I am disconnected. Around me, clouds stream, snow falls, wind whips. Far below, I catch glimpses of glaciers at crazy angles, as if I'm somehow suspended above them. The long granite ridge we've just climbed fades away into the swirling mists. I am on an island in the sky.
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The Bugaboos are a group of glaciated granite spires located in Canada's Purcell mountain range. They are highly regarded by climbers because they are clean, remote and beautiful. They are also known for their bad weather, as we are discovering. Madeleine and I arrived here on a tight schedule three days ago. We hoofed it up 1000 metres, eschewing Kain Hut this time for Applebea Dome, a higher campsite giving the best access to our intended climbs.
On Tuesday, our first day, we climbed Pigeon Spire's west ridge, a lovely scramble spoiled by rain as we topped out and descended. The approach for this climb allowed us to check out the Bugaboo-Snowpatch col, and the steep snow slope and bergschrund below it. These obstacles are the last to be negotiated on the descent from a successful climb of Bugaboo Spire. 
Conditions were OK; a little icy in places, but the 'schrund was readily passable on its right end. Although steep, the descent from the col required little more than some nerve and a slow, steady approach.
With morning rain on Wednesday, we elected for a rest day, with hopes of better weather for our final climbing day on Thursday. Bugaboo's north-east ridge, a classic grade IV 5.8, was our goal. During the afternoon we headed up the Crescent Glacier to locate the climb. At the end of the glacier, a wall rose a hundred metres to a long col between Bugaboo and Crescent Spires. A low-angled ramp marked the scramble leading to the col, from where the climb proper begins.
Grade IVs make me very nervous. I've already completed a couple on this trip, and they were both long, long days. They seem to be characterised by concerns other than the climbing's difficulty - chief amongst them, the descent and the long duration of exposure to weather. 
Talking with Mads about this climb, I mentioned that being able to climb the route was the least of my concerns; this comment is now playing over in my mind as we top out in cloud and intermittent hail.
We've already endured a fair bit today. The day began with a predawn start, putting us below the scramble just at first light. Climbing to the col, we had beautiful views of Snowpatch Spire, glowing orange in the dawn. High clouds and a breeze moved in and made for brisk conditions as we made our way up the first four pitches, where the climbing is at its steepest. Mads started with a cruxy layback pitch straight off the ground, and higher up I led a classic granite dihedral. Exposure was considerable. Our pack, containing two pairs of mountain boots and two ice axes for the descent, seemed indecently heavy; we both arrived at belays puffing, happy to take the lead and leave the load behind. The sun appeared again as we continued higher, where the angle eased and the route entered blocky chimney system. Another four pitches put me at a belay at the chimney's end, and I could see the ridge easing off ahead to the summit.
As I belayed, I began to notice distant rumblings, apparently from behind the spire. Shortly, the air began to buzz quietly. It would build up slightly over the course of some seconds, then abruptly cease. I noticed my hair begin to flutter during the discharges. 
A light hail or graupel began to fall. Coming into view below, Madeleine expressed her concern at carrying a pack with two lightning rods (the axes) attached. Rapidly, the thunder became louder, the lightning more frequent. A sudden flash and a loud crack rent the air, and Madeleine screamed "It got me! It got me!" She threw off the pack, climbed away and cowered from the tremendous storm. We were in the worst of it, but there was nothing to do but wait it out. Arriving at the belay, Madeleine explained how she'd been shocked, and had felt the discharge exit through her foot. Thankfully, the thunder and hail began to recede, and we watched as the impressive storm front made it way across the valley, echoing around the spires as it did so. The clouds even lifted, and some blue sky asserted itself. Our relief was palpable, and Madeleine quickly racked up for the next pitch.
Two more pitches later, and here I am, contemplating my disconnection from warm places and flat ground. The weather's closed in again. No thunder this time, but the spire's socked in, and it's lightly hailing, or snowing, or something. We attain the summit and waste no time commencing the descent. Our beta informs us this is to involve "a half-hour of scrambling to the south summit." We do a short abseil to a likely looking ledge, and head off.
