Spider-webbed ice covering my tent walls was illuminated by the dawn light, and I sighed in relief. Even though I was exhausted, sleep had been fitful in temps teetering on the edge of too low for my gear. As a cherry on top, winds had beaten the tent around for most of the night, but had finally calmed at 2:16 a.m.

How did I know it was 2:16? Because I was awake. I was awake before, during, and after that damn wind had finally settled down.

By 6:30 a.m., we were on the trail. My left foot struggled to warm up, sending wincing flashes of pain from my heel with every step. The first couple of miles were nice and flat headed toward the ominously named Death Canyon Creek. The information I’d gathered barely mentioned it, only noting it typically dried into stagnant pools later in the season.

The four of us were stopped in our tracks at the bank of a six-foot-wide channel of rushing water.

My alarm woke me up to gentle winds whipping the tent in the soft blue morning light. I sighed out loud in relief. Another brutally cold night had passed, somewhere around 15F. I had spent the night trying to avoid cold spots in my too-small sleeping bag. What a mistake. The entire night consisted of me waking up every 45 minutes to check my phone, praying the time had flown past and it was close to morning.

My prayers were thoroughly unanswered.