Our group really didn't get acquainted until a bunch of us formed a circle while we ate. Everyone exchanged their goods, which varied from canned herring to peanut butter and crackers. One of the schoolteachers reached into her bag and emerged with a bottle of Italian brandy liqueur that topped off the rather fancy dinner. I enjoyed my hot dinner over the assortment of cold goods of my climbing partners. As we sat exchanging jokes of what had happened, the room became crowded with Japanese hikers -- some ordering rice while others removed chow from their packs. We were about 10,000 feet above sea level and the small amount of the brandy I had made me feel even more lightheaded.

At eight o'clock all the mountain stations burn their trash outside and it is very pretty to watch this ceremony of cleanliness on the slopes of the mountain. In the center of the main room was a pit where they had a charcoal fire burning with a very large cast iron kettle hanging over it. I was sitting by the fire warming my cold feet, when I decided to go outside for a bit of fresh air. As I got up, I came face to face with the light that I hadn't paid much attention to before and I was blinded in one eye. It looked like a light bulb without the outer container on it. I began to get a little warm on my head and moved my head a little to use the eye that wasn't blinded. I quickly jerked my head back as I realized that the lighting was fire. There was small tubing all over the ceiling and at the end of the tubes was a small flame of fire. There was no apparatus at the end of the tube. Before the evening was over many people found their hair singed by this flame. I made it outside and the fresh air was a welcome relief from the musty smell of the crowded room inside. The clouds had dissipated and the sky above was beautiful with bright shining stars and a full moon that illuminated a lake down in the valley. I could see a zigzag stream of flashlights all the way down the mountain as others were venturing up. The silence of the night was broken occasionally with the calling of a climber who had been separated from his group.

Gordon Newton

(to be continued)

(Nov. 7, 2009)