Written by Bob Hey, June 1984

When citizens set out to climb a mountain like the Rifleberg, they must prepare to encounter weather: banshee winds, gloom in thick blankets, snowfall down the napes of shivering necks, rime forming shapes off noses like whiskey bottles. That is why America's most jaded author entered the Brew in Bivy outfitting shoppe before leaving on his expedition to that peerless peak in 1875.