From "The Peaks of Neacola"

Morris breathed deeply, the hanging mist of the cold Aleutian air stinging his lungs, and gathered himself, weary from the struggle and his daring escape, taking pause but still well aware that the next attack would come soon. He let out a wise chuckle; he rationalized that a younger, less world-weary Morris McKeever would not have survived the onslaught. The youthful, inquisitive Morris would have hesitated, he would have clamped up, concerned less about his own safety than with trying to figure out how the giant squid was able to scale fifteen thousand vertical feet in subzero weather with no climbing gear in sight.

The suction cups had done a number on his arms, and with each rapid heartbeat he felt the bloody red mounds on his biceps pulse in rhythm. Exhausted, he sat and leaned back against the Ice Fortress, clutching the ice harpoon to his sweater which was now caked in frozen blood and ink. His head bobbed as his eyes slowly closed...and then...in a flash of giant eye and beak...the squid was upon him.