Terry Irwin lives in Exeter.

David Emerson’s My Turn, “Crossing the tracks,” describes his and his wife’s trek up Lowe’s Path to Mount Adams on what I believe was one of his final strenuous White Mountain hikes.

His piece took me back to my trek to the peak of Mount Jefferson using the same Lowe’s path. His piece reminded me of the segments of the trail, especially the “rocky scrambling up the fall line.” The piece spoke to me when he described his earlier times: times when winds made him crawl and he “swam” through snow that “being alone up there is the best. Surrounded by peaks, spirits your only company . . .”

I interrupted my trek to Jefferson by tenting at the Perch. Next morning I am passed on what is a White Mountain “highway,” the Gulfside Trail, by a troop of young men led by a hardened leader.

Soon I turn south west for the short ascent to Jefferson’s peak. I have the mountain to myself. I stop before the peak. Beyond Jefferson lies the cavernous Great Gulf and then the cloud-shrouded Mount Washington. Before me, is Monticello’s lawn of grasslike sedge littered with boulders and a huge cairn. Above and to my right, looms Jefferson’s peak, a massive, almost conical pile of intimidating boulders.

The wind increases, Washington growls; I must move. I climb to the base of the rock pile, touch the lowest boulder with my pole and head down the challenging Caps Ridge Trail back to the Perch. Mount Jefferson gave me a reverence in an Old Testament way: it was my Mount Sinai.

The mountain is massive, powerful, and mysterious. A few growls of thunder reminded me that mountains talk. I was alone. I felt small; Jefferson massive; its peak intimidating. When I touch the peak’s bottom boulder, my spiritual reverie ends, and I return to the challenges of descending the difficult Caps Peak Trail.

I made two following attempts to climb Jefferson: neither was completed. Age? Focus? Knowing Sinai was a one-time experience? My Jefferson remains unique. Good. Jefferson lives within me.