Trepenier takes the lead, treading ever so softly. I'm second in line, following literally in his footsteps."Go ahead," he yells over his shoulder after hopping a foot-wide fissure. "Get down on your knees and take a look at the crevasse."

I obediently sneak a peek. The icy walls are menthol blue. The hole seemingly has no bottom. That is about all I need, or want, to see.

Mt. Serendipity turns out to be a wedge of rock shaped like the tail fin on a '57 Cadillac. It soars no more than 200 feet into the sky. Piece a cake. But the downside is that the wedge/fin is only five to ten feet wide in parts. Below us to the left lies the glacier we just traversed. Below us to the right lies...nothing. One wrong step and you tumble all the way to Montana. Guides sprout figurative wings and become guardian angels in these situations. God bless their mountain-goat balance. I'd like to hug Keefer and Trepenier in appreciation, but that's a dumb flat-lander thing to do, plus it would mean giving up a precious handhold. The two pros prance to the top. The rest of us inch up Serendipity's serrated spine, clinging to friendly rock face like koalas hugging a tree. Finally, we run out of rock. Finally, we are standing on the tiny summit of Serendipity. We are kings of the world. All British Columbia lies prostrate before us.

"This will make going to work next Monday awfully difficult," says Betty.

"#@%** good," exclaims Ian.

Families are fused together by blood and bone. But shared fear forms its own peculiar bond. I sit with my Mt. Serendipity "family" during our farewell dinner at Adamant Lodge. It's costume night. Betty is wearing a propeller beanie. Phil has cross-dressed for the occasion, sporting big balloon breasts. Ian is in court jester attire. I have on a black witch's hat and, for some inexplicable reason, a pair of fake rabbit ears protruding from my pants. Bill Borgers, the orange juice mogul, takes a seat at our table along with his wife. Bill would look quite vivacious in that polka dot dress if not for the unicorn skull cap he has on his head.

"You don't know how hard it is to hit a home run with a family vacation," Borgers whispers to me. "Usually the places the kids love we barely survive and the places we love the kids barely survive."

All the Borgers love Adamant Lodge. Heli-hiking has hit a home run with them. I am happy to hear that. I am not so happy to hear Bill's 12-year-old son climbed Mt. Serendipity with him this afternoon. Couldn't the twerp have at least waited until he reached puberty?

I am a humbled adventure traveler—but not a bitter one. I have been to the mountaintop and burned major calories in the process. Cause enough for celebration. I join my family in another round of red wine. I order seconds on dessert.

No problem. I'll do 3,000 sit-ups first thing tomorrow morning.