It's kind of weird. After a scramble when I think back to it, I only have fragments. I think it might be because of the effort expended or maybe the adrenaline prevents a smooth cognitive flow. Whatever it is - what follows resembles a poem but is really the way I remember the Mt. Nestor scramble.
After struggling up Old Baldy in more snow than I was expecting I started the traverse over to McDougall - against my own better judgment I should hastily add! The ridge looked fairly straight forward but the amount of snow combined with the total elevation gain wasn't looking attractive.