“There’s no glory in climbing a mountain if all you want to do is to get to the top. It’s experiencing the climb itself – in all its moments of revelation, heartbreak, and fatigue – that has to be the goal.” – Karyn Kusama

When reporter and handsome bachelor Alex Bruell swiveled around in his chair to ask me to climb Mount. St. Helens with him, I immediately jumped on the opportunity; I was trying to lose a few pounds and figured such a concrete goal would motivate me enough to do so.

I began training straight away by hiking Mt. Peak, switching off which sides I’d climb. When my wife went back to work, I pivoted to running every morning, since a friend who had already conquered the mountain said I would be physically prepared if I could easily run a few miles every week. I started with running a mile behind my house, pushing my son in his stroller and my dog jogging by my side; I quickly expanded that to two, and then three, miles for up to four times a week.

Looking back, that was all laughably inadequate for the challenge ahead of me.

Mount. St. Helens’ Bivouac Trail is dissected into three parts: a forested area very typical of the PNW (mossy trees, huge red mushrooms, underfoot toads that make you pull some sort of Charleston dance move to avoid squishing, you get the idea); a long stretch of rocks, pebbles, boulders, stones, gravel, crags, and — oh look! more rocks; and a steep ascent over sand and ash.

The hike really begins when you leave the treeline and start your scramble up the mountain’s spine — there were points where I was more bouldering than hiking. If I had known that, I would have thrown in some weightlifting into my training regimen; my skinny arms were certainly not prepared to haul my butt, complete with a 20-pound pack, up over a pile of pumice.

Oh, did I mention there’s no real trail here? There are guideposts — beige or grey cairns that really stick out amongst the beige and grey landscape — that generally tell you where to go, but if you’re not careful, first timers can definitely find themselves off the beaten path and need to work twice as hard to get back.

While the path is barren (I could count the number of ground plants I saw on my fingers), I was happy to be able to turn around and take in the majesty of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest. Well, some of it, given the two or three wildfires smoldering in the area.

Hey, at least the dust I was breathing had a bit of a gourmet smokey aftertaste; I have to shell out the big bucks to get that effect in my scotch, so I wasn’t complaining.

So up and up I walked. Until I started trudging. By the time I arrived at the volcano monitoring station, which told me I reached the two-thirds mark, I had begun plodding. Soon after, when I reached the ash field, I was slogging.

Finally, just a few hundred feet away from the summit, I was literally dragging myself up the mountain, using my hiking poles more like spears to give myself any sort of purchase, lest I slip and lose valuable ground. The circling ravens were circling closer, clearly hoping I would simply keel over and give them an easy lunch.

Suddenly, it was over. I unceremoniously dropped my poles, dumped my bag, plopped my posterior down and gazed out at one of the most amazing views I had ever seen; the expansive crater and its beautiful geology, the mirror-still lake, and — amazingly enough — a glimpse of Mt. Rainier in the far, far distance. Looking closely, I could see the volcano venting gas, and I heard burbling that sounded like rocks rolling down, down, down into the volcano’s depths.

The soft click of my bottle opener on aluminum shortly followed, the hiss of carbonation nearly lost to the expanse in front of me. My IPA, which had been on my back and warmed by the sun over the last six hours, was delicious — I f***ing earned that beer.

The way back was easier in some parts, harder in others — I practically skied down the ash field, but I found bouldering down much more difficult than up. Another six hours later, I found myself right back to where I started, albeit sweatier, hungrier, thirstier, and feeling nature calling with a vengeance.

My group started out at first light, and returned after dark; if there was something symbolic about that, I missed it as I used the last of my energy to sprint to the outhouse.

I didn’t have it in me to reflect on my achievement in that moment, nor really for several more days — I think my brain, which was churning out chemicals like crazy to continue putting one foot in front of the other on this journey, decided to take some well-earned vacation time.

It’s only now that I’m writing this out that I realized what I accomplished.

It wasn’t that I summited Mount. St. Helens, though that will be a crowning achievement in my life, and this will certainly become a well-rehearsed barstool story in time.

More importantly, though, is that I pushed myself far beyond my physical and mental limits, maybe for the first time in my adult life.

That has affected me, somehow. I think those of you who have done the same know what I mean — it’s like walking into your office or bedroom, a highly personal space, and finding something… off. Not bad off, or good off, just different.

I can’t place it, but it’s there, and it’s important. Maybe if I stop staring so hard, I’ll finally see it.

Mount. St. Helens isn’t a pleasure trail; it’s an endurance run for your body and mind, and I’m not sure any amount of training would have completely prepared me for it (and, frankly, had I known what I was getting into, I may not have been able to do it at all).

But if I can do it, you can too.

So when the weather turns back, grab your gear and conquer a volcano. Test yourself, push yourself, past your limits to find something on the other side.

And when you succeed, crack open that victory beer as you survey your new kingdom.

You f***ing earned it.