The idea actually came while I was under duress, or so that's what I'll plead in court should it ever come to that. I was working on writing a book about shipwrecks. While this may seem to the casual observer as a romantic pursuit, it became an overwhelming task. I was spending virtually all of my free time either studying old books or looking for some obscure fact in a dark corner of a library somewhere in Florida. At the same time I had a very demanding sometimes mind numbing job in sales. When I didn't have to be "on" in sales mode or peering into endless paragraphs about who sunk what where, I was somewhere under the Gulf of Mexico actually looking at or looking for some remnant of a study in why heavy things don't float.

Somewhere in this hectic chase I found an outlet for my brain. I picked up a book about a tragedy on some mountain wherein people did not sink or drown. I stole away brief periods of time where I was on some mountain in the snow challenging myself and facing death, if only in my mind. I burned through volume after volume of perils and victories in some of the highest places on earth.

I haven't seen a real explanation of why people climb. I don't mean the easy answers like "it's there", or "for the challenge" or any of the facing death, fear, or nature routes. I mean what compels a reasonable sound person to look up at some imposing peak or horrible mass of earth and ice and think, "I need to get up there?" I don't know if my compulsion to do so came from my hours between the covers of a musty book or if it something that has been seething inside me all my life. I doubt the latter simply because for as long as I can remember I have had a debilitating fear of heights. But somewhere along the line a seed took root, or as one climbing writer put it, a worm began to grow.

I can't say that I don't have enough excitement in my life, quite the contrary, I am among a small fraternity of people who scuba dive far past the reasonable depths and do so while breathing scary concoctions of gases to keep us from getting completely wasted or having a seizure and dying. As you approach the extreme limits, the line between these two occurrences gets very very slim. I have jumped from airplanes, and from high places with elastic tied to my legs. All in all I have done many of the things that some would equate to being a brave or very stupid man. Incidentally, my wife has been beside me on every occasion except the deep diving. As my book neared completion I made a promise to myself, I would climb a mountain. Climbing books, catalogs and brochures began to accumulate around my apartment. So when I told my wife my intent, she really wasn't surprised. The day I picked up my first printed copy of Shipwrecks of Florida's West Coast, I also sent a deposit check to a climbing school in Bellingham, Washington.

Several months later, and after a summer of trying to acquire mountain climbing gear in central Florida, I was standing in a chilly, drizzling rain in front of an unimposing little wood frame house that is the American Alpine Institute. It would seem that the person who writes the required list of equipment for this undertaking has the impression that we would each bring a sherpa. This not being the case, the guides sorted through our personal gear and lightened our loads considerably.

As the rest of the group finished their sorting and packing I was settling my bill. This is done, interestingly enough, BEFORE they take us walking on a glacier. With that done, I walked out the door of the office and started down the several steps to the lower level gear room. I don't know exactly how but in an instant I was seeing my feet rise and come parallel with my eyes. I was, in climbing terms, "taking a screamer." This was a bad sign; I was going to spend the next five days living on a glacier surrounded by crevasses and shear cliffs and I had just slipped on a wet step. Luckily my lower back broke my decent. But some how I had managed to get my hand back there, and as a result, I found out later I had cracked some bones and did some nerve damage. My head was spinning and a wave of nausea overwhelmed me. I sat there semi dazed looking around to see if anyone else had witnessed my acrobatics. The last thing I wanted was to be out of the game before it really began. I held my breath and went about the task of packing and loading into the van for the trip to the trailhead.

As mountains go, Mount Baker is imposing to its surroundings. It is part of the Cascade range in northern Washington State. As far as climbing is concerned, Baker at 10,770 feet is a bunny hill. As we arrived at the trailhead the clouds obscured any view of the mountain so my only notion of what lay ahead was what I had picked up from the post cards at the hotel the night before. In the gravel lot at the foot of Baker, we took up our gear, donned our climbing boots and walked into the woods. I really have to take this time to describe plastic mountaineering boots. The boots required for this course were made in two parts, the first a comfortable inner shell that fits like a thick sock with laces. These inner liners are specially crafted with a space age material that becomes damp in the proximity of any moisture no matter how small the amount. To keep the clammy dampness and retain the smell of sweaty wool socks, the second part of the boot is its hard plastic outer shell weighing about four pounds each.

As we began up the trail I was plagued by a popping sound and what felt like softball between my waist strap and my spine. An hour into the hike the rain began and the popping continued. The dull ache of the softball became more noticeable. I thought I was in good shape, I was mistaken. At two hours I had lost sight of my group. At four hours into a two and a half-hour hike one of the guides came back to check my progress. A half-hour later the guide returned to tell me it wasn't much further. Another half-hour passed and the guide returned eating a sandwich as he walked with me. I began to wonder what the hell I was doing there.

