As we approached the 3,490-foot summit of Mount Chocorua in New Hampshire's White Mountains on Friday, conditions changed dramatically – and not exactly favorably.

First of all, what began as a steady breeze accelerated to a near gale-force blast. Correspondingly, the temperature dipped below freezing, especially when the sun disappeared behind the clouds and flurries flew. Puddles on the trail became skating rinks. Ankle-deep patches of snow blocked the rocky path, which angled steeply over slick ledges.

And finally, the yellow blazes we had been faithfully following more than four miles up the Piper Trail faded from view as if they had been painted with invisible ink.

All in all it was shaping up to be a typical Carlson-Fagin expedition.

"Where the heck (or words to that effect) does the trail go?" I shouted above the roaring wind.

My buddy Bob Carlson, who had clambered up a near-vertical jumble of granite boulders to my right while I veered left up an equally formidable, virtually impassable slab, shouted an unintelligible reply.

How many times, I pondered, have Bob and I found ourselves in such a predicament? We've been hiking together for decades – in fact, Bob introduced me to backpacking eons ago when we were college students – and more often than not our fun adventures have evolved into arduous ordeals. Like the time we clambered up Mount Washington in winter during blizzard conditions, with wind chills about negative 50, or slept in an open lean-to in sub-zero temperatures with howling winds and drifting snow, and I accidentally dumped our pot of macaroni and cheese in the snow, and we gobbled it up before it could freeze. Or the time my car broke down after an extended expedition and we were forced to spend a week camped in the snow behind a garage, and I spent 10 cents from our dwindling cash reserves every day to play "Happy Days are Here Again," by Buck Owens and the Buckaroos, on the juke box.

Anyway, there we were, clearly off the trail on Chocorua, and I began to wonder if the mountain namesake's curse had some validity.

Various versions of an 18th century legend describe a Native American named Chocorua who had a run-in with a family who lived in a mountain village that erupted into murder, suicide and a supposed vengeful vow.

If you've ever driven north on Route 16 toward the White Mountains, you've seen Chocorua, and chances are you've taken its picture, reflected in Chocorua Lake just south of the base. As the easternmost peak in the Sandwich Range, it juts prominently, almost like a New England version of the Matterhorn.

I've probably passed it a thousand times in my various forays to the Presidentials, and each time pledged, "One of these days I'm going to have to climb that mountain."

But until this week I never got around to taking a nine-mile hiking detour on my way to higher peaks farther north, or on my way back home to southeastern Connecticut after exhausting, expeditions.

Finally, though, earlier this week Bob and I were up at his cabin on a lake that straddles the Maine-New Hampshire border, less than an hour from Chocorua. During a 10-mile kayak paddle around the lake, I casually mentioned, "You know, tomorrow, if it's nice, why don't we head over to Chocorua?"

One of Bob's many admirable qualities is that he never passes up an opportunity for adventure.

"Sounds good," he said.

The well-groomed Piper Trail rises gradually over a mostly smooth trail for the first three miles or so, but then takes on precipitous pretentions. And as I mentioned earlier, the blazes are hard to see above tree line, evidently blasted away by relentless wind and storms.

Happily – or else you wouldn't be reading this account – Bob and I eventually managed to find the trail before wandering too far astray. After clambering to the top, we huddled in the lee of a boulder, gazed at a panoramic view and gobbled peanut butter sandwiches and bananas.

Bob hoisted his water bottle.

"The good life," he said.

I raised my bottle.

"The good life."