MY PARENTS FIRST MET in 1954, through the Stanford Alpine Club, in Palo Alto, California, where Dad taught Mom how to belay. She fell for this sensitive hardman who paused on the approach to a climb in order to comment on the shape of a gnarled tree or a striking flower. Though he was on the JV football team and in ROTC, his major was art and dress design, and Mom loved these contrasts. Soon they were engaged.

But early on she developed second thoughts about the maturity of her 20-year-old fiancé. Among the things that troubled her was his reaction to the death of their good friend and classmate Ann Pottinger, who'd succumbed to exhaustion while attempting to climb Higher Cathedral Spire, in Yosemite. Mom wrote to her parents, "John has eternal admiration for Ann, because she forced herself." By contrast, Mom had turned back on the same climb the weekend before Ann's death, because the heat and strain were too much for her. Dad had been furious at her weakness. After Ann died, Mom pointed out the obvious wisdom of her own action. Dad blew up at that, scolding her with "At least she tried!"

About a decade later, when I was eight, I was having my own run-ins with Dad. The first that sticks in my memory occurred when I returned from the Trofeo Topolino, a

Dad had no tolerance for weakness, and he expected others to push themselves as hard as he pushed himself. Fortunately, in the mountains I was learning to measure up.

ski race in Italy that Dad's parents, visiting from California, took me to compete in. While the parades and the crowds had been exciting, I was deeply disappointed, as I'd not done well. My parents took the cog rail down to Aigle to meet us when we got off the train from Italy. On the ride up the hill, I admitted that I'd fallen twice in the race, not just the once that Dad's parents had reported. Dad's contempt was palpable. I don't recall any words, just a sense of being shamed.

Dad had no tolerance for weakness, and he expected others to push themselves as hard as he pushed himself. Fortunately, in the mountains I was learning to measure up. When I was six, Dad took me on my first roped climb. We were camping among the seaside walls and towers of the Calanques, a rugged coastline of white limestone cliffs and turquoise finger inlets stretching from Marseille to Cassis, on the French Mediterranean coast.

I remember the alternating current of terror and exhilaration that I felt as I followed Dad up the Petite Aiguille ("Little Needle"), which towered over the beach. Dad tied me in with a bowline around my waist, and thus began my education in knots—and in stomach butterflies and sewing-machine leg. Suddenly the 200-foot pinnacle that had looked so attractive became a towering wall of intimidation. Initially the scrambling felt easy, but then a section of rock loomed vertically, and below I saw the open space into which I'd plunge if my hands couldn't hold or my foot slipped. Gripping the rock with everything I had, my body tensed until my leg started chattering uncontrollably. When I finally topped out on the pinnacle, Dad cut loose a mighty yell that echoed down the canyon walls. I felt ten feet tall—make that 210 feet tall.

On my ninth birthday, in May 1965, we went to Les Diablerets, where a glacier allowed skiing when other runs had melted out. The gondola lifted us in three cliff-jumping stages to the top. Shortly after stepping out, we stood on the flattest, smoothest glacier I'd ever seen. It was like a gently tilted skating rink frosted with spring corn snow. We cruised along, making huge turns.

Then an idea came to us, and I don't recall if I thought of it first or watched one of the grown-ups do it. I just remember swiveling my skis quickly so that the tails pointed downhill, and then carving the same arching turns as before, only backwards. Soon we were all doing it, racing each other backwards down the mountain, checking only occasionally to make sure nothing surprising lay below. Sunshine glittered brightly on the snow, melting it into a perfect buttery consistency. Rock bands hemmed in the glacier, and we swooped past and around each other in a ski game I've never been able to duplicate. This was close to heaven, and Dad yodeled so loud that it bounced off the rocky rim.