Day 7 began before dawn with the roaring wind. At 3:30 a.m., the wind bellowed so loudly it was hard to think, though mercifully it never reached our tents. Fearing we’d be blown off the mountain peak trying to scale the Tooth of Time, our leaders decided to wait it out for another hour.
In Dungeons & Dragons, a strong wind imposes disadvantage on ranged weapon attack rolls and Wisdom (Perception) checks that rely on hearing. A strong wind also extinguishes open flames, disperses fog, and makes flying by nonmagical means nearly impossible. A flying creature in a strong wind must land at the end of its turn or fall.
The delay proved fortuitous, as at 4:30 a.m., the wind storm died down and early morning light made it possible to see what we were climbing. Having been drilled by our Ranger to prepare for mountain lion attacks in the dark, our trailing leader wore a headlamp facing backward to discourage any attacks from behind, despite some staff differing on the necessity. We filed out, seeing other crews making the same ascent towards Tooth Ridge.
The last night at Tandås had promised an early start, but the predawn hours brought not gentle stirring but the terrifying roar of the wind. At such an early hour, the wind bellowed through the mountain passes, a furious, unseen beast, so loud it was hard to even think, though miraculously, their sturdy tents held firm against its wrath. Fear, cold and sharp, seized them—the fear of being literally blown off the mountaintop if they attempted to ascend the Drakentand in such conditions. Their leaders wisely decided to wait it out for another hour, huddled in their meager shelters.
This turned out to be a stroke of pure fortune. An hour later, as if on cue, the wind storm died down to a mere whisper, and the first faint light began to illuminate their path. They had been rigorously drilled by Uilleam, their lost ranger, to prepare for the stealthy hunters of the peaks, the bergkatts, on the trail. And so, Dauid, with a quiet invocation, cast dancing lights, three luminous motes of arcane energy that bobbed and weaved a little behind the party, a magical deterrent against any unseen eyes. In single file, they moved out towards the final, daunting ascent up the Drakentand.
The Tooth of Time in the distance.
The climb was hard. The rocks were so steep that hiking poles were impossible, and we carried only our day packs, sweatshirts, hats, and gloves. The sun slowly began to peak as we ascended, taking frequent breaks, climbing on hands and knees up the rough cliff face.
Climbing in Dungeons & Dragons costs double the normal movement speed, with occasional Strength (Athletics) checks (I like to call for three, with DCs 10, 12, and 15, though it could be higher for more powerful parties). Of course, some groups could simply fly or teleport up there, but the Drakentand might prohibit such transportation due its peculiar nature.
Despite concerns about our pace, we made it in time for the payoff: the glorious sun cresting over the horizon. We all cheered, huddled atop the Tooth of Time, having achieved our goal. We were exhausted but triumphant. This was a personal comeback story for me, fulfilling a promise to myself after failing to scale Tuckerman’s Ravine due to altitude sickness. It was also a significant milestone shared with my son as he prepared for college.
The Tooth of Time … getting closer…
It was hard. The path immediately pitched upward, the rocks so steep that hiking poles were impossible, mere encumbrances now. They took only their day packs, hats, and gloves, leaving everything else at the camp below. The sun slowly began to peak over the horizon as they ascended, casting long, dramatic shadows. Lamech, in particular, found himself needing frequent, gasping breaks, his hands and knees finding purchase on the rough cliff face more often than his feet. He had promised himself he would crawl if he had to, and he found himself doing just that.
Despite frequent concerns from some that they were climbing too slowly, that the sun would crest before they reached the summit, they made it in time. And then came the payoff, the glorious reward for days of relentless effort and recent trauma: the sun, a blazing orb of triumph, crested over the distant horizon, flooding the world with light. They all cheered, a ragged, joyful sound, huddled together atop the Drakentand, as they achieved their ultimate goal. They were exhausted, every muscle screaming, but they had done it.
As the cheers subsided, Emem, his face a mask of solemn reverence, began his ritual. He moved with a quiet, focused intensity, his hands weaving patterns in the air, his lips moving in silent prayer. “What, exactly, is he doing?” Lamech asked Dauid, curiosity overriding his own fatigue.
“It is believed this ritual bestows a wish upon whoever performs it at dawn upon the Drakentand,” Dauid replied seriously, his eyes fixed on the young halfling. “But who or what he is wishing for, I know not.”
“A loved one,” Sikstrian supplied, his voice unusually soft. “He is asking for Sikkar’s grace to return his mother to him, lost long ago.”
Keogh shook his head, a sad, knowing look in his elven eyes. “A youthful wish,” he said, having seen too many younger species pass away, their lives flickering too briefly in the long span of his own.
The ritual completed, Emem began the descent, his face grim but resolute. Who or what he wished, assuming Sikkar had answered, would only become apparent later.
But what goes up must come down, and they then clambered slowly, painfully, and carefully down the treacherous rock face back to camp. After packing up their remaining gear, it was time for the longest hike yet: the return to basecamp.
