Two hours later, when we were still an hour from the summit, the storm hit. Freezing clouds filled the air with snow, and a powerful wind blew the flakes nearly horizontal to the ground. We struggled through the howling mess, determined to reach the top, but the thin mountain air forced us to take small, deliberate steps.
At the base of the summit, we smelled the sulfur springs. During a much worse storm in 1888, John Muir had immersed himself in the hot water to save his life.
“Not far now,” I gasped to Dan, whose face was buried deep in his parka. I pointed into the white air. “Just over there.”

Back to the thumbnails...