Last Friday was one such day. Earlier that week, "catbirdseat" asked if anyone fancied climbing Mt. Hood. Without much thought, I quickly replied that I was up for that. With a little planning, we met in Seattle on Thursday night, ready to cruise down to Mt. Hood. It turns out that "cardbirdseat" actually has a real name. This came as something of a relief to me since I was a bit worried about entrusting my life to someone whose name was, at best, an interesting conversation piece. Brian Hench is his name, and a grizzly, yet genial climber from Bellingham by the name of Phillip Marble also joined us.

Driving in Philip's SUV down I-5, I almost felt like I was a real climber with two old pros at either side and a bed full of manly climbing hardware behind us. Pickets, wands, flukes, 'biners, and bivy sacks are the vernacular of hardy mountaineers that chew on beef jerky and drink black tar. I'm not quite one, but imagine that I am. We, or rather they, talked about the route, and other routes in the Cascades that I knew very little about, but was eager to hear nonetheless.

As we pulled into the parking lot at the lodge, I hopped out of the truck only to be blasted by the frigid air. "Excellent!" I thought to myself. "A chance to put on my new down jacket..." Just as a woman yearns for an occasion to wear that new red dress, similarly, I had been waiting to don my mountain clobber. My enthusiasm was soon tempered by the reality of trying to set up the bivy while my hands began to freeze. Still, once I was snug and warm inside my bag, I allowed myself a little chuckle as I peered up to the starry sky through the little opening. "I'm a climber. I'm a hardman climbing in the middle of winter and sleeping out in the open on the back of a truck. This is cool." With those thoughts, I drifted off to sleep.

The beginning of our day came quickly enough at 4:30am. The beam from my headlamp wedged open the perfect darkness and allowed light to shine on the gear that needed to be packed. My noodles would have to wait because there was no way I was willing to set up my stove and boil water in this bloody cold. I would have to make do with some chocolate, bananas and a sandwich. If it's good enough for big fat Jared, then it's good enough for me. Philip and Brian were none too pleased that a snowplow had been pulling doughnuts for most of the night around the truck. Being a fairly heavy sleeper, I hadn't heard a thing, and therefore didn't feel the need to wake up grumbling expletives.

The three of us were soon enough on our way, unable to see more than 20 meters ahead, but confident enough that "up" was generally the right direction. As the sun began to rise off to the east, the summit took on a new life of shadows and jagged teeth that made me wonder how the heck I was supposed to get up that thing. Being from Scotland, Ben Nevis as my only real benchmark is not even half as high as Mt. Hood.

Soon enough though, we made it up to the top of the Palmer lift. The snow cat was our only company as it groomed the threadbare mountain in anticipation of a new throng of boarders and skiers. We stopped long enough to attach our crampons, adjust loops, belts, and packs, and snack on some chips. The conditions were primo, and my only worry was that Philip seemed to be having a bit of a tough time keeping pace.

The next objective was to head for the Hogsback. As we trudged on beyond the Palmer lift, we bumped into another party. At first, I thought they were a party of four, but after the introductions, Pat (a.k.a. Shredmaximus) pointed out a figure about 100 meters ahead of us, striding up the hill with a pair of ski poles. "That's Blake. She's a marathon runner. Also, sexy and single." That was all I needed to know. As Philip gamely plodded onwards, I told Brian that I'd meet them up at the Hogsback. I wanted to catch up to the sexy soloist and see for myself just who this hardcore mountain chick really was.

"I quickly discovered, though, that carrying a 60 lb pack up an 11,000 ft peak is simply not conducive to chasing women..."

I quickly discovered, though, that carrying a 60 lb pack up an 11,000 ft peak is simply not conducive to chasing women. Every time I got within 20 meters, she'd take off without uttering a word. Every now and then, I glanced back to see the others about 60 meters below me. Finally, the mystery mountain gal took a break. The smell of sulphur from the fumaroles meant that there was definitely nothing romantic going on though. That and the fact that I was sweating profusely and puffing hard, of course. I took the smooth approach by informing her that her friends had told me she was sexy and I wanted to see for myself. This approach has never quite resulted in success, but there's no shame in honesty.

As we waited for the others to catch up, we found out that we'd both run the New York marathon last November and both finished in 3.57. Chemistry? Not quite, but it was a good conversation. First, Brian arrived just shy of the Hogsback and finally, Philip arrived looking fairly haggard.

Brian and I decided to let Philip rest a little longer by walking to the foot of the Hogsback and flaking the rope while he lay on the snow. Normally a strong climber, Philip was at odds to explain his condition today. Diet, lack of rest, and general conditioning were thrown out as possibilities, but it didn't matter because we just had to deal with the situation as it was.

By the time Philip, Brian, and I were roped in, the other party was half way up, checking the stability of the bridge over the bergshrund. Not a problem it seemed - they all negotiated that with ease and continued on unroped. Brian led the way up, with myself in the middle, and Philip bringing up the rear. Brian intermittently placed some pickets on the way up. They weren't really necessary, but were a good precaution nonetheless. I think Brian was a little bored and just wanted the practice. I was glad of that because it also gave me a chance to practice the running belay.

Going through the Pearly Gates, Philip decided he just couldn't go any further. His ice-ax was plunged into the snow, and he was bent double over the ax. I just sat there waiting for him to perk up. Brian was above me 50 meters away from the summit. After about 5 minutes, we managed to coax Philip back on his feet, and we all made it safely to the summit. The view was spectacular. Bachelor and the Sisters to the south, Rainier, St. Helens, and Adams all visible.

This is why I want to climb. This is why I know there's more to life than chasing banal dreams of fancy automobiles and TVs. This is why I feel like I can almost cry whenever I reach the top of a mountain. This is why a wide smile, and a knowing nod atop a peak says it all.