Looking back, I don't really know what it was that kept us going: the prospect of making it to the top or the fact that we weren't dead yet. Rain dripped down my back and threatened to consume my very core. Every possible inch of me was covered with the freezing liquid, and every part of skin that was exposed to the rest of the elements was frozen by a biting wind. Being a part of my insane family, my dad and I were attempting to conquer the 2,600-foot Poot Peak, or Chocolate Drop Mountain. Clouds swirled around the taller mountains, making them look as though they went on forever. The clouds that drifted low enough encircled the very top of Poot Peak, where the rocks waited like a looming prophecy.

We had trudged through mud, puddles, and had even encountered snow. Finally, with our energy almost spent, we veered off the trail for a quick lunch. After our lunch of crackers, cheese, sausage, water and a bit of the chocolate bar we had brought, we sat down and surveyed our situation. It was raining, windy and cold. However, the trail to the summit wasn't far from reach, and we were both itching to reach the top, to say that we had conquered this mountain, that it was old news. After much thought, the adventurous people in us turned left and continued up the mountain, but only on the agreement that we would retreat at the first sign of trouble.

The mud was slick, the wind was biting and the rain felt like small hailstones. When we reached a break in the clouds I turned, and my breath caught in my chest. It was like looking through gossamer wings, staring through the mist at the scene before me. Small rivers and streams wound through the forest below, cutting their own path and flowing forever. In the distance, the white, snow-covered mountains, also shrouded in mist, seemed to float in the air.

"Dad," I whispered. "Look at this."

He turned and jogged the few feet back down the slope to where I stood.

"What?" he questioned.

"Just look."

He peered through the mist at the landscape. Together we just stared at the view for a few minutes, taking it in and feeling the rain and wind on our faces. Finally, we turned and continued up the mountain.

As we slipped and slid our way toward the sign pointing our way up or back down the mountain, I realized how possibly dangerous this situation was and how crazy we were to undertake it. It had started as a climb on my dad's 50th birthday, and when we had first trekked out of our campsite, the rain had been almost nonexistent. However, the farther up we got, the harder it rained. My mom later told me that as she had huddled in the tent with my little brother, hearing the rain on the tent and the wind thrashing the water about, she had worried and worried about how we were doing and if we were OK.

The tundra squelched and slipped under our feet as the sign came into view. It was carved out of wood and held three possible ways up or down the mountain. There was "Summit Trail," with an arrow next to it pointing up. There was "South Trail," with an arrow pointing down the way we had come. This trail, although longer, had a much more gradual slope than the steep "North Trail." There was an arrow pointing a little bit to our right, and it showed the steeper way down the other side of the mountain. We stopped to decide where to go.

"Emily, it's just too hard to get up to the top," my dad explained. "It's too slippery, and even if we make it up past the scree, the rocks at the top will stop us. We won't even see the view, and there's too much fog."

I just nodded my head. I was afraid to say anything, because I knew that my disappointment would show in my voice. I had wanted to climb this mountain for so long, and to come all of this way in this horrible weather, to just give up seemed to be like saying that we didn't care and that we shouldn't even have come in the first place. But I knew better. I knew that whatever Dad said went. I knew that he would make the right "climber's decisions."

Despite my biting of my tongue, a few tears leaked out and drew quivering lines through the dirt on my cheeks. I didn't make an attempt to move down the trail after Dad, it was like my subconscious refused to let my muscles move and carry me down the mountain. I just stood there. Finally, when my dad turned around to coax me down, he noticed the tear tracks down my face and the longing look in my eyes.

"Oh, Em ..." he started, coming back up to give me a hug. "I'm so sorry. Every sensible bone in my body is telling me 'Go back! Go back!' But still, there's this Little Tom Guy down inside me, contradicting my body and saying, 'C'mon, you can make it to the top! Go, go, go!' I just don't know what to do."

He stood there thoughtfully, and I could almost see the battle going on in his mind. Half of him wanted to do the safe, sensible thing, but the other half ... the other half wanted to make his daughter happy and attempt the summit. I stood there frozen as time seemed to slow while he made his decision. I stood there, the wind whipping my hair across my face. I stood there, the rain dripping off of my hat and hitting the ground. I stood there, afraid that at the slightest movement, his trance would break and his sensible side would win. I just stood there.

Finally, he looked down at me and said the three words that told me the Little Tom Guy had won.

"Well, let's go."

