So you work your tail off and you arrive at the top of Mailbox Peak. Phew. Have a drink. Have a snack. And then you look around and see...
Is that higher over there?
You look at your map and yeah, it seems a little higher.
You consult your list of peaks with more than 400 feet of clean prominence and you curse quietly under your breath. Not because there are kids around, but because you still can't make loud noises as you greedily consume air.
Well, what's it called? What do you mean it doesn't have an official name?
It's between Mailbox Peak and Dirty Harry's Peak so let's call it... Hairy Mail. No... Mail Harry. Ooh, ooh: Hail Mary!
Or we could call it Dirtybox.
To get there you could drop into the basin on the north side of the ridge, but that looked kind of slidey. You could drop down the south side of the ridge, but why drop when you'd just have to gain again? Thea leaves running the ridge.
Just stay back from the edge. Some of those cornices are starting to pull away. It would be bad to be pulled with them. (Now try getting your dog to understand that.)
The freaks that were already on the summit when we got there (They started before 6am! Cheaters.) were a little surprised when we ditched poles and headed across the ridge. But soon they were just little stick figures on the diminutive Mailbox Peak.
We entered the woods and wove our way through until there was nowhere left to go. Good thing, too, because the climb back up to the summit from the other side, for those four leggers silly enough to go down that way, was a little tough.
And now that we've done it there's no reason to do it again. Mailbox is plenty for me on a Sunday morning.