We walked and walked and walked&#151stopping in pubs along the way&#151and gradually became more and more lost.

I often wanted to turn back, in fact, but Pete was so damn far ahead of me that I couldn't even get his attention. I kept following.

When we finally reached the top, we found a strange surprise: The rest of our classmates were there.

At the top of what I'd later learn to call "Arthur's Peak," I looked out onto the jagged, gray city and felt immortal.

Pete gave me the two fingers.

(Who wouldn't feel immortal with hair like that?)

In his essay, "<a href="http://stereophile.com/asweseeit/890awsi/">Can We Agree to Disagree</a>," Peter W. Mitchell states:

This weather is pointless. Pointless! What's the use of all this snow and ice? Don't tell me it looks pretty. I'm just not fit for this sort of cold. It's days like today after windy winter nights like last, when the temperatures plunge into the single digits and my apartment's old pipes freeze, that I wish I had an entire fleet of fiery amps to keep me warm.