Read all of the Dirtbag Adventures! In this creepy Halloween tale Matt recounts with great horror his first attempt mountaineering. There's something scary lurking behind every corner this time of year, but in this story, the terror looms above, on Mt. Hood... Me at sunrise on Mt. Hood. Photo @harrisenhowes The fall is a spooky time. As each day grows darker and colder it seems there's some evil creeping around every corner. That terribly familiar tingle crawls up my spine a few times each October, whether I seek out the thrill or not... I've never liked scary movies, I haven't been to a haunted house since I was too old for my parents to hold my hand. But there is another way to feel that ripple down your spine: climbing. If you've climbed at all, you know there are moments of fear. When you're above an old, rusted piton and your fingers start to slip in the fall-dampened crack, fear will creak into your heart a bit. I've been genuinely scared a few times climbing. Once in beacon rock, when a friend and I tried to climb the South-East corner in a wind storm, I felt as alone as a teenager in a graveyard as soon as I or my partner stepped off the belay ledge. The other time I was spooked came early on a July morning on Mt. Hood. It was my first time climbing, and I'd elected to hike up with two friends who'd both brought skis and would soon leave me in their icy dust. I was wearing soft hiking boots and poorly attached crampons. Not using stiff boots was a terrible mistake on the solid ice slopes - it felt like my feet were barely touching the hard-packed snow. It was pitch black when we started -just about midnight- and the wind was howling and cold. It felt like as soon as we started there were icy, invisible hands that were trying to claw us off the mountain. I was alone most of the trip. My two partners were moving much, much faster than me. It felt like as soon as I caught up to them, they disappeared into the dark. I was scared from the beginning, suddenly aware of how little I knew about mountaineering, but I did my best not to let it show. In the pre-dawn light Mt. Hood casts a long shadow over the land. After hours of hiking and slipping and hiking up the Palmer glacier, we arrived at Devil’s Kitchen, the shelf of surfer vents and semi-level snow that make for a final rest below the steep summit headwalls. It had been pitch black for most of our climb, but the sun was starting to rise, and while it wasn't shining on us yet (think bitter pre-dawn freezing cold) I could easily see the daunting final push to the summit rising in front of me. The smell alone was terrifying. Some people like to say sulfur smells like rotten eggs, but it's worse than that. Sharper. Like rotten salt, and smoky. It's not only a smell that can ruin your day, it's a smell that makes you feel like your day is going to be ruined. Olfactory anxiety; impending doom. I was fifty feet below where the steep glacier levels out. My buddies were up there somewhere, peeling off their skies and clicking into crampons to climb the steep final stretch. All I could think about was the smell, and the cold, and how tired I was. I was so tired it almost felt like I was asleep, but if I was the sulfur and the cold would have woken me up. Then, right in front of me, a silky black raven landed on the snow. It looked at me ominously for a few seconds and let out a chilling caw. I stopped in my tracks. What the hell was a crow doing up here? We were three thousand vertical feet above tree line. It looked at me as if I was lost like I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I started cautiously as it stood on the crest of the snow, eerily out of place but exuding total confidence in where it was. The cold, the smell of sulfur, and now an ominous black crow. This didn't feel right. I looked up. There were a handful more crow circling in Devil’s Kitchen. I put one foot in front of the other, continuing my climb. The crow in my way took off, circled once, and landed further up in the mountain. I did my best to put it out my mind. The final push went smoothly-ish. I did as well as any ill-equipped amateur on the steep, packed snow. At the summit, we snapped some photos and exchanged high-fives. My friends were in boots and crampons now, but they still moved much faster than me. They cruised down the old chute, traversed to the hogs back, and hiked down to their skis. As I was just starting my way down the old chute the sun popped up over the ridge. At first, I was overjoyed by the warmth, but a few minutes later I realized the doom those solar rays were bringing. Looking down the line of descent from the summit ridge. I know it looks steep, and that’s because in mid-summer of low snow years, it is really steep. The snow under my feet had never felt great - my soft hiking boots weren’t great on the ice, and as the snow softened they proved even worse at kicking steps. As soon as the sun hit the face the snow got incredibly soft; like the consistency of a 7-eleven slushy. It felt like I was down climbing and surfing at the same time. The soft boots were powerless to create a surface to hold my weight, and keeping myself attached to the steep face took every bit of concentration I could muster. I shoved each step deeper and deeper to find the hard stuff underneath, but each step was less stable than the one before. One foot at a time. Toes down and in; I kicked hard on each step trying to create a surface to stand on. I used my ice axe for balance, but the shaft kept slipping through the snow. If I'd needed to self-arrest there would have been no chance… I heard the crow cry again. I looked up and saw where I was: I'd been so focused on each individual step that I'd forgotten to watch where I was going. I was now a hundred feet below the traverse to the Hogsback and my route to safety. I saw the crow circling. Waiting. The snow was a time bomb so I kept moving, quickly, back towards the top of the Hogsback. Every step I kicked into the snow was soft and wiggly, like my boots. If I’d been wearing real mountaineering boots things would have been different, but getting the right footwear is something you have to do before you go. I tried to keep the thought of falling out my mind, but my nose was still full of sulfur from the vent I would undoubtedly fall into. Looking back up at the Old Chute route. The Hogsback is just visible on the right edge of the photo, with a sulfur vent on the left. But somehow, I made it. My friends were at the bottom of the Hogsback, watching me. I descended to them and realize they probably weren't as concerned as I was. They looked at me with eyebrows raised but let me know I was all in the clear now, and that they'd see me at the bottom. They skied down the softening slopes as I started to walk. It was warm now, and I soon peeled off my coat and descended in just a t-shirt. In a couple hours I was packing up gear in the parking lot, sharing a beer, and basking in the warm sun. But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that some horror had been narrowly missed. Altogether the day had been a success. I had gotten to climb the mountain I'd been staring at with longing for most of my life. It had been scary to climb with folks who had a such a high-risk threshold compared to my almost complete ignorance of mountaineering, but I was 22 and eager to get into the mountains. And I learned a lot that day, about climbing and about my own limits. And I bought a pair of Scarpa Phantom Guide mountaineering boots!