This week we learned more about the survival of Derek Mamoyac, who was found alive and in relatively good condition after five days on Washington’s Mt. Adams. After Derek didn’t show up for work on Monday, October 13, a search was begun immediately on the mountain where it was known he had planned to make a one-day ascent with minimal gear on Sunday. Each succeeding day brought false leads but no sign of Derek, and with overnight lows in the 20s, the outlook was pretty grim. We Northwesterners know how too often these stories play out, for every year there are several where we learn even fairly experienced folk fall victim to rapidly changing weather conditions, reliance on equipment or cell phones that fail them, or perhaps overconfidence in their own skills and abilities. Happily, this was not such a tale, for the young man was found Friday afternoon, suffering from frostbite and a broken ankle but in good spirits and having survived on creek water and a diet of bugs for several days. I followed this story with particular interest, for back in 1973 several family members and I climbed Mt. Adams, following the same route as Derek did, but safely making it to the 12,276-foot summit and back in one day, although not without a few scares along the way. The only really experienced mountaineer in the group was my dad, who in the early ’50s had been a member of the Crag Rats, a climbing and volunteer search and rescue group based in Hood River, Oregon. The route we would be taking up Mt. Adams on this particular August day, however, was not technically challenging, and we did not have crampons, ropes or ice axes, just regular hiking boots and backpacks loaded with food and water. After spending the night just below timberline at a primitive campground on the south side of the mountain, we arose around 3:30 a.m. to begin our trek. The first few hours entailed hiking up a trail winding between boulders in a barren landscape, treading on fine glacial grit. As the darkness gave way to a clear dawn sky, we found ourselves well above the tree line and able to gaze out over the pine forests below and beyond to wheat fields to the east, the Columbia River to the south, and Mt. Hood and Mt. St. Helens (pre-eruption) to the west. So far, the climb had been nothing more than a hike, but now we began working upward, sometimes walking up snowfields, sometimes stepping up ridgelines over endless staircases of boulders ranging in size from basketballs to cars. It was here that our group began stretching out into smaller units–something which drove my dad nuts and which, looking back, I can see was pretty foolish. There was no clearly marked trail, so the younger, faster guys just struck out on their own, while my sister Julie and I generally stayed within shouting distance of Dad and Uncle Ken. We weren’t too concerned about getting lost; after all, we were all going to end up at the same place, right? One just had to keep heading uphill to get there. Getting there–and back again–tomorrow. Patty Vanikiotis, proofreader