Scott Norton and I pulled up to the "'climbers' parking lot," not far from historic Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood, around 8pm the evening of June 19, 1999. The plan was to get a few hours sleep in the back of Scott's truck and head out for the summit around midnight.

We sat looking out at the middle portion of the mountain for over an hour. The higher elevations were shrouded by clouds, but between wisps at our elevation we could see clearly beyond the Palmer ski lifts where we could make out moving dots, undoubtedly climbers planning on camping overnight part way up the mountain. As darkness obscured our view, we decided to try to catch a few winks ourselves.

We jumped out of the warm truck cab, dressed for our camp out in the back of the truck and then crawled into the two-foot space designated for carrying gear and, tonight, sleeping. Good thing I'm not claustrophobic. As we wound down our conversation about the climb to come, we both grew silent.

"I had been looking at this mountain and visiting it for 19 years. I'd even run around is several times in ultra-marathons and in 'fun runs'...But I had never actually climbed it..."

Soon Scott was sleeping soundly, and I was listening to the wind and looking out a small window up at the stars. Most of the clouds had blown away and the night sky, at this altitude, away from city lights, was awesome. I couldn't sleep. I had been looking at this mountain and visiting it for 19 years. I'd even run around is several times in ultra-marathons and in "fun runs" on the 42-mile circuit comprised of the Timberline and Pacific Crest trails. But I had never actually climbed it.

For the past several years I had thought more and more about climbing to the top of Mount Hood. Because of an increasingly gimpy knee, my running career was pretty much over, at least the competitive part of it. And, I suspected from the clues I got while walking the dog or just walking from point A to point B, that someday my ability to do much of anything requiring the use of my legs would be limited to the mundane. So now I lay in the back of a truck looking at the stars wondering if I had waited too long; wondering if my knee would betray me; wondering if my relatively poor physical condition (not racing fit) would embarrass me.

At midnight our wristwatch alarms went off. Scott made a guide's decision that because of the weather conditions we should reset our alarms for 2:00 am. He felt that with the wind howling as it was we would be better to take off a little later, summit later in the morning, and spend less time exposed to all that wind in the dark and the nighttime cold.

"We finished dressing for mountain travel: Scott in his own gear, me with layers of running and 'casual Friday' gear, along with climbing essentials rented from REI..."

Two o'clock took no time at all to arrive. This time we didn't hesitate. We finished dressing for mountain travel: Scott in his own gear, me with layers of running and 'casual Friday' gear, along with climbing essentials rented from REI. One last look around the truck to make sure nothing essential wasn't being left behind in the dark and we were off.

The first several miles of the climb are relatively easy. 'Relatively' meaning that one didn't have to look down for each and every foot placement. Mostly, at least for the first couple of miles, you're trudging up the Palmer Glacier, the only year-round ski area in the country, maybe the world. So at first you're just walking steadily upward. It's not technically difficult, but you're going from a little over a mile in altitude at the Timberline Lodge parking lot to around 8,500 feet at the top of the Palmer ski lift. (Some climbers hire a snowcat to get them to this segment of the climb. I'm ambivalent about hiring transportation. I can see the point of skipping the non-technical drudge work, but why stop there? Why not take a helicopter all the way to the top?) So we trudged on, and I began to sweat under my layers of jacket and sweaters while my face was getting stiff and my head was getting cold.

Part way up the Palmer ski area, Scott said we should stop and put on our crampons. I'd been waiting for this. Now I was about to do something that would distinguish this experience from every other time I had walked or run up a snow covered hill. Now I was about to use real, albeit rented, climbing gear. I remembered how to put my crampons on from the crash course I got at the REI rental counter. On the other hand, Scott immediately discovered that he had brought along crampons that were adjusted for another pair of climbing boots. Luckily he had packed a multi-purpose tool that had the pliers necessary to adjust his crampons or this would have been an extremely frustrating, abbreviated hike.

"I took a couple of steps and, as best as I can figure, I stepped onto a patch of snow covering nothing but air..."

Scott was almost finished with his adjusting when I decided to walk around a little to see if my crampons or boots needed any further adjustment. I took a couple of steps and, as best as I can figure, I stepped onto a patch of snow covering nothing but air. My left leg plunged through the snow, bashing my already iffy knee into something hard. When I went down I was holding the ice axe with my right hand, right arm extended. It felt as though my shoulder was torn in half. I collapsed forward, nearly skewering my head on the pointy end of the axe. Scott feared the worst, especially since I was unable to communicate for several seconds.

