In mid-January, the summit of Mt. Hood is normally frozen solid. That’s a good thing in mountaineering terms because it means loose rocks and ice stay in place and rather than tumble down on your head as you climb.

But as we slogged upward through the deep snow towards the Hog’s Back, the final ridge before the summit pitch, a melon-sized rock hurtled suddenly over the ridge and down the mountain side as though shot from a cannon. We all watched it’s passing, our heads swiveling in unison, and said a few bad words.