"We can leave here at four in the morning," Chris said.

I gave him a dirty look.

"Five?"

Dirty look.

"Six."

My dirty look softened. Six in the morning it was.

Chris, Kate, and I met Sara and some of her friends at Sara's house early Saturday morning. Sara had climbed Mt. Rainier last year, and it was her idea to organize a rag-tag group of adventurers to make an attempt on base camp this year. We divided up into two cars and hit the road for the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Paradise.

In the weeks leading up to our journey, Mt. Rainier experienced record levels of snow fall. Then, as the weekend approached, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in six months. Heavy snow and sudden warmth combine well to make avalanches. Some of us were nervous.

We arrived at the Paradise parking lot to find rows of SUVs gleaming in the morning light. Apparently, we were not the only ones intent on taking advantage of the first sunny day in months.

Kate and I had been expecting cold, snowy conditions and we were packing the goods to prove it. Fortunately, the sunshine gave me warm thoughts and I removed several of my more excessive layers of clothing from my backpack. I donned my hat, applied a token smidgen of sunscreen to my vulnerable spots, and we hit the trail.

After a few minutes I stopped to take a picture and do some stretching. Half of our group continued on, and that was the last we saw of them until the descent (except as little specks through binoculars). Fortunately, we wouldn't need any of Sara's expertise on this climb -- a long line of hardy adventurers snaked its way up the mountain, clearly marking the trail up to the top of Nisqually Glacier several miles away.

Conditions were great. The sky was cloudless and the air was warm. Paradise was boasting 19 feet of snow at the trailhead, but snow wasn't a problem. Most of the trail had well-kicked steps for us to use, and that made the trail much easier to follow.

Still, "easy" is a relative term. The trail led relentlessly upward with nary a flat stretch to provide relief. After a while, the slowly emerging views of Mounts Adams, Hood, and Saint Helens began to lose their novelty. My head stayed more and more focussed on the steps in front of me and the unending climb up. The faces of those around me indicated that they were in a similar state: sombre visages were firmly fixed on the next snowy foothole.

Climbing up to Camp Muir is the equivalent of climbing all the stairs in Toronto's CN tower four times. In the snow.

Still, most of the climb was not that difficult. A liberal application of breaks and a slow, steady pace made most of the climb manageable. Towards the top, though, with our energy running low, and the air getting thin, I started to have my doubts. My stomach was getting queasy and my steps were less definite. A strong wind was sweeping over the glacier, adding a biting cold to the sweaty ascent.

Many cultures around the world deify their mountains. As I climbed, I began to understand why. The pile of stone and snow looming above me began to develop a personality. Sometimes it would bless me with firm steps; other times, a stiff, biting wind would conspire to sweep me off the mountain's shoulder. More than anything, the indifferent power of the mountain was humbling. I had remarked several times, as we made our approach, about how small and insignificant Rainier seemed. Kate chastised me: "Don't mock the mountain," she said, "or you'll tempt it to put you back in your place." As it turns out, her words were very prophetic.

Finally, after five hours, we reached the rather unremarkable Camp Muir. Several huts were clustered in the shadow of the peak, and we joined a bunch of hikers huddled out of the wind behind one of them. Lunch time!

I'm not one for skimping on meals, but even I was struck by how absurd I sounded when I called out, "Kate, do you want regular mustard or dijon on your sandwich?" The absurdity was rather delicious, though. Baguettes with roast chicken, tomato, cucumber, onion, gouda, and dijon mustard, thank you very much.

I broke out the summit chocolate and we enjoyed some sheltered warmth before suiting up for the long descent. One of the items I'd taken out of my backpack before leaving the car was an extra pair of socks -- now I desperately wanted them. My boots were soaked through and my feet were getting chilly. No damage done, but next time I do some snow climbing I'm going to make sure I have waterproof boots.

The trek down was great. In fact, it was more of a frolic than a trek. The journey began with great leaps down the snowy plain as gravity turned from friend to foe. In certain sections, the fiendous slope of the previous hour became a precious ally as we sat on our asses and let gravity do its work. Glissading is a gas.

About half of the hikers had carried skis or snowboards to the summit. On the way up, we were aghast at the extra weight and work that entailed. My brief moments of glissading, though, were inspirational. Next time, I'm carrying a tobaggan all the way to the top.

The trip down took us about 2.5 hours. Leaping down the mountain was such a joy, we didn't stop for any breaks.

As Kate had predicted, the mountain did get its revenge. When we arrived back at the Paradise trailhead, though, I didn't have any warning of what was to come. When I went home my face was only a little pinker than normal. The next morning my entire face, from shirt collar to bottom hat brim, was a deep scarlet. A large blister had appeared on my forehead, and by the end of the day my face was a blistered, weeping mess. Over the next few day I was the model radiation burn victim, with a constant cascade of flaking skin coming off my face. Now, a week later, I'm mostly healed aside from a few scabs on my forehead, cheeks, and inside my ears. My neck continues to be red, raw and flaky, but some recently procured Vitamin E ointment should fix that.

This lesson has been learned. In the past I've relied on my hat to provide shelter from the harmful effects of the sun's rays and shunned the sunscreen. When climbing a glacier, though, the real danger is from underneath, not above, and next time I shall be anointed with SPF 70.

Kate wrote her own story about the same hike. You can find it over here.