We scrambled up the path, around the rocks and through the trees. Our first difficulty was the patch of icy snow. Stuck in the only clearing in the middle of a large area of alders, it blocked our easy path. Determined as we now were, we bushwhacked our way through the alders, slipping through open spaces and shoving branches out of our way. My shoes now weighed at least 5 pounds, and every step took effort. When we reached the edge of the alder patch, I surprised myself in realizing that I wasn't the least bit miserable. I didn't want to be anywhere else except here, on the mountain with one of the few people I will always love, even if it was in the middle of a rainstorm. I also realized that never once had I felt any weariness or boredom of trudging on and on through the endless overhanging grass. I had only felt happiness and excitement.

As I waited for my dad, I looked up at what loomed before me. A towering scree made of mostly tundra and loose rocks met my gaze. My immediate reaction was that the gods must be crazy. Finally, after I calmed down and took a few deep breaths, I told myself that it was now or never and to go for it. So as my dad climbed out of the alders, I took my first step onto the rough ground of the scree.

That scree was terrifying. The first fifty yards or so weren't so bad; I just tried to scramble up without thinking about it. It was inevitable, however, that soon I would tire and have to stop. When I did, I looked back to watch my dad catch up and was instantly frozen in place. The wind suddenly seemed to be blowing at hundreds of miles an hour, and the raindrops felt like piercing needles. Below me, the ground dropped away at a rapid slope, and the thought of having to inch my way back down there petrified me. All I could think about would be how horrible it would be to slip and fall down the loose rocks and wet tundra, have nothing to grab onto and slam into the two huge boulders at the end. The scene played vividly through my mind over and over and over, making all of the muscles in my body tighten and freeze.

"I can't go farther," I squeaked to my dad as he crawled to a spot near me. "I'm sorry; I'm so sorry, I just can't."

"Yes, you can! I know you can!" my dad encouraged. I knew that he, too, had been bit by the same summit bug that seemed to have deserted me and left me frozen in the most horrible spot possible.

"Just turn around and put one foot in front of the other."

I tried to turn around, really I did, but my body had had it. This was too much. I silently shook my head and whispered, "I can't."

I could almost hear my dad's disappointment as we descended. He calmly crawled his way down, while I slowly inched my way downhill on my butt, testing my weight on every place I put my foot. After what seemed like an eternity, we reached the bottom and crawled in between the two boulders. Before he had a chance to continue down into the alders, I grabbed my dad by the arm and turned him toward me.

"Are you sure that it's OK?" I questioned timidly. "I mean really, is it OK that we're not going all of the way?"

"Of course it's OK," he assured me. "I mean, I would really have liked to go to the top, but I know in my heart that it's not safe and that we'll be back. Don't worry."

That was enough. I knew that he had always felt that we wouldn't make it, that even if we made it to the rocks, they would be too slick. I knew that I had given it my all, and that was all that mattered. With my heart lifted, I scrambled down through the alders to catch up with my dad. About half an hour later, we were literally sliding down the mountainside. We had decided before we even started that we would come up the long and gently sloping way, the south trail, and come down the hard, steep way, the north trail. The rain mixed with the dirt had created a mess of dark brown mud. We were literally swinging from one low-hanging alder branch to the next. After a while, it became a rhythm. Catch, swing, slide, catch, swing, slide - I reached out to grasp the next branch, but to my horror realized that it was not, in fact, an alder branch, but an overhanging devil's club, complete with half-inch long spines. Not wanting to have millions of cuts all over my right hand, I went sliding down the trail for a few yards, then came to a stop when I braced my feet on a large root sticking out in the trail.

My dad's climbing boots also brought him to a similar position. After years of hiking through passes and over hills, the soles had worn down to almost flat, leaving him to slip and slide right along with me.

By the time the trail finally evened out, both of us were covered from head to toe with mud. Dried streaks of the brown substance ran down my smiling face. We were almost back to camp, almost finished with our "adventure." When we reached a break in the trees, I peered through them at our tent. I could see my mom making dinner while my brother tried to catch a fish. When my mom looked up, I didn't have to smile. My face was already stretched into the biggest grin I could muster. She smiled back at me. When we were almost back to camp, I stopped and gave my dad a huge hug.

"Happy birthday, Daddy," I told him, and then turned and ran back to camp with him at my heels.

Two cups of hot cocoa later, it was time to give my dad presents. Quickly, I scribbled something onto a piece of paper, folded it up and raced out of the tent to give it to him. When he unfolded the damp paper, seven words greeted him: "GOOD FOR ONE TRIP UP POOT PEAK*."

He followed the asterisk down to the bottom of the page. A grin spread across his face as he read the end out loud.

"Weather permitting," he chuckled, and then he gave me a big hug.

And we would be back to climb it again. I could feel it. I turned towards the mountain, and in the tiniest sigh whispered,

"I'll be back."

And I knew it was true.