Curtis Jones

All my gear is in a pile on the floor and a car comes at 6am to haul it to the airport. On this trip we brush up on crevasse rescue, roped travel, and half-forgotten knots. Also, US Airways and I are not friends; ask me about their baggage fees.

It is beautiful. It is not stupid like pretty much everything post-Street Fighter 2, it has all the good characters, and it seals my fate: I am going to have to buy an Xbox 360 one day. Bummer.

Near midnight I tuned my new two-way radio to a local police precinct, one of the perks of a densely populated area. The dispatch call that night: investigate a report of a vicious raccoon. Apparently there is no 10-code for that scenario.

The plan was an iPod Touch loaded with movies for the long storm-bound days in a tent. Then Amazon released the Kindle 2 and complicated everything. Somehow this leads to fat pictures of William Shatner.

A full week of ice climbing, eight hours a day, and it is just as fun (and hard) as I remembered. Corey and I found our limits on some WI-5 climbs, each dropping into the harness when a desperate pick placement let go. A brutal hobby that does wonders for your forearms.

The day has come: crampons sized to new boots, a big pile of gear pulled from the trunks, ice tools strapped to the outside of the pack. I hope the subway people don't mind seeing me walk around with them.

I think something is wrong with me. I just set up my tent in the middle of my apartment, escaping the city by confining myself to an even smaller space. The countdown to ice, mountains, and McKinley is on.

I admit to having read this email several times. The paperwork is in order, confirmation coming soon, and the ranger notes that my experience will help the other two on their first Denali trip. It seems like a fitting picture.