Nineteen of us were taking the six-day trip, and the first day was easy going, all the way to the foothills, where eight would stay behind to make camp for those who went on, keeping radio and cell phone communications open. The other 11 would climb.

                Getting to the north ledge was the most technical part of the climb, which is why so many were needed, a progression of men inching their way up to the flat spot, The Knee we called it. Hand over hand, foot after foot, we got there a couple of hours after midnight on our third night out. We were making good time. The seven of us who would head on to the south ledge caught a couple of hours sleep and woke up in the darkness to warm soup and hot coffee, a couple drinking the ceremonial red wine.

                I abstained, of course, as did Herman, both of us serious in the weight of our responsibilities.

                By noon, we had made it through The Darks, the long, cave-like tube that spanned the shelf between the north and south ledges, emerging to a bright white day. It was windier there, and snow had piled deep and unbalanced, and our progress was slowed as we belayed over the deepest of the new crevasses, carabiners icing over as we floated over the massive maws, our hands cramping under the load.

                When at last we’d made it to the South Knee, it had turned dark again, the moon obscured by clouds this time, fumbling around in the uncertain darkness as we set up what would be our last camp before the final ascent. Herm and I took one of the tents, while Albert and Stefan stayed in the other, which was the tradition.

                Herm had been the guide many times and knew the safest routes, but he would be going only as far as The Shoulders this time, and I would be guiding Albert and Stefan to the top, my first time.

                We were all quiet that last morning. Solemn. No ceremonial red wine and very little conversation, lingering hugs before we headed out, then no looking back, no departing waves.

                I took the lead, with Albert between me and Stefon. He was younger but unsteady, and we kept our lines tight between us as we dug in our crampons and ice-axed our way up the back slope for a mid-afternoon summit. There we laid out the cloth and the small tabernacle-like cabinet that had been lashed to the top of my pack, cracking apart the frozen brick of bread with my ice-axe.

                And as the sun began to drop too quickly into the horizon, I gathered up the line and looped it into my harness, and with one last look, backed down and away.

                 The following morning, 17 of us, tired and hungry and somber, made it back to town and to our waiting families.