An exert from the essay Footsteps, published in Climb Magazine as a part of an article named Winter Epics by Colin Wells.

The walls closed around, steep and suffocating. A large boulder loomed blocking the way. To the side, ice dribbled. Wedging into the tight constricted cave beneath the boulder, I gained a purchase on the right wall and heaved. Back and footing, bridging-pressing-straining, I made height until level with the top of the boulder. The Orion Face dropped away. Sickening. Heaving from a placement in the corner above the chock, scratching-gasping, I wedged myself into a tight dark corner and knew without a rope or harness there was only one direction.

I look above. A runnel of snow ends abruptly with an open-book corner, like a trickle of brook water in a drought, a slither of ice ran at the rear of the corner.  

Steps were visible leading to a spike beneath the corner. The sling draped around the spike had a new-shiny locking karabiner hanging from it. The steps had lured me into this blind cul-de-sac and the steps belonged to climbers who had sailed away on an abseil rope choosing an easier option.

 Two, three, four moves into the corner, I knew I was fully committed. Beneath my teetering and insecure position sculptured waves of ice ran to join the snow cone hundreds of feet below. I had made a mistake. Soloing if confident can be liberating, but without means for escape? I vowed that if I were to survive, a rope and a harness would always be packed in the future.