Late last fall, I took a shot at bagging Lost River Mountain as the mountain weather deteriorated toward winter. Less than a quarter mile from the summit, faced with a building blizzard, heavy cornices, and icy couloirs, I decided to turn back. Never argue when the mountain gods tell you to go home, no matter how close to the goal.

So following my return to Idaho from a summer in Europe, I knew Lost River Mountain was my first target. I have climbed every other peak in the state's motley assortment of 12,000 footers, and I was hungry to finish this one. Lost River Mountain rises prominently from the spine of its namesake mountain range a few miles north of the mining town of Mackay. Its most prominent feature is the Super Gully, which slashes up the west face. Known for dangerous rockfalls, the Super Gully is best done with a helmet.

After spending the night camped at the trailhead, I started climbing at 4:30 in the morning, watching the sky for late Perseid meteors. The sagebrush of the lowlands gave way to a scraggly forest of junipers and limber pines as I climbed Lost River's western foothills. I broke above treeline before dawn, and entered the Super Gully. Its craggy walls towered over me as I trudged through unstable piles of scree.

Last fall, all this crud was buried under snow. As I climb the gully, I hear an occasional shower of stones. Once, a softball-sized rock came tumbling from above, careened a comfortable distance from me, and continued its long journey down the gully.

As the morning wore on, the gully flattened and became ill-defined before fading out entirely, and I was left ascending the west face. It soon reached a false summit, where I stopped to enjoy the view of central Idaho's major mountain ranges, from the Sawtooths to the Beaverheads. I picked out seven of Lost River Mountain's other 12,000 foot siblings, and thought of the adventures I had on each.

But onward - this was the final stage, and the summit was just a short traverse of a knife-edge ridge away. I thought of my first attempt, and spotted the spot where I turned around - here, the ridgetop narrowed to less than a foot, with dizzying precipices on either side. I was right to abort that climb - I could barely make out the terrain in the snow, and a false step would have sent me tumbling hundreds of feet down the ridge. But this time, under smiling, sunny skies, it is a trivial little stroll to the summit, where I have an early lunch, sign the summit register, and read through previous climbers' comments.

Going down was a fun affair, as the Super Gully was steep and rocky enough to do some proper skree surfing. Just let yourself slide, get a nice big wave of skree rolling along beneath your boots, and you can glide down thousands of feet in minutes - almost as fun as glissading.

Oh, man, I'm going to pay for this tomorrow, I think. I haven't been on a mountain all summer: I'm going to be sore all over. But that doesn't matter now. Nothing matters but me and the mountain and my miniature stone cataract. They are barren, uninviting and ominous, but these mountains are my Eden.