We pause at a point where the trail momentarily levels out. There is an intersecting trail here which we noticed during yesterday's hike down to our camp site. We believe this intersecting trail is one we want to take today, but we've been having some discussion about it.

The map shows two roughly parallel trails to Mount Phillips, with the southernmost one being shorter but steeper than its counterpart. We have decided to take the shorter, steeper one and we think this may be it because we have seen nothing else between here and last night's camp site that it could be.

After a little scouting and a little more discussion, we conclude this probably is the trail we want, and so we are off once more, quickly leaving level ground and soon fighting our way up a steep, tough mountain slope through woods of fir, spruce and aspen gleaming with the dappled light of early morning. The air is crisp and exceedingly thin as we fight both incline and altitude, our lungs working overtime to suck in enough oxygen to keep our bodies going.

Finally the trail begins leveling off and its course becomes straighter as it plunges out of the forest canopy and runs across a high mountain meadow basking in the early morning sun. The terrain is still steep, but not quite so tough.

We take one of many breaks here and as we do so it becomes clear we have fallen into a good hiking pattern today. No one has shed his backpack for this rest stop. Instead, we all are keeping our packs on, bending forward and placing our hands on our knees. This is going to conserve a lot of time for us today, and we will need all the little time-savers we can find.

After a while, Richard asks, "Is anybody not ready?" If no one objects, that is assumed to be universal consent to move out. However, on this particular occasion the advisors ask for a little more time, having found that the high altitude and steep slope are taking a toll.

After a few more minutes, the advisors are ready to move out, so the crew of 621-D-7 presses forward. The meadow gives way to another steep climb up a shady slope, then levels out high on a hill where the low-growing softwoods allow superb panoramic views. A barbed wire fence to one side seems jarringly out of place amid such beauty but reminds us we are near Philmont's western boundary.

There is more climbing ahead as the trail takes us up yet another slope. As before, the trees here are small, as if they are recent arrivals following a fire or some other type of natural calamity.

Approaching the next slope, which sports a more vigorous forest growth, we pass a rock fire pit and wonder who built it since the map shows no campsites in the immediate vicinity. The altimeter indicates we now have passed 10,800 feet. Then, after a bit more climbing, it registers 11,000 feet. Great. Not too much farther now.

However, the map shows we were supposed to pass near a spring at the 10,800 foot level and we did not do that. So that's giving us a little cause for concern. Also, some of us are beginning to think about breakfast now, but we decide to push just a little farther.

At about the 11,200 foot mark we think we see signs of a Philmont camp site where no camp, at least by our reckoning, is supposed to be. Indeed, those are the red, Philmont backpacking tents and that definitely is the smell of bacon being fried over a smoky campfire.

The only camp even remotely in this area would be Comanche Peak Camp. But if this is that camp, that would mean we had come up on the northernmost trail from Red Hills Camp, not the shorter, steeper southern route we thought we were on. A quick conversation with the guys in camp confirms that is exactly what has happened. We take the opportunity to get information from them about the trail ahead and the distance to Mount Phillips, and then we push up the trail a bit and stop to make breakfast where the footpath widens somewhat.

We rack our packs and make ourselves comfortable in a nice little spot where sunlight streaming through the trees gives everything a fresh, clean, sparkling look. Two Stellar's Jays alight nearby hoping for scraps, although we will try not to oblige them.

Breakfast today is cereal and powdered milk and that most reviled of Philmont food items, the pemmican bar. This is a food bar which looks like compressed cardboard daubed liberally with brown shoe polish. To say it tastes strange is an understatement. Still, it is said to contain all the essential amino acids plus 400 calories to help keep hikers going in the back country.

The meal is quickly done and after a short rest we saddle up and press forward. Not long afterwards, we top a rise and find a signpost proclaiming this spot of ground is Comanche Peak. According to our maps, that means we have reached 11,326 feet.

At Left: The Crew of 621-D-7 At Comanche Peak

The trees surrounding us obscure what must otherwise be a magnificent view, but still we are thrilled to reach this landmark. We gather around the marker for a quick crew picture, then continue along the trail.

The maps shows we are descending now towards a saddle, after which the trail will drive straight up a slope in its final ascent to Mount Phillips. As we near the saddle, we emerge from the trees which until now have obscured our view and get a full-bore look at what previously to us has been only a name. Before us, Mount Phillips looms against the azure Philmont sky, its shaggy bulk still a daunting challenge.

