July 1982. We picked our way up and toward the left from the cars on mostly 2nd class terrain with occasional 3rd class pitches. Views were blocked by good-weather clouds all around us. Glissaded down one of the two prominent snow couloirs west of our ascent route. Me being a chicken, I was trying to brake hard with my left hand, and when the ice axe spike caught either some ice or a rock under the snow, a searing pain shot through my shoulder. The shoulder has never been the same since, and I fear putting too much weight on it to this day.