We hit Sector One faster. The ridge didn't change its mind; it just reminded us it was higher than we were. The wind tugged. We let it. Gareth planted behind stone, Pelham tied short, Mira marked, I checked, and we moved. No one stood tall where the gust wanted a target.
At the switchback, the rope creaked louder. The span had warmed under hands and cooled under shade, and that back-and-forth made fibers complain. A team ahead of us wobbled on their feet and fed the sway. We went to hands and knees again. The rope count matched my breath if I let it.
Halfway, a loose knot ahead made the sway worse. The right move wasn't to scold the air; it was to fix the knot when we reached it and tell the next team without turning it into a speech.
"Hold on the landing," I said. "I'll clear the tie."
We crossed. I checked the knot, pulled the slack, dressed the lay, and set the bite. The line hummed cleaner. Mira chalked a small arrow on the rock: check here. We moved.