Reaching the saddle, we notice a trail coming in from our left. That, we know now, is the southernmost trail from Red Hills. Looking down that trail as far as the eye can see, we decide things probably have worked out for the best today. That trail seems wretchedly steep!

Ahead of us, the trail passes through a region that almost seems a lifeless, silent battleground, where some force of nature ripped trees from the slope and scattered them like tinkertoys. We push through this unhappy place, but the going is even tougher than before. The increasing altitude makes each step seem to require a deliberate mental command from the brain to the legs to move forward. Our breathing is labored.

Past this now, we stop for a break, partly because the going has been difficult and partly because someone suddenly has noticed that we have gained enough altitude to be able to see the immense, breathtaking vista that has opened behind us. We all stop and gaze in awe at the glory of this country. As if viewing it from the vantage point of an Eagle surfing thermal currents, we see spread before us the sun-streaked peaks and the deep, cool valleys; the length and breadth of a land so big that, even though thousands of Scouts are making their way across it, we do not see them or sense their presence.

Ruben sums up the experience in a comment we will long remember with a smile. Nodding first toward Comanche Peak and then toward the summit of Mount Phillips, still some distance off, he declares:

"Over there, I was a boy. Here, I am a man. Up there, I'll be a god."

Now we push on. The trail continues to be steep, but no worse than what we have previously encountered. The day is warming appreciably, but fluffy clouds are bunching together above us. That may well mean rain before the day is out. The air is so thin some of us are beginning to feel light-headed.

We see ahead of us one last, steep incline of perhaps 150 feet or so. Summoning a final burst of energy, we go over the top and reach a wide, relatively flat region covered with broken red rock. We are atop Mount Phillips now but the summit still is a short hike ahead. Even so, we pause again because, Eagle-high over this rugged land, the view of near and distant mountain peaks and valleys is compelling.

Pushing on now toward the summit, the rocky trail passes an area where young spruce have managed to get a foothold. Nearby is Mount Phillips Camp, the highest trail camp at Philmont. The crew we met yesterday as they were hiking toward this camp already has moved on. But surely they had a spectacular night.

It seems to take forever to reach the literal summit, but it probably is no more than a few minutes. At last, in the middle of a vast, rolling area of broken rock, a signpost announces we have reached our goal. We are 11,711 feet - more than two miles - above sea level. The view is picture perfect. We rack packs, pose for crew pictures and spend a carefree half hour in pure enchantment soaking up the grand view over the Moreno Valley just below us and over to Baldy in Philmont's north country.

"You can touch the sky," Chip exclaimed.

Though the view is magnificent, the real estate on which we stand is an alien one to this Georgia crew. Acres and acres of rocks cover the top of Mount Phillips. Every now and then grass finds a place to take root and smallish conifers rise periodically amid the rock rubble. Further on, there is a distinct tree line. But here, the summit is largely bald. Near the signpost, some tiny yellow flowers have taken root low to the ground and some red flowers nearby also add a dash of fragile color to a place which is delightful now but which in winter must be incredibly inhospitable.

Photo at left: Richard at the summit.

Someone in the past has piled rocks together into a low shelter just below the Mount Phillips sign and some of our crews members have ensconced themselves there to battle the wind atop Philmont's second-highest peak. After a while, we all seem to be growing much colder than before so we saddle up and push on.

It would be difficult to find a trail in such a place were it not for the fact that some group in the past - perhaps a succession of trail crews - has made a very distinct foot path by piling rocks together in a distinct line down to the tree line.

We follow this trail and then begin a long, steep descent of Mount Phillips' western flank, still viewing wonderful vistas for a time.

We take several rest stops coming off the peak and at one we discuss the possibilities of lunch, but decide to postpone lunch until we reach Clear Creek Camp, our next destination on today's hike. That isn't our final destination. It's just a brief stopover point allowing us to visit the "Rocky Mountain Fur Co." to learn about mountain living and fire black powder rifles - a much-anticipated feature of this trek.

Photo at left: Crossing the summit

The trail winds downward, sometimes at alarmingly-steep angles, and picks off a victim. Mitch takes a misstep on a loose rock and twists his ankle. While we stop to check it and tie a handkerchief around it, a crew bound for the summit comes up the trail. We can see they are having to haul water up this long, tough trail but they seem friendly and in good spirits as they pass by.

