Good thing I did. There weren’t many of us on Route 2 that time of day and in that weather, but we were all kind of tippy-toeing on the slippery highway. Just before Joes Pond in West Danville, there was a little parade of us blundering through blowing snow at about twenty miles an hour. An hour later, crossing the Connecticut River at Lancaster, where on a clear day you can see Mount Washington, I took a quick look to the right. Uh-oh! Thick clouds hung over all the peaks.

It was sunny by the time I pulled up to the locked gate at the foot of the Auto Road, but the wind was really exciting. My truck rocked in the blasts from right and left, and once started rolling forward toward the gate when a gust caught it from behind. Far above me, the peak was still shrouded in fog and blowing snow. I began to wonder whether the multiple layers of fleece and down I’d brought would be enough up there. It never occurred to me that consideration wouldn’t matter if the wind should blow me off the mountain before I even had a chance to get cold.

Instead of the old-fashioned way up the mountain, we’d be ascending in a sno-cat operated by the Mount Washington Observatory on the summit. The observatory’s been operating up there year-round since 1932. Until just a couple of weeks ago, when an Australian station was determined to have had one higher, Washington held the record for the greatest wind gust ever recorded – 231 miles per hour. If you check out the observatory’s web site, you can always see the current weather conditions, a forecast of what’s most likely coming, and a graphic display showing the temperatures at various stations along the auto road to the summit.

That morning it was below zero and blustery at the bottom, promising some excitement farther up. About nine o’clock the sno-cat operator showed up, and a little later Steve, a camera guy from New Hampshire Public Television; also a former observatory staffer, Peter Crane – now director of operations at the foot of the mountain – and his wife, Holly. They’d be going up with us to help explain what we were seeing, and then staying overnight with us.

The Observatory has in recent years made it possible for visitors to spend nights in the living quarters at the summit. As often as I’ve been on the mountain, I’d never penetrated the building any farther than the snack bar and the men’s room. So I was looking forward to it. What would it be like to walk around outside with wind chills below -60? Could we film in those conditions?

Peter fitted us with crampons in the garage ready room while Gus, the tractor driver, fired up the diesel on the huge Bombardier sno-cat. A fantastic machine: steel snow tracks about three feet wide, a cab with floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows, and a coach behind with bus seats for about a dozen people and a rack for gear. Remembering how narrow the auto road had appeared to me in the summer from an automobile, I wondered how Gus was going to tuck all that machinery in against the mountainside on the terraced roadbed without sliding off the lower side into oblivion.

The windows iced over from our breath as we ascended. At the top, Gus backed up to the observation lounge door, and we piled out into -40 temperature and gusts to 80 miles an hour. We ferried gear and supplies inside. I couldn’t help but imagine how nearly impossible it would be to climb the summit cone that day on foot, much less stand it for more than a few seconds.

The observatory comprises four levels: an observation tower, an observation deck which is visited hourly for direct experience of the weather; a control room lined with more electronic displays than CNN; and a subterranean level – I couldn’t help think of a luxurious Cold War bomb and fallout shelter – with bunkrooms, lounge, kitchen, and bathroom. No showers for visitors in the winter. No wonder. I suspect the drains might back up with ice.

Volunteers make up an important part of the summit staff. A retired couple, Charlie and Jeanine Kinney, cooked three meals a day, and Jeanine’s oven produced a steady stream of hot cookies. Charlie in his working years ran a general repair shop, so his presence up in the observatory was especially valuable. While we were there, two volunteer plumbing-and-heating guys from Long Island showed up, ready to tackle whatever needed attention.

We didn’t get too much outdoor footage. The wind threatened to knock over the camera tripod, Steve, and me; and in less than ten seconds’ exposure, my nose turned white, which proved to distract from what I was trying to say. The heavy wool balaclava I’d brought simply strained the wind, but didn’t stop it, and my glasses froze over almost instantly. It was a golden opportunity to experience the kind of conditions we normally only read about. But just before dark, Steve managed to shoot a spectacular blood-red sunset.

This morning’s weather was relatively salubrious: blowing forty and up almost to zero. We could see the glint of the Atlantic from the observation room. Gus was in a good mood when he roared in to get us. He had his girlfriend with him, and we all sat down in the subterranean dining room to another of Jeanine’s irresistible lunches. I don’t know if Michelin would give the place five stars; but if you just look up during the dark night, you can see at least a million. Loved it!