Eventually I was able to tell Scott that I was, hopefully, not seriously injured, at least not bleeding. I really didn't know. I was being as optimistic as I could be under the circumstances. It took several more minutes before I decided that, while definitely damaged (turned out to be a torn tendon), I was going to be able to continue. Nothing heroic, it's just that after decades of long-distance running, I have a pretty good sense of what constitutes 'quit pain' versus 'continue-but-monitor pain.'

In a flash I had gotten an insight into just how dedicated I was to accomplishing this personal quest. It was, surprisingly, the only fear I experienced on this little adventure, the momentary fear that I would have to go home not having finished what I very, very much desired to do. After all, one of my long-term, serious self-images was that of 'endurance athlete.' Having completed scores of marathons and ultra-marathons, I believed that I could tackle just about anything that required little skill but a lot of willingness to hurt. And boy was I hurting.

"Sometimes it would be only 100 or so before I had to bend over my ice axe and do nothing but suck in air for 30-60 seconds..."

Skip ahead an hour or so...We were still only about halfway to the summit when I was reduced to counting my steps. Sometimes it would be only 100 or so before I had to bend over my ice axe and do nothing but suck in air for 30-60 seconds, waiting for my heartbeat to slow to 100 beats a minute and the burning in my once 'bullet-proof' legs to dissipate.

I kept telling myself that I was doing well for someone my age, but deep inside I knew that I had let myself get pretty soft. If I ever climbed a mountain again I would be much more prepared physically. Mentally, I was in terrific shape. I had to do this one thing, and I was going to do it no matter what (I wish I could apply this kind of focus to making money).

"I looked over, and I was stunned by one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen..."

At around 6:30 Scott and I took a break to wolf down some snacks and hydrate (Step #1: bite through ice around nozzle of squeeze bottle). When we started climbing again, Scott pointed to his left (west). I looked over, and I was stunned by one of the most beautiful sights I've ever seen. We were well above the clouds, and in this particularly rarefied atmosphere, on this particular day, the sun was shining brightly, casting a beautiful shadow with just a hint of a rainbow's reflection thrown in, for miles and miles atop the puffy clouds.

It was time to pull out my trusty point-and-shoot camera. It wouldn't work. Probably the batteries. Surprisingly, I wasn't bothered by this....I was, after all, recording all of this wonder in my brain to play and replay for the rest of my days. Besides, it was a beautiful sunny day, at least where we were, so 'don't worry, be happy.'

Scott and I continued upward. I marveled at his patience with me. Here I was struggling along...game, but a lot slower than Scott and a lot slower than I imagined I would be. But Scott, bless his athletic heart, would find himself a hundred or so feet ahead of me and wait, never complaining, never making me feel like the novice or, heaven forbid, an old dude. He's a prince of a guy, and it's amazing that at age 30 he's still single. I think it must be the climbing, peddling, running, and paddling test he gives all new prospects.

Finally, under blue skies and diminishing winds, we reached that portion of the climb where the angle of ascent increases noticeably and where the ice axe comes into play. As Scott puts it, 'always have two points dug into the snow: both feet or one foot and the spike of the ice axe.'

"For hours we had been approaching what, to my mind, was the serious portion of the climb, the 'Devil's Kitchen,' with its limited access routes and fumaroles..."

For hours we had been approaching what, to my mind, was the serious portion of the climb, the 'Devil's Kitchen,' with its limited access routes and fumaroles (oxygen void volcanic steam vents that smell like rotten eggs). Now we were climbing past Crater Rock, through the Kitchen, and setting our sights on the colorfully named 'Hogback.' This geological feature is a very narrow snow ridge where passing other climbers was done as carefully as possible, and where ascending and descending parties worked their ways around each other with much caution.

At this juncture, I was a little surprised by two things. First that, as we got closer to the summit, we caught up with a lot of other climbers, mostly in parties of ten or so, that were going even slower than Scott and I. The other thing that surprised me was how many of these climbers were roped up. Being on a rope is probably a very good safety measure if you are part of a group where everyone has a pretty good idea of what to do instinctively and immediately in an emergency. But with inexperienced climbers, being tied together just means if one goes, they all go. Maybe it's just thirty years of long distance running, mostly by myself, that gave me this mindset, but I was happy not to be roped up to anyone for their sake as well as my own.

