First things first, however. As my wife, Irene, was about to head back to Michigan after having helped Chris move his life and belongings from Chicago to Seattle, we thought it would be fun to spend a night in the famous old lodge. I had booked two rooms several weeks earlier. We had been to the Lodge numerous times, the first and perhaps most memorable was way back in 1971 when Irene and I had hiked from the Columbia River Gorge south on the Pacific Crest Trail to Crater Lake nearly 300 trail miles. We had tromped down the mountain side and into the back of the Lodge as the tourists gawked at us, but we couldn't afford to stay there in our scrimping early years of marriage, so we just admired the place. This time, though, we finally got to enjoy a brief stay in the slightly musky authenticity of the grand wood beamed ski resort. The plan then called for Irene to head home as Chris, Bob and I prepared for a 9:00 PM start up the mountain.

We set up our tents at the forest campground a mile or so down the road from the lodge, leaving them there so we could get some rest that afternoon before our evening ascent and crash the next morning after the climb. Yes, it was an unusually early alpine start, but in view of the mild temperatures on the mountain we wanted as much time as we could get on firm snow, especially on the upper mountain. We also wanted the deteriorated snow conditions by the bergschrund and up on the headwall to be as hard as possible.

It was odd starting out while it was still light instead of the usual stumbling around in the dark, but start we did. By the time we approached the ski run above the lodge, full darkness was upon us. We began skirting around to the east to stay out of the way of the snowcats as they began grooming the slopes. Funny thing about your perspective up close at the base of slopes – it can become really hard to determine just where you are. One of the snowcats flashed it's lights at us giving us the hint that we were still in the ski area and hadn't yet reached the eastern edge of the ridge. So we angled further east as we gained altitude on the slope.

Still below Crater Rock, we stopped to have some energy bars and water. Out of the night came a lone climber and we all struck up a conversation. He introduced himself as Ed and he asked if he could tag along behind us. We certainly had no objection to this and began the upward trek once again. By this time the moon had risen enough to provide generally sufficient light so as to make our head lamps unnecessary. Moonlight is always a friendly companion when it shows up while you climb at night. As we finally reached the east side of Crater Rock, what had looked to be a worrisome exposed face actually presented a hundred yards of easy loose rock and scree slope to traverse. After that it was just a short way up the steepening snow to gain the hogsback.

Time for another break to put on harnesses and rope up. Normally one would not chooses to sit next to the fowl smell of rotten eggs and enjoy a snack, but during a welcomed break at 3:30 in the morning next to the sulfur fumaroles of Devil's Kitchen, such concerns seem unimportant. So munch we did as we draped coils of rope across shoulders to adjust lengths between each of us for the tight crevasse conditions that appeared to loom ahead. I had invited Ed to rope up with us, but he declined saying he would be fine just following close behind. I knew just being close to a group engendered a false sense of security since, if he were to fall into a crevasse there would likely be little we could do other than look down at him. Nevertheless, Ed was insistent, even at a second request to rope in.

When we headed toward the snow bridge across the bergschrund that many had been taking in recent days, the appearance was quite uninviting. We decided to forge a new route to the west further toward the end of the crevasse which kind of blended into the nastiness of the steep slope of ice that descended down into the ominous depths of the Devil's Kitchen. Trying to ignore that, Chris lead and stepped onto a bridge. In the darkness I thought I saw an entire section of the bridge sink about a foot and called a halt to Chris and to step back. We studied along the snow bridge a moment and decided it was in fact the only viable way to gain the headwall. Proceeding cautiously, we crossed it one at a time.

Now we had to traverse the headwall to regain the route and make our way up to the Pearly Gates, two rocky spires that you climb between as a final gateway to the summit. The snow on this section of the headwall was rotten and Chris did a lot of waiting as I kept sinking in up to my waist, swinging my ax to gain a purchase and pull myself up only to posthole on the next step. It took half an hour to gain 50 feet and make our way around and outcropping to be able to continue the traverse. As dawn was breaking we were between the Gates and would reach the summit in few minutes.

The scree and remaining snow looked gloomy in the dim light. On the summit there was a collapsing snow cave that had been carved into the eastern drifts earlier in the season. It was quite mild and the four of us were the only ones here, unlike the crowd last year. We posed for a few pictures and munched some energy bars as the sun rose over the horizon casting golden hues and contrasting dark shadows below and across the summit landscape.

Twenty minutes later, we were headed down. As we reached the top of the headwall and prepared to move down, we watched six climbers down below on the hogsback turn around deciding to forego the uninviting conditions around the bergschrund. Maybe they had also observed our earlier fumblings on the headwall as well and added it all up to a no-go. Anyway, that team of six was amounted to half the number attempting the mountain this morning. There were only two other climbers down there preparing to head up. By the time they made their slow preparations and progress toward the crevasse , we were already crossing it, stepping quickly across very thin, but still frozen snow bridge. As soon as we were all across and down onto the hogsback, I was elated knowing it was just a long walk down now and the risky terrain was pretty much behind us.

We relaxed and stowed rope and harnesses freeing ourselves to descend at what ever rate each had in himself. Chris was 'Bullet Man' flying on down and slowing for nothing. I stayed a few hundred feet above trying to keep him in sight and also Bob who usually moves down at a more leisurely pace. Finally crossing to the east of the ski slope I greeted a few early skiers and the watched Chris below as he met up with a coyote. We had heard that this guy was harassing climbers as they approached the vicinity of Timberline Lodge. Sure enough the coyote kept approaching Chris and from my position well above, I saw him finally raise his ax and start chasing the mangy critter across a snowfield. In the silence of my position, the scene struck me as one from a silent movie where you gain the missing conversasion by observing more keenly visuals like body language and movements. Yes, I was amused.

When my turn with the coyote came, I eyed him and growled. I was ready and he knew it! He never made a move, but just stared at me.

It's when I stop and slide my pack off at the bottom that I realize how truly tired I am. It then sinks in that I've been doing a very strenuous thing while I would normally have been sleeping and my body is screaming at me to find my sleeping bag.

--Gary