Greetings, Earthlings

DESTINATION: Upstate California

TOWN: Mount Shasta

ELEVATION: 3,606 feet

POPULATION: 3,623

MEDIAN AGE: 42

CLOSEST HIGHWAY: Interstate 5

NEAREST AIRPORTS: Redding, Sacramento

TEMPERATURE SWING: 26° (winter low) to 83° (summer high)

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No girl should meet potential in-laws on rented Randonnee skis, under a 40-pound backpack she sheds only to tinkle girl-style as snow blows you-know-where at 50 mph. No girl should witness a lover’s runny nose slowly form frozen booger stalactites. In short, no girl coming off a naughty streak--one spent, among other things, shooting pool in bars in the middle of the day--should try to climb Mt. Shasta for the first time in the dead of winter. That is, unless she is hellbent on proving herself to a new boyfriend, his father and his brother.

Mt. Shasta rises out of nowhere and dominates the landscape, as if California had to get in one last triumphant jab before giving over to Oregon. Most people drive the distance of Interstate 5 to engage in the regular good-life stuff, fishing and hiking in the forests or sipping soy lattes served by hot hippie waifs and shopping for crystals in Mount Shasta City. The more adventurous metaphysical travelers might rent an hour in the time machine that I once saw advertised on a community message board. Even by Southern California standards, Shasta is strange. It is even more so if you know what locals know: On an otherwise beautiful day, an unlikely cloud will often coalesce around the dormant volcano’s summit. The cloud is impenetrable and shaped . . . well, it’s shaped like a saucer.

I spent my first night on Mt. Shasta endlessly heating snow for water and, in fear of frozen snot, compulsively wiping my nose. When I was first out of the tent the next morning, my eyes popped. The sky held the clear deep blue of predawn. Our tents looked like magic mushrooms that had erupted overnight in the fresh snow. Far below, where the snowline ended, the dark earth rolled out like a secret until it hit pink on the horizon. At 10,000 feet, the sun felt close enough to touch.

My boyfriend, Jonathan, emerged from the tent and stretched lustily, his hair a riot of spikes. He surveyed the view, then looked at me with twinkling eyes and a raised brow that said, “See, honey?” I had to laugh.

By the time the sun fully rose, we had climbed partway up the thin Casaval Ridge, methodically putting one foot in front of the other. No packs or skis now, just water, snacks and ice axes. The new snow had hardened just enough to accept each footstep with a pleasant crunch, and we were making good time.

The aliens came around 10 a.m. Wisps of cloud collected around the peak, and soon the saucer appeared. We punched our heads through its bow and entered an otherworldly micro-climate. The temperature plummeted and the wind drilled ice into our ruddy cheeks. I was mentally flipping through the playlist for my funeral when a party of climbers materialized out of the gusting snow. They were on their way down.

“Did you summit?”

“There is no summit. Just a total whiteout with winds at 100 mph.”

They scurried past. We stared fiercely toward the sky, squared our shoulders and, after about five minutes of noble posturing, turned tail.

On a June afternoon two years later, Jonathan would stand in roughly the same spot, blindfolded by another dense cloud, arguing with his eight groomsmen-to-be about the way down. One route led to base camp and the other to a precipice. Which was which? How badly did he want to get out of marrying me? He came home two days before our wedding, reeking of testosterone and mischief, trying to play down the whole incident.

“A whiteout? Honey, how terrible,” I said. “At least there wasn’t lightning.”

“Um, actually, there was lightning. . . . It was a lightning storm.”

“A lightning storm? At least you didn’t have ice axes and crampons.”

“Uh, no, but we had a lot of metal. We were just lucky.”

Is it OK to kill someone for almost letting himself get killed? I considered this koan while physically restraining myself. But on our wedding day, as my new husband smiled at me with a profound yes, I understood. Most men get dragged to the altar, even if it’s what they truly want. Mt. Shasta had given Jonathan the pure nitrous hit of freedom he needed before shouldering the yoke. So now, every time he gets that wicked gleam, I sigh and nod. Off he goes like a rabbit up the 5--to the land of alien encounters and scrapes with death. To a blood-warming adventure without the $50,000 price tag or the oxygen tanks. Now at least I know that the aliens are benign.

Looking back to that first climb, I think I had started to suspect as much on the way down. By the time we returned to base camp, I could see the whole damn state baking under the alpine sun. I stripped down to a T-shirt, joyfully clicked my heels into ski bindings, and ditched the guys in a contrail of powder as I skied toward the scattered pines below. My breathing sped up and the wind whipped through my unbound hair. By the time the others caught up, there I was leaning against the car, soaking up the sun, the Best Outdoorsy Girlfriend ever.

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Trip Tips

Check In

The place to unwind after a romp in the 2.1-million-acre Shasta-Trinity National Forest, or to play 18 holes in a spectacular setting, is Mount Shasta Resort, (530) 926-3030 or (800) 958-3363 or www.mountshastaresort.com, a sprawl of private chalets pocketed among the pines along the shore of Lake Siskiyou.

Check Out

Shasta Mountain Guides,

(530) 926-3117 or www.shasta-guides.com, leads hiking, climbing and ski-touring groups to the summit--or to a less challenging destination, depending on skill level and schedule. Back in Mount Shasta City, the Trinity Cafe, (530) 926-6200 or www.trinitycafe.net, with dinner entrees such as honey-glazed duck confit with French green lentils and sausage, puts a stop to a backcountry diet of trail mix and jerky. For weekend brunch, try the sunny-side-up huevos rancheros at Lilys Restaurant, (530) 926-3372.

PHOTO OP

Gold Rush-era Chinese miners built Won Lim Miao (“temple amongst the forest beneath the clouds”), (530) 623-5284, as a Taoist house of worship in 1874. Commonly known as the Joss House, the tiny structure with carved wooden canopies sits at the junction of Oregon and Main streets in Weaverville, about 46 miles west of Redding on Highway 299.

ROADSIDE SPECTACLE

Northeast of Mt. Shasta, just off state Highway 97, is the little town of Dorris’ big claim to fame: a 200-foot-tall flagpole--the tallest west of the Mississippi River. The flag it flies measures 30 by 60 feet. For more information, go to www.visit-siskiyou.org/vvattract.html.