"We can meet at 5 am," Chris suggested. I gave him a dirty look.

"Six?" I nodded. This conversation sounded vaguely familiar. Then again, so was the destination. The last time we'd talked about early departures it was to climb Mt. Rainier; this time, we were heading for Rainier's southern cousin, Mt. Adams.

Three of us gathered at 6 am to begin the five-hour drive to the trailhead: myself, Chris, and Adam. We headed into Seattle, exchanged our car for a borrowed SUV, and then began the long trek south.

The route we took was, in theory, the most direct. It involved driving about 50 miles on dirt forest service roads, though, and the dust, winding roads, and huge logging trucks did little to make the drive comfortable. We finally arrived at the ranger station around noon, obtained permits and filled out the required paperwork for a summit attempt, then headed back up the road towards the trailhead. The mountain loomed above the trail, a dirty brown heap or rubble. I remarked on how ugly the mountain looked as we approached.

Chris quickly warned me not to mock the mountain, reminding me of my experience on Mt. Rainier earlier in the year. I quickly changed my tone. What a lovely shade of brown! What a beautiful heap of gravel!

Chris replied, "Don't patronize the mountain, either, Steve."

Chris and Adam had both been to Mt. Adams before. The road to the trailhead is in famously bad shape, and by the time they had arrived at the trailhead Adam's car (a VW Jetta) had lost its muffler. Hence, the borrowed SUV. Adam negotiated the ruts and dips with care, and we arrived at the trailhead about thirty minutes later.

Getting our gear together was a slow process. We nibbled some snack food, drank lots of water, and generally milled around for about half an hour before finally hitting the trail.

The land around the trail was dry and dusty, the dirt a fine beige, and the trees spindly. The trail wound through the forest, being consistent only in its continuous ascent. The trail was nicely lined with rocks and logs, the sun was shining, and we set a decent pace walking through the woods.

After a mile or so Chris mentioned that he felt a hot spot forming on his heel. I commanded he address it immediately or there'd be no way he'd make it up the mountain. We had a lot of hiking ahead of us. I supplied the moleskin and bandage, he supplied the reddened heels. We continued on.

After about an hour of hiking we took a break. I hadn't eaten much prior to the start and I needed some food. While we were there I broke out the water pump and we filled up our water bottles for the next section. The snow began in earnest ahead of us, and the trees were growing sparse.

We slogged ahead through the snow, but were soon back on dry ground again. The path crossed another snow field than began to really ascend in earnest, switchbacking through the gravel alongside a smaller finger of the glacier. The gravel was loose in places, making the climb more tiring than it should have been. Adam proved to be the goat of the group (mountain goat, that is) and soon disappeared up the trail ahead of us. Chris and I headed up at a slower pace as the relentless climb took its toll. We made liberal use of several climbing techniques including the "stumble step" and the very technical "sit on your ass" manoeuver.

When we caught up with Adam he was putting on crampons at the foot of the day's biggest snowfield. Chris and I employed the "take a load off" technique while Adam toothpicked his way up the snow. After another break we continued up alongside the snow until the gravel ended, then dove in. Neither of us had crampons, although I did have hiking poles. Fortunately, it was now late afternoon and the snow was soft, making kick-steps easy. The grade was steep but not unwieldy, and we just climbed and climbed through the snow.

I soon developed a wonderful rhythm as I walked up the snowfield. I became completely enwrapped in what I was doing. Kickstep. Poleplant. Kickstep. Poleplant. Kickstep. Poleplant. The pace was slow and natural. Chris dragged behind a bit, and Adam was nowhere to be seen. I was in my own snowy little world, kickstepping my wait to the summit.

We climbed up the glacier for about an hour before finally arriving at the lunch counter, the traditional stopping ground for overnight hikers. Over the years, hikers have piled up rocks into semicircular shelters. The shelters mark off areas that have been cleared of sharp volcanic rocks and provide some protection from the wind, which had picked up greatly as we got higher.

We were now up above 9,000 feet, and the the view was astounding. To the south, Mt. Hood was a giant pimple presiding over the horizon. Mt. St. Helen's recently-popped crater lay buried in clouds to the west. Below us, small towns lay nestled in the woods like toys in a green velvet blanket.

We finally found Adam and headed up through the sharp gravel field of the lunch counter, looking for good campsites. I wanted to get as far to the east as possible, to be able to catch an unobstructed morning sunrise, but the others informed me that we'd have to head too far to catch a good view. Instead, we found two shelters next to each other and set up camp.