Low camp was a little point of dirt at the end of valley that ended at a steep wall of glacier. One side was bordered by a unique mass of land called the Railroad Grade, a steep mound of rock and dirt that bordered the tongue of the glacier a couple of hundred feet below. We had hiked up the spine of the grade to get to camp, but in the clouds and fog I really couldn't get my mind around the vastness of the scene. We prepared our dinner, a freeze dried scary combination of beans and spices that led me to believe that whoever came up with these combinations has never spent a long night in a small tent with another person on a similar diet. My tent mate was a 22-year old college co-ed that had spent the last several months skiing in France, and the few years prior to that finishing off a math degree at Harvard. We had a lot in common.

That night I was awakened out of a fitful sleep by what sounded like an approaching train. The roar rose up the valley and hit the tents violently. Gusts of rain and wind would continue through the night. During one lull while it was completely quiet I felt like I was alone on this mountain in the darkness. Then a clear voice from another tent calmly said, "this sucks". Another gust of wind hit the tent as I tried to adjust my racked body to keep weight off my damaged back and my now blue swollen hand. This indeed sucked.

The following day was filled with lessons on climbing and more on falling. As evening approached, the clouds began to abate and the mountain was about to show itself, then night fell. Our group was beginning to become individuals. There was a physician from Kentucky who could name every boulder and rock east of the Mississippi and had at least tried to climb them. Later he told me that after the first day he knew I wasn't going to make it to the top. In all sincerity, I really liked this guy. An interesting addition to the group was a young couple from California. They were like Ken and Barbie with an edge. I really love my wife, but if I were to take her up on a mountain for five days with no chance to change clothes or shower or commit bodily functions indoors, I'm afraid I would never survive the ordeal. This brings up an interesting concept that as far as I can tell is unique to alpine mountaineering. From the time you leave civilization until hopefully you return, you simply do not change clothes. You wear layers that you rotate outward, as they become damp from sweat. This includes the aforementioned wool socks. In the early days of a climb an unsettling odor begins to grow in from your sleeping bag. Everyone, I'm sure, notices it but no one ever mentions it.

On a clear morning we packed up and began the climb from 5000 to 7000 feet. As we stepped onto the glacier we roped up. This put a guide at the lead and each person tied into a rope at about twenty foot intervals. Another truth about climbing was revealed to all of us. When a guide says, "one" you translate to, "two and a half." For example, you ask, "how long is the climb to high camp?" The guide would say, "one hour." You then translate this to "two and a half hours." If the guide says, "three" the true answer is, "seven and a half" and so on. Once understood, it eased our anticipation. Except on summit day when we were told the climb would take all day!

High camp was a scary place for someone who lives in Florida. We settled onto a gentle slope with the fewest crevasses. We were to stay in a small area that made up our camp except when nature called, and considering the aforementioned food, nature tended to sneak up on you and scream in your ear. The latrine (see shear rock precipice) was a short run from camp and was a safe trip as long as you stepped over the little gray crevasse that was hidden on the path. The logistics of the latrine itself I will not go into. You wouldn't believe me if you haven't been there.

Late one night we got up to go for a walk. At two in the morning we tied ourselves together, donned our crampons and started up. I came to realize later that we did this in the dark so those of us who are accustomed to flat lands wouldn't go screaming off a cliff after looking into the crevasses we were crossing on narrow snow bridges in the night. The sun came up, and not knowing the way back down, I continued on. The snow was heavy on a feature called the Roman Wall. It was possibly the steepest terrain we had been on. I was fortunate to have been at the back of the rope team so the steps were kicked in solid. Unfortunately the few times that the slope gave way my harness came tight and the pain from my deep bone bruise took my breath away. At ten thousand feet I had very little breath to spare. With my eyes watering, back aching, and hand broken, I stepped onto the summit. This is a feeling I cannot describe. I stood for some time simply smiling. I couldn't form any words or really think of any. I just smiled. I handed my camera to someone who took a couple of pictures and then I took a few. I really still couldn't talk. The day was clear, Mt. Shuksan stood below us, and far off we had a great view of Rainer hundreds of miles to our south. It really can't be explained.

The trip down was fast. We were six people separated by a line of rope doing a standing glissade like we were one. That night at camp before we left the mountain, I decided that I had done this and that was enough. My dream had been to climb a mountain, and for what it was worth, I had. I was tired, lonely, hurt, and hungry. I knew I wouldn't ever do this again. It was just too difficult.

Back in Florida a few months later, I was several miles out guiding a dive trip. I was talking with a guy on the boat whom I knew to be a climber. I told him my story and he kind of laughed. Above the sound of the wind and the boat motor he said, "Let's climb Rainer next summer?" without even thinking about it I said, "OK, sure!" Then I looked around to see were the answer came from. It was me.

—Leon Watts, Living the Life with MountainZone.com