So upward we went. Now we were very often climbing, literally, in the steps of those who proceeded us. These 'stairs' were usually a matter of inches apart, forcing us to take very small steps. 'Baby steps' and Bill Murray in his movie, What About Bob? kept going through my mind. The steps, while accommodating an ever-increasing rate of incline, were so close together as to make forward progress a little easier.

"By now I wasn't counting steps, enjoying the view, or contemplating a career as a climbing guide. I was very simply trying to do everything right..."

Nevertheless, at some two miles in altitude (only about 4 miles below the height of Mt Everest—mind boggling), I still had to stop and do deep breathing every 20-30 steps. By now I wasn't counting steps, enjoying the view, or contemplating a career as a climbing guide. I was very simply trying to do everything right. I was trying to heed Scott's advice and the comment I had recently read in a book about climbing: 'most fatalities on Mount Hood result from the exercise of poor judgement by inexperienced climbers who overestimate their abilities and/or underestimate risks from effects of weather and other conditions.'

Weather on this day was no problem, but as I struggled, I was thinking, 'this is pretty easy, technically.' Very likely it is a piece of cake for most reasonably fit, reasonably coordinated people. But I had to remind myself that the big issue here is that just one little mistake, one overconfident step, could end in death or permanent injury. So I behaved myself and tried very hard to act as though I actually knew what I was doing. And onward we climbed—now, for all practical purposes, part of a seven person team.

Finally over the Hogback and beyond Crater Rock, we veered to the left, taking a route that would take us around the 'bergschrund.' This interesting feature is essentially a relatively small but semipermanent crevice that guards the route to what I believe is called the 'Pearly Gates.' Scott initially advised me that we were going to go around the bergschrund to the right, but after discussing this route with another climber who said it looked 'pretty sketchy,' Scott reversed our decision and we stayed, thankfully, behind a nice slow group.

"I got smacked on the arm by what felt like a hard thrown baseball..."

It was here, as I recall, that we first heard and than saw a relatively small (attention-getting in this environment) rock slide. Insignificant a thousand feet away, deadly if over your position. We did, by the way, get caught under a small rock and/or ice slide. I got smacked on the arm by what felt like a hard thrown baseball. Scott caught one just west of his groin. We didn't see these objects coming and once the commotion started, I heeded Scott's command: "don't look up!' Good thinking. I'd much rather catch one on the helmet than see one a split second before it planted itself in my face. During this portion of the climb we also got to leap over small, shallow splits in the glacier we were traversing.

Near the summit the route got steeper but the 'steps' and the ice axe plant holes got more defined. By concentrating on the simple exercise of taking one step, then another, then replanting the ice axe...this cycle over and over again, our progress upward was confident, attainment of the summit inevitable. Still, no fear, only pain from too many old and some new injuries and ever-increasing exhaustion.

"A little while later we went through a chute and there it was, the summit of Mount Hood..."

At last we reached what looked to be the summit. But, as I said earlier, having run over and around mountains before, I was well aware of false summits. You can only see what you can see, and sometimes what you see is just the top of a lower step. This was the case here, but I knew we couldn't be too far from the top. Just a little while later we went through a chute and there it was, the summit of Mount Hood. Still about 150 feet away in altitude, but now there were many paths, or no paths, just a scramble to the top. I was still trying not to get overconfident, but now I wanted to charge up to get to the top, more to take a well-deserved rest than to enjoy the view. Boy, that changed in a hurry.

I got to the summit a few minutes behind Scott. The view, with Mount St. Helens, Mount Adams, and Mount Rainier in one direction, Mount Jefferson and, I believe, North Sister, in the other, was spectacular, breath-taking, incredible, amazing. Wow! Too beautiful, too big, and too personal to describe.

Despite seeing what looked like dozens of other climbers when we were still a couple of hours away from this point, having reached our goal, it seemed as though we had the summit pretty much to ourselves. We didn't, but it certainly wasn't crowded.

"I noticed a young lady making a vain attempt to take a photo of a floppy olive drab hat draped over the top of her ice axe..."

After taking in as much of a 360deg; view as I could, I looked around at my more immediate surroundings. I noticed a young lady making a vain attempt to take a photo of a floppy olive drab hat draped over the top of her ice axe. The wind wasn't cooperating. Every time she released the hat in order to back up and take her photo the wind would blow it off. And if she wasn't quick to respond, it certainly would have blown over the shear drop off that was the north side of Mount Hood.

