There are few moments in our brief skite across this slippery world, when the mist clears and a horizon sharp as a razor blade makes us dive for cover. With that kind of intro, we could expect this to be one. He stood mesmerised by the conflicting images at the Bloody Bridge carpark - height, depth, width, length. In a muscle shirt, de trop sun specs, a bag with the whole camel in it and poles with a shine to take your eye out. “Where you heading?” I posed in a kind of a so-what way. “Oh, up Komodo,” he suggested. Other subjects were discussed - beer, women, life. “Oh I work in advertising and what about you (dragon slayer)?”. “I work for the Library Board…, part-time.” (The name’s Bond - James Bond.) Anyway, so he says “I had a friend. We were on Eagle Rock; you know where that is?” I took a good look at him: big muscle shirt, big bloke but no big muscles. Too many curry chips to be anywhere near Eagle Rock, the quickest route out of this world, in the Mournes. “Well it was unbelievable,” he said, “like ice.” “Was it?” said I. “Was it what?” said he. “Ice?” said I. “Yes,” said he. “And my friend …” at this point, he did a downhill ski thing with his hand, and off over some imaginary precipice and then ……. silence. “my friend …he was just …..” and he looked dolefully at his feet, “…. he was gone.” Suddenly, my sarcasm was ashamed and I was gripped by the pathos of the thing. “When was this?” I ventured. “Last week.” “Bloody Hell”, I thought. “And he said he would never came back to hillwalking, ever again.” “Ah,” I said and just went on.