I could tell you what I thought I saw: Sally from Fairbanks, strong, useful legs bending to remove crampons, taking them to a narrow slick of meltwater, using moving silty water to move glacier grit from spikes.
I thought I saw her competence, looking through the lens of self-doubt.
I thought I saw a pioneer woman of a century ago, knowing to care for her tools, using whatever is available.
I thought I saw a woman scoured by Fairbanks’ winters.
But then the rest of the group came down the glacier face, and I heard a raised voice: “Remember to wash your crampons!”