We did it! The sunrise from atop the Tooth of Time!
What goes up must come down. We clambered slowly, painfully, and carefully down the rock face back to camp. After packing up, it was time for our longest hike yet: the return to Basecamp.
The trek from Tooth Ridge to Camping HQ spanned 6.7 miles, involving a massive 2,461 feet of descent after an 858-foot gain. This was both our longest day in mileage and our biggest descent, making the sustained downhill very taxing on knees and quads. We knew we needed to pace ourselves carefully. We had summited the Tooth of Time at 9,003 feet and now had to hike all the way back into base camp for our closing campfire.
The switchbacks down the slope, while technically easier, were grueling in their own way. We kept getting glimpses of Basecamp, seeing it slowly grow larger, but it felt like it took forever to reach.
Finally, we stumped our way into the final leg, passing beneath an arch where we celebrated our arrival. Once in camp, we turned in our borrowed equipment, washed our leased tents, and headed for blessed showers that we hadn’t been able to take in a week. Then came the simple joys of shaving and wearing deodorant again.
The switchbacks down the slope were much easier on their lungs than the climb, but grueling in their own way, a relentless pounding on their knees and feet. They kept getting tantalizing glimpses of base camp, a distant cluster of buildings that slowly, maddeningly, came closer and closer into view, yet felt like it took forever to reach. Finally, their legs aching, their bodies caked in trail dust and sweat, they stumbled their way into the final leg, passing beneath a grand arch where they paused, exhausted but triumphant, to celebrate their arrival.
Once in camp, the return to civilization was swift and almost disorienting. They turned in their borrowed equipment, washed their leased tents, and then, oh, the blessed, glorious baths they hadn’t been able to take in a week. And shaves!
To their utter astonishment, Sikstoffer met them at the gate, his familiar, cheerful grin wider than ever. A whoop of joyous surprise erupted from the party, and they crowded around him, laughing, slapping his back, and eagerly demanding to know how he had miraculously survived the terrifying fall into the crevasse. He recounted how he had slid between the jagged rocks, tumbling into a surprisingly soft snowdrift far below, only to be found by a friendly ranger who carried him back to the infirmary at base camp for healing and recuperation.
Was it worth it? Absolutely.
Lamech watched Emem curiously; the young halfling’s demeanor now a complex mix of both profound pride and a subtle hint of sadness.
“What did you wish for?” Lamech asked, his voice low, his curiosity piqued. “And did it come true?”
“Life,” Emem whispered, his gaze flickering towards Sikstoffer, now surrounded by the joyful reunion. “And yes, Lamech, I think so.”
“I’m sorry for your loss, Emem,” Lamech said simply, understanding the deeper layers of his friend’s earlier grief.
Emem smiled, a genuine warmth in his eyes, and patted Lamech on the back. “My mother lived a long, good life. I just miss her. But that’s on me.”
Lamech returned the smile, looking at the young halfling, who no longer seemed so young in his eyes. “She would be proud of you, Emem. More than proud.”
“I hope so,” Emem said, playfully punching Lamech’s shoulder. “And you did pretty good yourself, bard. Make sure you tell our tale in song and deed!”
“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Lamech said with a wink, already imagining the verses and melodies that would chronicle their epic journey through the Kir Kurad, a tale of triumph, loss, and the enduring spirit of the adventurers who dared to face the Drakentand.
Bryon joined them, laughing so hard he was wheezing.
“What’s so funny?” asked the solemn Emem, who still had Uilleam’s death on his mind.
“I finally get it!” Bryon was wiping tears from his eyes, doubled over in laughter. “Where’s your oar!”
“You mean the joke Vitvag told us at camp?”
“Yes, I get it: The joke when the penguin says ‘Where’s your oar?’ isn’t a question. It’s a statement!” He struggled to breathe. “WEARS YOUR OAR! Get it? The desert sands wear your oar down because you brought the wrong tools!”
Lamech and Emem exchanged glances and shook their heads. It wasn’t that funny; but the truth of it — that adventurers would be far more occupied looking for treasure when the real challenge was surviving nature’s relentless grind — held deeper truths than either wanted to admit.
“Sure does!” said Lamech in spite of himself.
And with that realization, they started laughing too.
Home again, home again, jiggety jig.
Whether I could do it again is less certain; the hike took an immense physical toll on me. Yet, it was a profound final milestone, celebrated with my son, who had recently become an Eagle Scout, achieved his third-degree black belt in Taekwondo, graduated high school and his theater program, got a job, and turned 18 before heading off to college. It was a shared triumph to cherish.
Other parents often ask me how I feel about him going to college. But after he and I huddled in the freezing cold together as I was shivering from the beginnings of hypothermia, everything else seems a lot simpler. He’ll be alright. And I will be too.
We only got the penguin joke the staff member told us until much later.
Philmont Adventure Log
For the full journey, see the rest of the series:
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