It was tempting to try an assault on the hill straight on and get it over with. Scrambling to the top in a straight line was the shortest route to the summit, but that tactic would have doomed the whole venture. We decided the best way to climb the old slag pile was to switchback up the hill. That made the path to the top less steep. Still, it was no walk up. Like a crab, you had to scrabble from rock to tree to bush using your hands and feet – even your knees sometimes.

        We wore our oldest clothes because climbing an old slag heap was anything but clean. Jason's white, canvas sneakers took the brunt of Heap Hill. By the second muddy day, they'd turned into a mess, muddy brown with little holes caused by sharp rocks. His attempts to wash them turned them into a weird beige color. I got into the habit of stripping down after each dirty climb and hand-washing my clothes in the utility sink on the back porch.

        On dry days we inhaled dust – some of it black coal dust – that coated the insides of our noses and mouths, making us cough and sneeze. On wet days mud caked to our hands, knees, and feet. When it got wet, the going got slippery and that made it dangerous.

          One day, with Brian just ahead of me, his foot skidded off a mossy rock, and he started sliding backwards on his belly in slow motion. Bracing myself against a huge chunk of rock, I snatched hold of his brown, mud-caked jacket and slowed his fall just enough for him to get a foot hold on a small cedar tree root and a grip on a red huckleberry bush. If it wasn’t for the tree root, he would have tumbled down a good piece of the hill, maybe breaking some bones. He rolled on his back like a beached Orca and gave me a wide-eyed, tired, but grateful look. We postponed our efforts for the rest of the day, but Project Bear resumed on the next dry day.

          We dedicated more than four weeks of grunt work, sweaty and grueling, into our “summit attempt.” One Saturday afternoon, about a quarter of the way up the hill, Brian just sat down and refused to budge.

        With perspiration pouring down his red face, he sank into the hill, back against a rock. “Guys, I just can’t go any further,” he huffed.

        “Oh, c’mon, Brian. Two days ago you went higher than today. Do you think this is a load of fun for us?” Jason was ticked off. For a moment I thought he was going to walk away like he’d threatened before.

        Charlie took over, using a little psychology. “Brian, if you quit now, we’re going to have to take back your nickname. Then what are you going to be left with?” God, she was good! Her idea didn't even sound like a threat, coming from her.

        “Jeez, but it’s hard!” he moaned. For a moment I thought he was going to cry.

        “Anything worth working for is hard. See that rock up there?” She pointed at a reddish-colored piece of basalt about twenty feet higher. “If you get that far, we’ll call it a day. And you can keep your nickname – for now.”

        “Look, Brian. Watch where I step, and I’ll blaze the trail to that rock.” I pointed at our goal for the day. Brian sat in a sweaty mound, his face as red as fireweed, and gave a slow-motion nod.

        I picked my way up the slopes, trying to settle on the simplest route. When I reached the spot, I urged, “Come on, Brian! Only about twenty more steps to the rock! You can do it!” Charlie and Jason made a human wall right behind him to cut off any escape down Heap Hill.

        “Ohhhh! You guys are SO mean.” He sat there for a moment making up his mind. Then he scrambled and huffed and puffed his way to the red rock.

   Two weeks later, Brian had worked his way close to the goal – twenty more steps to the top.

        “Okay, let’s rest a little bit,” I urged. The climb was tough for me. I could imagine how rough it was for Brian.

        “If I rest now, I ain’t gonna make it. Get outta my way!” With a burst of energy, his hands and feet flailing like a threshing machine, he beat us to the top. Sitting there with a slightly lopsided, deranged smile, he yelled, "I'm the King of Heap Hill." The word “hill, hill, ill, ill, and ll reverberated over Carbonado.

        We stopped for a moment and laughed. The self-proclaimed “king of the mountain” looked so funny pounding his chest, whooping and yelling like Tarzan.

        “I did it! I did it!” He must have repeated himself more than a half dozen times.

        Grinning from ear to ear at his excitement, I was proud of Brian. Come to think of it, I puffed out my chest with a flush of pride at myself, too. I’d not only helped a friend reach a goal, but I’d completed a tough project. I’d never climbed a mountain – not that Heap Hill could be called a real mountain – but it offered a stiff challenge. I let my mind wander to 14,000 foot mountains like Mount Rainier and Mount Shasta for a moment. Maybe someday.

        When we joined Brian, we handed out high fives. Then, we paused to take in the spectacular view on this partly cloudy Saturday morning. Off to the east, dwarfing everything else, rose huge and mysterious Mount Rainier half-shrouded in clouds. I could even see The Notch, the path of the Carbon River. To the west, a view of Mountain Heights, the development where Charlie lived, greeted us a little below eye level. The roofs of Carbonado spread out beneath us like a toy town. I could make out Pershing Street in the old part of town and even catch a glimpse of my three bedroom ranch style house in its little subdivision.

“Wow, everything down below looks like toys,” said Jason.

“Now, the ceremony.” Charlie’s words broke into my thoughts inspired by the breathtaking view. “Since you’ve earned it, by the power invested in us, your comrades in climbing, we all dub you Brian “The Bear” Erdman.” A four-voice cheer rang over the roofs of the town as we munched on the little packs of Gummi Bears she’d carried in her small back pack.

        A self-conscious smile creased Brian’s sweaty face. “Gee, thanks, guys. I . . . I couldn’t have done it without you.”

        “Ain’t that the truth,” muttered Jason under his breath.

        I said, “Don’t thank us. You earned it.”

        “The Bear” then looked at the three of us. “I’ve got a favor to ask. I’ve spent so much time climbing up this side, I’m sick of it. Can we go down the other side?”

        We laughed, and as we descended, Jason hummed the tune as the rest of us joined together, singing a rowdy version of the song.

        The Bear went over the mountain.

         The Bear went over the mountain.

         The Bear went over the mountain.

         To see what he could see.

         And all that he could see.

         And all that he could see . . .

         Was . . .

         The other side of the mountain,

         The other side of the mountain,

         The other side of the mountain

         Was all that he could see.