We're staying roped up, so I go first. It's OK for a while, but then I gain the sharp summit ridge. Going left of the ridge cliffs out, so I choose a catwalk on the right. (As it happens, I should go up and over, but I will not know this except in retrospect.) The ledge drops down, and I start downclimbing, passing some slings as I go. It's not quite matching our guidebook anymore, but I bring Madeleine over anyway. I'm beginning to get quite upset; I think I've led us off-route and the weather is becoming atrocious. Amid ropework and futzing with gear, I shed the occasional tear. The thunderstorm has really shaken us, and now the steady snow is collecting on the rock and making us both wet and cold. The wind is strong and gusty, and we can see little beyond a ropelength.
Madeleine explores ahead and finds an abseil which looks like it'll get us to a slab, from where we can climb back to the ridge. Above the slabs, at a notch below the south summit, I spot slings flapping in the wind. We're both relieved; from this notch, a well-described abseil route descends the south ridge to easier ground. 
Madeleine takes charge and leads up the slab to the slings at the notch. From here, we see an abseil down a corner which matches the described descent. We head down, but find ourselves on a ledge with no obvious way off. A large gendarme, a prominent landmark on the descent route, is visible to our right, but I can't see how we can get there.
It's still snowing, and Madeleine is getting really cold. Her lips are blue, and she's complaining of numb feet. (We're still in climbing shoes.) She's getting hypothermic, and says so amid tears. Shit! I'm really worried now; our situation is quickly becoming serious. It's getting late, after 4pm. She starts to talk about bivying here, which freaks me out because it's doubtful she'd survive the night in these conditions. Seeing Madeleine this way is a sure sign we're in trouble. When we climb she's the epitome of confidence and assuredness; I believe in us because she believes in us. I've rarely experienced such teamwork, and it's always given me confidence to take on bigger challenges with her. With Madeleine's confidence waning, I'm becoming certain we've taken on a little too much this day.
Mads consoled me and led the way on the summit ridge; now it's my turn to be strong. (I tell myself this out loud.) My mind is frantic. I'm scared silly but we have to do something. Madeleine shivers uncontrollably. I decide on a traverse right to the gendarme, although I can't see what it'll entail. I pull the abseil rope until it comes to an abrupt halt. Our rope is stuck, an absolute calamity at this point. I keep panic at bay, barely. OK, I'll lead back up and sort it out. I tie in and climb a little way until I can see the problem - a knot in the rope's end is jammed in the anchor chain. My god, I didn't untie the knot! I have never made this mistake before - what a time to make it now! I batman up the remaining rope to the anchor, sort out the mess and lower off. Without the knot the rope pulls cleanly.
Back on the ledge, I grab the rack and we sort out the rope. With lots of words of assurance, we're keeping it together, just. I head across, aiming for some slings we've spotted above the gendarme. I'm immensely relieved to find an easy route, and arrive at the new anchor with hope returning. Madeleine comes over too, and we abseil down to the gendarme. 
Elation! I find bolts and chains, a bona fide abseil anchor. We're back on route, at long last. We do three more abseils, and then a long scramble along a narrow ridge top to the final anchors.
As we've dropped down the ridge, we seem to be coming out of the clouds a little bit, and it's warming up too. Our campsite, once so far below, is starting to look reachable once more. Now that we're moving again, Madeleine is no longer cold. Preparing the final abseil, I experience what is for me a "God moment." We've not seen the sun since that clear spell after the thunderstorm, but now it makes a brief, late-afternoon appearance from across the Vowell Glacier. The clouds, still swirling around us, become infused with a magnificent orange glow. I spread my arms wide, and bask in radiant warmth for a few blissful minutes. The warmth is reflected in my soul - we've made it through the day, and we'll be OK.
From the final abseil, we stumble down the south ridge, getting to the Bugaboo-Snowpatch col at dusk. A cautious descent of the icy snowfield above the bergschrund, and an equally cautious glissade below, puts us back on level ground as darkness falls. From there, an exhausted wander through moraine leads to camp. I have a typically random thought for the end of such a climb. It occurs to me that today, we only ever saw our tent from hundreds of metres above, a tiny yellow spot amongst the boulders. It was dark when we departed, and again on our return. We eventually make it to camp at eleven, having left at half-past-four.
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