I've always thought that my tent was inferior quality. I'd purchased it three years ago for my bike trip, and I hadn't been able to afford a particularly expensive one. Plus, there must have been huge advances in tent technology since I'd made the acquisition. As it turns out, I was wrong. I had my tent up in just a few minutes, while Chris and Adam struggled with pole sleeves. Once we were all finally set up, mine also appeared to be the most stable in the increasing wind. Now if only it wouldn't leak when it rained...

We all sat down for dinner. Pita was the food of the day, and while Chris and Adam took the advice of some of my earlier hikes and packed hummus, I filled my flatbread with cheese, sausage, and a rather disgusting combination of premixed mayonaise and mustard.

The wind was really howling as we cleaned up from dinner. I pulled on just about all my available clothing, and was happy to see that my new 1-ply Goretex jacket was comfortable and effective. We braved the rapidly dropping temperature to watch the rapidly dropping sun illuminate the rapidly gathering clouds below us.

The views from the lunch counter were amazing as the clouds below us caught fire. Unfortunately, the icy wind coming from the west chased us into our respective tents shortly after the sun went down. Any thoughts of late-night camaraderie were dispelled by the rapidly plummeting temperature. I settled into my sleeping bag and tried to read for a while. The wind continued to howl outside, threatening to rip me, tent and all, right off the mountainside.

To my surprise, that familiar unsettling fear from so many previous hikes returned. This time it wasn't a fear of animals or even of being alone in the woods -- neither really applies when you're camped with friends halfway up a barren slope. Instead, I felt uncomfortably unsafe. The wind and cold were threatening, in a way, and my inexperienced brain (and overly experienced imagination) conjured up chills to accompany them. It was already very cold and the night was still young. I was uncomfortable and out of my element. My fears were all for naught, of course, but they made for a nerve-racking attempt at sleep.

Eventually my tent warmed up from the heat of my body, providing an extra layer of insulation around me. Outside, though was getting colder and colder. Trips to pee were numbing and brief. Late-night star trail photography was out of the question.

The wind howled all night but when we woke in the morning things had calmed considerably. We enjoyed a quick breakfast, organized the campsite for our return, and began the ascent to the summit. We were not alone as we began -- many groups were spread out across the icy slope, and far below us we could see the beginnings of groups making single-day summit attempts.

The false summit loomed above us. Adam had crampons and quickly put them to good use. Chris and I had none, so we were forced to use the moraine to the left of the main ascent path. The snow on the main slope was icy and steep, and crossing it on the way to the rocks was a little nerve racking. Once back on solid earth we discovered that the gravel was loose and sandy, making the ascent frustrating.

We climbed up and up, and each time we'd look down, our campsite would become a smaller and smaller speck. And each time we'd look up, the top would be no closer. It was maddening. Finally, after three hours in the rocky gravel, we reached the false summit. We hadn't seen Adam for over an hour -- his crampons had carried him far ahead of us. We were happy to find him waiting at the false summit, where we took a break. The wind had picked up again and the temperature was definitely dropping as we climbed.

From the false summit we descended down into the shallow valley between the two peaks. The route was well marked from hundreds of previous bootprints. Ahead of us lay the final push -- a switchbacking route up the loose gravel of the main slope. Once again I got into the rhythm of the previous day: step, pole plant, rest, step, pole plant, rest. It proved to be a great way to climb, maintaining a nice constant speed. I had inadvertently discovered the rest step.

Finally, after about 5 hours of climbing, we reached the top. An abandoned hut completely filled with snow and crusted with tired hikers awaited us. We posed for photos and soaked up the view.

As could be expected, the descent both quicker and easier than the ascent. Although a glissade run had been worn into the main slope of the false summit, we avoided it. It was much too steep for us to attempt without ice axes. Instead, we hopped our way down along the boulders and gravel to the west. Eventually, the slope eased up and we were more than happy to let gravity do all the work, sliding our way down the mountain, using my hiking poles for brakes, trying not to bowl over any unsuspecting mountaineers as we careened down the mountain.

We arrived back at our camp to find it overrun with shirtless college boys. We reclaimed a little corner of our campsite, enjoyed a relaxing lunch, then began the descent to the car. Once again the way down was quick and easy, with every other step turning into a short glissade down a snowy bank. My boots quickly became soaked, but I didn't really mind -- the weather was warm and we were making good time back to the car.

We finally arrived back at the trailhead, tired but happy, just as the sun was setting. We headed back into town, signed out at the ranger station, and then went to a local diner for burgers and fries.

I asked the waitress for some vinegar to go with my fries. She looked at me like I'd just asked for a mango tapenade. "Vinegar? No, we don't have any vinegar." She chuckled and left, then came back a few seconds later. "There's vinegar in ketchup. Use that."