Finally, at some point when there began to be a meager little slice of moon available, we exited the Couloir and started making for the car. But we got all twisted up trying to shortcut around some lake and ended up negotiating hours of dead ends, drop-offs, dim prospects and doubled backtracks. Those were tough hours. Our frustration was only kept in check then by our exhaustion. There was an absolute minimum of bickering, as we were very well-matched partners, equally responsible for screwing up.

It was well into the wee hours before we found the trail home. After so much navigating rock by braille, in darkness, the actual trail was a breeze. We virtually ran down that path, only twisting our ankles on unseen roots and stumps now and then, and saying hello to the occasional hallucinations that greeted us in our mad dash to my '68 Chevelle. And dagnabbit, at 4am we had made it to the car, still alive and unscathed. This was cause for celebration, as it allowed perfectly for the five-hour drive back to the south side of Mount Rainier, where that 9am climb was staging. We celebrated by climbing in and gunning the motor.

Those big Detroit cylinders were still just warming up to their work when I looked over to see Curtis fast asleep on the passenger side. No matter, I thought, as I eased us out of the parking area and down the dirt road toward the highway. But I fell asleep five times in the first five minutes of driving. That last time had me so asleep that I was curled up down by the brake pedal...