We clamber inside the tent, setting up our overnight gear directly on the snow. Tucked into winter sleeping bags inside bivy sacks, we fire up the stove inside our vented tent and melt snow for a dinner of Lipton noodles and shredded cheese. That night I sleep fitfully, awakening periodically to listen to the wind. It steadily increases as the night goes on.

We awake at 5 a.m. It is minus-5 degrees. The lashes on one of my eyelids are frozen shut. “Remind me why we’re doing this,” Pete mutters as I thaw out my eyeball. I listen for the wind, but all I hear is silence. Two hours and several hot drinks later, light filters through the orange tent walls. We crack the door. The sky is cobalt. The winds are calm.

We pile out in disbelief. As I futz around with my gear, I look up and notice Pete standing and staring off into space with his face unprotected by face mask or goggles. Puzzled by his inactivity in the sub-zero chill, I return briefly to my packing chores. When I next look up, Pete has sauntered over to some nearby rocks. He bends over and vomits. “I’m not sure if it’s the cold or all that cheese in last night’s dinner,” Pete muses as he walks back, “but it’s definitely the best view I’ve ever had puking.”

“Most people who try the traverse don’t succeed,” notes Chauvin. “One of the big reasons why is that people tend to focus on equipment, rather than on fitness and athleticism. People often forget how strenuous and physically demanding the mountains can be, especially in winter. Fitness means strength and endurance, but it also includes mental strength. Oftentimes weakness in one can be made up by another.”

Given Pete’s sudden loss of fuel, I hope this is true.

By 8 a.m., we’re packed and ready to go. Wading upward through calf-high powder, we pass below the summit of Mount Clay and begin heading toward Washington. Given the ideal conditions, we change our plans and head for the summit. We ascend a highway of ice, the snowy pinnacles of the northern Presidentials our backdrop. Reaching the top at 10 a.m., we pause briefly at the summit as a parade of climbers begins arriving from Pinkham Notch. As we prepare to depart I notice a shimmering line on the horizon. It is the sun reflecting off the Atlantic Ocean.

We descend to Lakes of the Clouds Hut, and duck behind the building to take brief shelter in the hut’s emergency refuge room. This dark cell is known as “The Dungeon,” a tiny space sealed by a heavy metal door featuring a few bare wooden bunks against stone walls. It is designed for overnight use only in a dire emergency, and AMC and the Forest Service do not permit it to be used as a planned layover. Which is for the best, really, since the hut sits in a veritable funnel of wind where conditions can rapidly worsen to the point that departure becomes impossible.

“In the event of an emergency or deteriorating weather, going below treeline is always preferable,” says Mike Kautz, AMC’s search-and-rescue coordinator. “You do  not want to get stuck higher up. Search-and-rescue groups may be prepared to go out in really bad conditons, but we simply won’t send people out if it’s too dangerous. You need to be ready to handle an emergency on your own.”

Pete and I see spindrift whisking off Mount Monroe ahead of us when we leave Lakes of the Clouds. As we progress, I notice that the light winds and cold are reaching a tiny piece of my right cheek. I have it covered with a lightweight balaclava, but am unable to position my goggles and face mask to maintain coverage over it.

After passing Monroe, we drop down to reach the base of Mount Eisenhower at 1 p.m.  Conditions remain optimal and I ask Pete if he’s up for tagging this summit as well. “At that point, I realized we were going to make it,” recounts Pete, “but I was spent after my morning episode. It was total bonko- rama.” We traverse around the southern slopes instead, descending into head-high trees. The snow is up to our knees in spots, but does not impede progress. We reach the top of Mount Clinton, our final above-treeline stop, and pause to marvel at the scenery—and our good fortune—before turning to descend toward Crawford Notch.

That night the season’s largest storm dumps more than two feet of snow along the Northeast seaboard. I discover superficial frostbite on the portion of my cheek that escaped the goggles and facemask. The remaining weekends in February usher in extreme cold and wind; any attempt at the traverse would have been impossible.

We had been tremendously lucky with weather and conditions. They were ideal, as good as could be hoped for, yet even the slightest misstep could have led to a survival situation. The margin for error had been extremely thin. In more challenging weather, it all but vanishes. As Chauvin says in classic understatement: “The average person will find the winter Presidential traverse very difficult.”

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