Speaking of the north side of the mountain, when I first arrived at the top, I got as close to this edge as I dared, about two feet. Probably way too close considering I was standing on snow. As I looked over the edge, I found myself looking straight down for hundreds, maybe thousands of feet. Intimidating doesn't begin to describe it.

"I backed away from the edge...and recalled that just two weeks earlier a young couple, experienced climbers both, had lost their lives on the north side of this mountain..."

I backed away from the edge to the relative safety of the relatively flat center of the summit and recalled that just two weeks earlier a young couple, experienced climbers both, had lost their lives on the north side of this mountain. They had summited from the north and were about to descend the same way. One slipped, they both fell hundreds of feet. A day on the mountain. Tragic.

I banished the black thoughts from my mind. It was too beautiful here to dwell on the tragedy of others. No more peering over the scary parts.

Anyhow, I asked the young lady if I could be of assistance by holding the hat in place on her ice axe with the tip of my ice axe. She thought that was a fine idea, so she set up the hat again. I held it steady, and she got her picture. She (her name was Amber) explained that the reason for the hat photo was that last year she attempted to summit with a guy friend from Denmark. The weather prevented them from reaching the top. Now her friend was back in Denmark, but at least his hat was at the summit. Amber asked if I would take a photo of her wearing the hat. I said I'd be glad to take any pictures of her that she wanted, but, if she had a shot to spare, would she take one of Scott and me?

"...We assured her we had seen this too and went into our top-of-the-mountain pose..."

Amber said she had plenty of film left and would be happy to oblige, especially after I told her the sad story of my camera not working and exactly where we were when I discovered I wasn't going to get my Mount Hood photos. She asked if we had seen the same mountain shadow and were there really rainbow hues playing on the clouds next to it earlier that morning. We assured her we had seen this too and went into our top-of-the-mountain pose.

We took a couple of photos: one looking north, one south, and then did the same for Amber in her well-traveled hat. I had a card with my name and address on it, so I gave it to her to, hopefully, assure that we actually got prints of the photos she took of us.

We departed company with our new photo pal and put our back packs on for the trip down. I realized that I was a little apprehensive. When you start at the base of the mountain you gradually move into increasingly more difficult, more dangerous terrain. Going down from the summit you are immediately challenged by the most difficult part of the climb.

"On the way up you are concentrating on the uphill portion of the mountain, the snow a meter or so in front of you. During the descent you're looking out over a whole lot of space..."

Additionally, on the way up you are concentrating on the uphill portion of the mountain, the snow a meter or so in front of you. During the descent you're looking out over a whole lot of space. Either way you take it one step at a time. Downhill is easier physically but the relative ease, not to mention the onset of exhaustion, made me want to hurry down or at least keep up with the other descending climbers. So I had to keep my tendency to race in check.

I made it down past the Pearly Gates, back around the bergschrund and to the top of Hogback where Scott was waiting for me. We rested, hydrated, and took off down Hogback before it got crowded with roped-up climbers also on their way down.

Finally Scott and I were past the steep part of the descent. Here he pointed out what looked like a shallow channel heading down the mountain. Turns out this was a man-made slide, a means for weary climbers to revert to childhood and slide on their butts rather than hoof it down this portion of the slope. At first I was going to pass on the experience, but Scott said he was game, and I figured "What the hell." So I removed my crampons (it wouldn't do to catch a spike in the "wall" of the channel) and sat down in it.

"I'd start, gain speed, dig my ice axe in, spin around, get snow crammed into most parts of my clothing..."

I started to slide and immediately discovered that my nylon running pants were way too slick for this activity. I accelerated rapidly and found myself using my ice axe to keep from going totally out of control. I'd start, gain speed, dig my ice axe in, spin around, get snow crammed into most parts of my clothing, come to a complete stop and start the process all over again. I really wanted to just let 'er rip and go down the rest of the way at whatever speed the mountain and my outfit dictated, but the thought of coming home on crutches after a successful summit was just too, well, too like someone I really want to avoid being.

So, Scott and I slid and trudged down the rest of the mountain, well over a mile of rapidly softening snow. Snow turning slushy under the bright blue Oregon sky. Time to get off the mountain. Time for lunch and the opportunity to start reliving one of the most incredible experiences of my life.

— Ron Gayer, MountainZone.com Pubster