After telling John about my trip to the Tooth with Gary, I knew we had to head back there so John could get his first taste of alpine rock climbing. It would be snowy all the way up the trail, I said, so bring good boots, a few layers to stay warm, and ski poles if you have them. "I'll take the rack, you bring the rope." I figured we could get away with a single set of nuts, since all the anchors are very visible nests of webbing and the pitches are short and easy.

In true alpine style, we left Seattle around 2pm, after a little morning wage-earning. John's truck took us to a parking lot full of Mountaineers' cars -- as usual, there was a basic rock climb scheduled for the Tooth that day. We'd be climbing by the time they were done. Sure enough, almost to Source Lake, we passed eight or so decked-out Mounties and exchanged pleasantries. The snow was soft and slippery and the sun swung high above us. Our steady pace and the warm afternoon sent sweat dripping, but a cool breeze picked up as we got higher and into Great Scott Bowl.

John's gear was crapping out on him. His Army boots became quickly soaked. On the climb to the bowl, his ski pole baskets broke loose again and again, caught in the deep glop. True to form, he kept his humor and took it all in stride, even when duct tape failed to solve the ski-pole-basket problem.

We negotiated the moat and started to traverse on the steep snow from the pass to the base of the route. John was surprised by the slope, but admirably kept his footing and only stepped in a hole once. Plunging my ice axe shaft helped keep me stable, and the snow was pliant enough that we could both kick some security into the melt-freeze boot track.

At the base, we put on harnesses, racked up, and ditched our packs. I was wearing my windshirt and hat, since the breeze was constant and it had gotten chilly since the parking lot. John only had two layers of polyester and was feeling a little chilled, so I lent him my backup softshell jacket. I set off on the first short pitch, placing a few nuts and enjoying the quiet. There was no one else to be seen. Only the dull clank of the rack and the swish of nylon broke the silence.

The climbing was straightforward, especially since I had been here only four days prior. John was shy about leading the next pitch in his plastic-soled boots, but eventually took to the idea and set off. John's inventive #13 Smiley placement took me a few minutes to unwiggle, but we progressed smoothly all the way. Shoddy Army-issue footwear cannot stop Johnny Riggs! We swung leads until the snowpatch, where I gave John a quick hip belay. We discussed the options for the last pitch, and John chose to lead the crack on the right side of the face. Up through a snow patch and we were at the summit, surrounded by softening evening skies.

I had found a tennis ball somewhere along the trail and took a photo of my trophy on the summit. John tuned his action pose and I shot a big panorama from northeast to southwest. A quick snack of an Elvis sandwich (peanut butter and banana), more photos and pointing out peaks, and we headed down to rappel. I snatched up a new-looking double sling girth-hitched to one of the last anchors... it wasn't there four days ago, I guess the party we passed coming up had left it for some reason. As if six pieces of webbing at each anchor isn't enough.

Back below the pass, we contemplated a glorious butt-slide, but a few feet down the icy glissade chute convinced me that it wasn't going to be comfy. John indulged his inner child, however, and sped off with abandon. I guess he caught a ski pole or something, and ended up tumbling around, lost both poles, and got a bit of a scrape on the arm from the frozen snow. An alpine lesson well-learned.

Back to the truck five and a half hours after we left it, we were satisfied and hungry. Like John said, "This alpine climbing is pretty fun, man. Let's do it again."