With Mitch now patched, we continue down the trail and Philmont picks off another victim. This time it is Ruben's turn to twist his ankle and he said he heard an ominous-sounding "SNAP!" when it happened.

We stop and check him out, but Ruben determines he can continue walking without undue difficulty. So we saddle up again and continue our descent, steadily losing altitude. After a while, we reach a point low enough for pine forests to thrive, and a fragrant, woodsy smell rises to greet us from the sun-warmed pine-needle litter on the ground.

Further on, the tree cover thins for some reason and we pass through a sun-baked, mud-caked area, wondering when we ever will reach Clear Creek. At last, however, we come to a meadow with a jeep trail clearly visible at the opposite end. An easy walk of a few more hundred yards takes us past a cluster of red Philmont backpacking tents and - Eureka! - we are here.

We happily rack our packs in front of a rustic cabin that serves as the headquarters for this, Philmont's highest staffed camp. We are at about 10,300 feet now after having dropped 1,400 feet from the summit. The five-mile hike from Red Hills to Clear Creek, up and over Mount Phillips, has taken us roughly five hours.

After checking in with the rangers, we find there isn't time for lunch just now. They say we're about right on time for the next black-powder rifle program, so we'd best just come right on up.

Trying our best to keep up with them, we fall in line behind two crews that are encamped here, and race up the slopes to the black-powder range.

The instructors, Philmont staffers dressed in mountain garb, show us how to load and fire the .50-caliber Hawken-type rifles we will use on the range, and they go over the safety rules and commands. Somehow or other, the other two crews are selected to take the first shots. So while they do that, Richard hikes back down to get our lunch, and we pig-out under nearby trees while the other crews blast away.

When our turn comes, crew members are taken two at a time to the firing line and told to place the brass butt-plate of the rifle on top of their boots. Next, the rangers take a pre-measured charge of black powder and pour it down the barrel of each rifle. Then, the shooters are given a 1-inch square cloth path and told to chew it to get it moistened. The moistened patch is then placed over the muzzle of the rifle, and then a round rifle ball is placed in the center of each patch.

Next, shooters are given a ball-starting instrument which, when held over the ball and pounded with the heel of the free hand, sends the bullet down the barrel an inch or two. Then, the ramrod is removed from its slot below the barrel and is used to force the ball and patch firmly against the black powder at the breech. Finally, the ramrod is thrown down the barrel free-hand to add a touch of extra force and ensure a proper seating for the bullet. Sometimes, the ramrod bounces sufficiently off the ball to bounce right back out of the barrel.

Now the rifle is almost ready to fire. Shooters first raise the piece to their shoulders and bring the hammer to half-cock. Then the ranger deftly places a percussion cap over the nipple and pulls the hammer to full-cock.

There is a great deal of noise and smoke when the rifles are fired, but we find that the kick is somewhat less than that of the .30-06 rifles we fired back at Sawmill. We also find that for some reason, our aim is much worse.

That activity over, we return to Clear Creek Camp. It is growing late in the day and we are starting to get concerned about that, but we also want to get as much out of the program here as we can. We decide to wait a bit for a tour of the trapper's lodge, and while we are waiting, a ranger comes outside to demonstrate tomahawk throwing.

He takes us to a target area near the trapper's cabin where tree-trunk sections have been set upright, and demonstrates his prowess with the tomahawk by hurling it and making it stick nicely in one of the targets. Then crew members begin offering various items for him to attempt to hit. One offers him one of our Atlanta Area Council crew caps. Another offers him a pemmican bar. A pemmican bar? Oh, yes. And word quickly spreads around camp that the ranger is about to exact some revenge on this weird food item. Before he can take aim, a crowd begins to gather to watch this wonderful event, including our sister crew.

He aims...he throws ... and - thwunk! - yes! He splits the bar. But not the plastic wrapper. So now everybody gets an opportunity to throw a tomahawk at this detested object.

Soon, though, it is time to go into the trader's cabin to learn some of the history of this land through the perspective of the trader and trapper.

