adventure Lodge and wait for us to complete the climb.

Jeff and I will arrive, tired and elated, and we’ll talk about how incredible it was to scale the peak, to feel the hard stone beneath our fingers, marvel at the tiny plants that make a home on these eternal stone. I’ll tell her how the vast view of the surrounding mountains was enough to silence any internal debate about the existence of an intelligent hand guiding the universe, or if not intelligent, than the incredible luck to emerge on a small beautiful ball drifting in a beautiful universe.

But Amy doesn’t choose such a fate for herself. She quells her beating chest, strengthens her resolve. She firmly grips the first metal rung, that giant’s staple lodged in the rock, and pulls herself over the lip, her feet dangling for a second before gaining a toehold. Fear and gravity are thwarted. She looks back down at me and smiles.