By early afternoon, the thrill and excitement of climbing Mt. Adams had been replaced by one thought: get to the top of this heap of ice and rock so we can say we did it, and get back down as quickly as possible. We kept pushing upward, now pulling on our jackets and hats as the wind blasted us as we crossed a ridge, a short time later peeling off layers as the wind subsided and the sun reflected off of glaciers and dark volcanic rock. I was so tired, tired, tired, and my legs burned with constantly stepping up and over the boulders that stretched forever up into the sky. We finally reached Piker’s Peak–the so-called false summit at 11,657 feet–at around 2 in the afternoon. As we approached it, my sister and I thought we were actually nearing the summit. As we crested what appeared to be the final ridge, we saw with dismay that the actual peak was still half a mile and another 600 or so vertical feet away. Julie was utterly exhausted and proclaimed that she absolutely would not go any farther. She insisted that I go ahead with the rest of our party while she waited there for us. Reluctantly I went on, hating to leave my little sister behind after coming this far together. Later, we topped the true summit and sprawled on the roof of a nearly ice-buried wooden hut, proudly signing the log book tethered inside a steel box. As we snacked on candy bars before giving up our hard-won perch, someone noticed that there was a figure approaching from below. We rose together and began cheering and applauding as Julie kept on, not stopping until she had joined us at 12,276 feet above sea level. I think I actually felt more pleased that she had reached the top than that I had. We still had the long descent ahead of us, but at least it was going to be downhill, and we had a burst of energy fueled by our pride in our accomplishment. It would not surprise me to learn that the majority of climbing accidents happen on descents (as was the case with Derek Mamoyac) because one is tired and lets the vigilance of the ascent give way to the relief of the downward return. Such was the case with us. Once again, individuals and pairs in our group became separated, not everyone following the same route down. Julie and I quickly found that sliding down the glaciers and snowfields was much faster and more fun than walking up them. Without ice axes or any other means to slow our sliding except ungloved hands (and let me tell you, those pellets of semi-melted ice that make up the surface feel like your hands are plowing through crushed glass), we careened in a most uncontrolled and gleeful fashion until we got a good scare. Julie hit an especially steep patch ahead of me and began to slide and tumble downwards until with a terrified scream she disappeared up and over a lip of snow to what I was sure was certain death (or at least paralysis) below. I approached the edge over which she had flown with dread, not knowing how far she may have fallen or what kind of shape she would be in. What a relief to see her lying  in the snow only four or five feet below me, a little shaken but clearly unhurt. From that point on, we used our backsides only when we were sure of what lay ahead and we could control how quickly we went. We were both very, very, foolish and very, very, lucky that day. We all finally made it back to the campground late that day, tired, proud, and at least a few of us certainly wiser about the potential dangers of the mountain. Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader