May 2004. I'm writing this, lounging comfortably in my deck chair, drink in my hand, enjoying the spring sun. In the nearby park, kids shout and cheer as they play ball. Boats are floating lazily on the glistening San Francisco Bay. A fire truck speeds by, siren blaring. And then there is the city itself, its buildings and freeways and billboards and lights and all its people; pulsating urban life, and I'm in the middle of it. I love it.

The scene in the picture couldn't be more different. Closing my eyes, I'm transported back to that glorious frightening morning in the High Sierras, a year and a half ago.

It had started like a regular backpacking trip. We had chosen late September to avoid crowds - people as well as mosquitos - and the forecast had promised fair, clear fall weather. The first day led us across a mountain ridge, first climbing 2000', then descending 2800' to our campground. Which, in this environment, meant a metal box to protect food supplies from bears, and a ring of stones from previous campfires. The solitude was magical. We saw only one other person during the entire trip. Forest, creeks, rock formations, wildflowers: this was nature at its most beautiful. What could be better than being one with nature, with the one you love, miles from civilization?

We would learn soon what being miles from civilization could mean. On the following day, halfway to the next campground, it started drizzling a bit. We kept going anyway. Then the rain became solid, turning into a full-blown hailstorm. Thinking it would pass, we decided to wait it out under the cover of some trees. The hail did pass, but not in the way we had hoped: It turned into snow.

From here, things became a bit, well, blurry. Within an hour's time, the weather had changed from sunny to a raging snowstorm, and the snow was already accumulating fast. After only thirty minutes, there were about 4 inches on the ground, on our packs, on our shoulders - and it didn't look as if it would stop anytime soon. We were at 7000' elevation and about 8 miles from the car. It was time to make a decision. The decision was: get out.

Somehow, we made it back to the previous night's camp, exhausted from fighting against the storm, shaken by the sight of the bear tracks in the fresh snow, wet and frozen and without a fire. The next morning, however, we were rewarded.

Before us lay the most beautiful winter wonderland we had ever seen. Blue skies and a completely transformed world, covered in pure, untouched white, soft and shimmering in the morning sun. So pristine. Truly awe-inspiring. It helped us muster the strength and energy for our trip across the mountain ridge.

The snow was 15 inches high, maybe more. For me, that's literally knee-deep. The trail was completely invisible. Our packs weighed heavily, since we had brought supplies for eight days yet were returning after three. Our boots had been frozen since the pervious afternoon. Five and a half miles and a total elevation change of 4800' lay between us and our destination.

We learned a lot that day. How to find a path based on vegetation patterns and animal tracks. How to manage and conserve energy to make it last. How to best navigate through snow on a steep hillside without slipping. How to help each other, say the right word, and do the right thing, when the other person is feeling low. How to rely on each other while being self-sufficient. Most importantly, how powerful it is to go through such a high-stress, scary situation together and come out on the other end with an even stronger bond.

The picture shows the utter beauty of this morning. It can't convey the storm of emotions - awe, fear, excitement, exhaustion, determination, humility, power - that we felt that day. Sometimes, maybe you do need a thousand words.

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