It is dark inside the rough-hewn, log cabin. Skins line the wall and dangle from the ceiling. We think we can identify wolf, black bear, otter, mink and raccoon. We take seats at various places around the cabin, including a bed whose mattress is suspended on a framework of rope. The ranger enters and begins to fill us full of stories about the trappers and traders who worked this land.

There never was a real Rocky Mountain Fur Co., we are told, but there indeed were trappers and traders here, and this cabin is what a trader's cabin would have been like in those days. The ranger knows his stuff and makes the days of the mountain men come alive. Thomas, among others, felt this was one of the highlights of the trek.

But now time really is growing short. It is late afternoon now and we still have miles to go before reaching our camping destination. Our sister crew already has pulled out of camp, so we need to make tracks, too.

The ranger points us the way to the trail out of camp and we saddle up and head out, stopping once to fill our canteens in Rayado Creek.

Rayado! The name rolls off the tongue and conjures visions of the wild west. Here, the Rayado is a frisky little mountain stream we could jump across. Its headwaters are somewhere up on the western slope of Mount Phillips. En route to Rayado Canyon south of here, it will pick up speed and strength as it is joined by numerous other streams and creeks, including Comanche Creek whose waters lulled us to sleep last night.

This afternoon, we will follow Rayado all the way to our destination - Porcupine Camp - and then follow its course a bit tomorrow before parting company for a spell.

The trail leads through a lush green valley with steep slopes on either side. The thick undergrowth and the cheery, bubbling sounds of the creek are reminiscent of some of the mountain trails we hike back home.

We are losing a substantial amount of elevation as we travel, dropping from 10,300 feet at Clear Creek to 9,200 feet at Porcupine. But the decline is so gentle in contrast with earlier portions of our journey today that it is scarcely noticeable.

We cross a number of tributaries which feed the Rayado, and pass the signs for two intervening trail camps, Comanche Camp and Crooked Creek Camp. The hike seems longer than it should. We note it now is 6 p.m. and decide we must limit our rest breaks if we are to reach camp tonight with any daylight left. Fortunately, it stays light here until about 9 p.m., but we still are some distance from camp.

An hour and a half later we begin seeing signs of a trail camp. The principal camp sites seem to be across the river, reached by a slick log across the banks. But on our side, we have spotted a fire pit, a sump and a broad meadow that seems ideal. We find no sign of a camp number here, and that's disconcerting since all trail camp sites are numbered. But this does have a fire pit and a sump, so it must be a site.

In a clearing across the creek, we see another crew with a ranger. This turns out to be a Rayado Crew - a group on a special high-adventure trek. And their ranger turns out to be a scout from our own North Atlanta District back home.

He tells us there actually are better sites across the river, but the crew has pretty much decided it has gone far enough today. So here we will stay. As we get out of our backpacks we decide to deviate from our normal camping practice to give crew members a chance to fish. After setting up their tents, crew members who bought fishing licenses back at base camp can go ahead and try their luck in the Rayado now. Meanwhile, the advisors will cookdinner and while they get supper started, Chip sets up their tent.

Several crew members caught trout. Geoffrey, in fact, hauled in two.

It is nearing twilight and storm clouds are rolling in before supper is half done. The tarp hasn't been raised previously, so that is quickly done. And not a moment too soon. As the cooks grab the stoves and the half-cooked food pots and set them under the tarp, rain begins to fall. This, of course, brings the whole crew scrambling for the tarp and soon we're all more or less sheltered under it.

This is going to be serious rain. The clouds unleash a downpour accompanied by a laser show of jagged lightning bolts and bone-rattling explosions of thunder that bounce off the valley walls and echo down the canyon.

Dinner is served as a dark, rainy, lightning-filled night sets in. The hot beef stew and pineapple cheese pie seem to hit the spot. But cleanup is complicated since it must be done by flashlight. Plus, the garbage and smellables now must be taken to the bear cable.

Our crew members previously spotted the bear cable on the other side of the creek and hung our extra food and most of the smellables there. That wasn't too hard in the daylight. Now, however, we've got to do it at night, crossing the slippery log across the angry, rain-swollen Rayado. Nevertheless, the chore gets done safely and we at last lay our weary bodies in our tents.

Before going to sleep, I begin wondering if this was the best spot to camp after all. There are no other crews nearby. This could be serious bear country. And on and on. But that doesn't last too long. The day has been a strenuous one and with Rayado Creek splashing noisily in the distance, sleep comes quickly.