Mt Hood is only about an hour from Portland where I grew up and only a warm up peak for serious mountaineers like the famous Whittaker brothers of West Seattle

But for this writer and three novice climbers, four adventurous high school buddies, it was a challenge we could not resist.

When Luke Gullberg, from Des Moines and his two friends lost their lives this month on its dangerous slopes I was reminded of my own perilous conquest of Oregon's snowy pride.

To get some rock climbing experience before we tackled the mountain we spent some weekends scaling a big stone called Rooster Rock in the summer of 1940. Nearly straight up, and maybe 350 feet high it required, agility, pitons, ropes and tennis shoes. We assaulted this basalt crag several times and in August we felt we were ready for the big one.

We decided to drive up in my brother's Model A Ford and arrived at our chosen route leading up the southeast side, parking at historic Cloud Cap Inn about daybreak,

I wore corduroy school pants, cotton shirt, tennis shoes, a sweater, an old Lindy imitation leather helmet, some dark goggles and mittens.

We all had crampons somehow attached to our feet and carried ice axes .We had a sturdy rope and somehow hooked on to it.

My best buddy Clay acted as leader and I was tethered a few feet below him in second place. Behind me was Clay's little brother Dan and the tail-end Charlie was, of course, named Charlie.

I don't remember what the other guys brought to eat but I packed a peanut butter sandwich and an apple. I don't remember a thermos of water but probably planned on eating snow even though we had been warned not to eat it.

And off we went off, like they say, a herd of turtles.

We started off in snow on Cooper Spur with only the rocky tip looming above us as a guide. At first it was just hike and climb for an hour and then it grew steeper and more forbidding with each two or three yards of progress.

As we climbed the snow got deeper and by now my enthusiasm was dwindling, I was the worst turtle. When my legs wanted a rest Clay's little brother would poke me in the butt with his ice axe.

We had been warned by others with experience to keep quiet as noise vibrations could set boulders loose during summer months.

It was getting steeper and steeper and every so often we saw falling rocks. Sure enough as we were slowly ascending a bouncing boulder as big as a basketball headed for us with my head as a target.

An instant before it could crush my skull, Clay raised his leg and diverted the wayward killer with his thigh and the big boulder bounced harmlessly away.

But it left him with a deep gash, spurting blood. He instantly pulled his belt off and wrapped it around his upper leg, effectively stopping the blood flow.

It would have been easiest to turn around right then and head back to the car, but Clay would not consider it. Not a chance.

Satisfied he was not going to bleed to death we started up again and he led us on up to where the snow was gone. Then we had to ascend a narrow vertical chimney that brought us abruptly to the summit.

We rested a bit and checked his ugly wound. Then we each signed our names on a pad inside of a rickety wooden shelter and after Clay insisted he would head straight back down to the car by himself, the three of us made our way down the west side past Crater Rock and finally to Timberline Lodge.

He was waiting for us with a grin.

We bought sandwiches, and I drove us home.

We were lucky, surely impetuous, and certainly ill equipped.

Clay later lost his life when flying a B-26 over Frankfurt.

Hit by anti aircraft missiles, he kept the plane aloft till all his crew was able to get out.

He died in the subsequent crash.