Kate and I hiked up to Artist's Point at Mt. Baker and pitched a tent in the snow.

My first time snow camping in years. I vowed to stay warm—my only goal.

Down bag, bivy bag, down coat, fleece pants, heavy wool socks, wool layers, Gore-Tex, two sleeping pads, and a thick wool hat.

Everything is a production: getting into the tent without getting it wet, peeing in the middle of the night, putting on frozen boots, eating just-cooked food that's cold as soon as it comes off the flame.

While I retreated to a cocoon of down to make good on the promise of warmth, Kate dug a massive kitchen, with a shelf for stoves and dishes, an alcove for a candle, and chairs with armrests for the cooks. Her stove froze—one engine out—but my trusty Coleman multi-fuel lit like a champ and burned through two containers of snow.

We were fortunate with the weather. It snowed softly the first day, erasing the trampling of the day's day hordes. By late evening, the clouds thinned and the stars and moon glowed on the snow on a breezeless night. I slept warmly, waking occasionally from the cacophony of nylon rubbing against nylon as I inhaled and exhaled. In quiet so profound, your ears make up noises and you can scare yourself.

Clear sky in morning. Baker over there and Mt. Shuksan over there. Peaks up into Canada, peaks down into the North Cascades. The first of the early-bird hikers came upon the morning mess and asked, though it was obvious, "You sleep up here?" They seemed impressed but we were the ones marveling at their pre-dawn vigor.

We ate cooked oatmeal, cold, and packed up just as the clouds encroached. A wind picked up: icy stings. We descended.