It was 5:30 in the morning, and I packed the truck under the waning, mooned sky. I was excited to begin my Northern California 6 Pack of Peaks journey. After stumbling onto the Six Pack challenge earlier in the week, I opened a broadcast channel to find others that would join me. My invitation received several reports of, “I'll pass. I don't have the cold weather gear to suffer the cold, snow-covered summit.” After receiving those reports, I readied myself for cold, cold, cold conditions. Smartwool socks, check. Thermal underpants, check. Smartwool undershirt, check. Long sleeve shirt, check. Sweatshirt, check. Jacket, check. Gloves and beanie, check…  Thermal waterproof snow boots, check. As one can tell, I've never been mistaken for an untrusting, questioning, or doubting soul. I didn't do my research as the workweek was such a long, fast-paced blur… But, I trusted my friends' credibility. I was ready for the cold. I had just returned from a New Year's sub-zero snowshoe trip to Yellowstone. I even had my hot apple cider-filled thermos and flask full of brandy. As I said, I was ready. We needed to make one obligatory “summit wine & charcuterie” stop (hiking picnic staples since 2016), and we would be on our way with a 7:30 am trailhead arrival time.

Arriving in Calistoga, we took a quick bathroom break and sunrise picture of the mountain top at the Fast & Easy gas station on Foothill Blvd and Lincoln Ave. It was 54 degrees…  It didn't look like there was snow on the summit. We were out of the truck and on the trail at approximately 7:48 am. I questioned my judgment and wondered why I didn't challenge the snow reports that echoed throughout my microcosm over the past two days.

As we ascended the Robert Lewis Stevenson Memorial Trail, I could hear a small (it was quieter than most) chainsaw up mountain. Broken foliage and leaves lay strewn about the trail, evidence of the recent windstorm. I was already getting hot, and my snow boots didn't offer the supported freedom that my loyal hiking boots of seven years provided on this sixth journey up the trail. 10 mins in, we found mid-size trees laying across the trail path. 15 mins in, we came across a chainsaw-wielding volunteer. We chatted for a minute, and he told us about the wind's impact and his plan to clear the trail. We thanked him for his efforts, and he wished us a good hike. The wind did so much damage; one switchback was completely unpassable, passing hikers carved a faint steep trail into the mountainside bypassing the debris.

About 3/4 miles in, the trail opened to a large expanse with a stone monument that stands about 3ft tall. A weather-worn marble book sat atop a stone perch. It was a fitting tribute to the Scottish Novelist. Unfortunately, the past nine years took their toll. The book's eroded words were difficult to make out and unreadable. I was thankful for the cool breeze and shade. I doffed upper layers two and three while looking for a place to drop the pants and lose the thermals. No luck… Nevertheless, the next quarter of a mile was the best part of the hike! A narrow rocky trail led us to the fire access road that would take us to the summit and our victory picnic.

We neared our first open scenic overlook a quarter-mile up the fire/communications access road. It was a cool 60 degrees, but I was cooking… Then I saw it! Enough sanctuary off the main trail to make a pant shift. I quickly darted off the path and behind a rockface that blocked any passersby. Shoes off, feet on shoes, pants off, thermals off, one leg back while balancing atop a snow boot… Next leg and voices… I didn't see the faint trail just below me. Pants almost up… just in time. Around the corner came two unsuspecting hikers—Huzzah for pants up perfect timing.

The rest of the hike was without incident and filled with 180-degree valley views from the dusty mountain access road. It had been a while since I had last hiked Mt. St. Helena. I forgot that the trail's last 300 ft were incredibly steep but quickly remembered why I fondly recalled my Mt. St. Helena summit wine picnics of the past. Few clouds adorn the cerulean blue sky as a low marine layer hugged the Northern California surface below. The tallest of San Francisco's cityscape peaked over the enveloping misty layers. Finally, we reached the vacant summit and broke out the victory spread. As others completed their Mt. St. Helena ascent, looks of jealousy and envious comments drifted to our gourmet platter, and Pinot / Cabernet filled chalices. As we departed, I stuck in the earbuds and shared the downhill stroll with America's most undervalued songwriter, Warren Zevon. For 22 years, his music has been the soundtrack to my Sonoma County & Hwy 1 adventures. By the time we reached the trailhead, all remaining picnic remanence had burnt off. To make dinner easy, we stopped at Buster's and enjoyed the aromatic smoked filled air while waiting for the area's best BBQ. I started planning to pull the next peak from the six-pack and guzzle it on down. While I planned, I started contemplating which have been my biggest mistakes in life? Haircuts or hiking boots. Today I was pretty sure that the answer was hiking boots.