We planned to meet Friday afternoon in a Northeast Portland restaurant, reunited one final time through death.

I wasn't sure I'd even recognize Frank McGinness. The last time I'd spent much time with the man was 30 years ago when we were thrown together for four days on Mount Hood.

What happened up there in 1986 goes by sterile and historical names that strip away all emotion, making it impossible for newcomers to Portland to understand what unfolded over four days, beginning on May 12, on a mountain that, when the weather is clear, is such a part of our daily lives here in the city.

So here are the facts: Thirteen people -- three adults and 10 students from Oregon Episcopal School, an elite private school in Southwest Portland -- failed to return from what was supposed to be a one-day spring hike to the top of Hood. The party got lost. Two came down to get help, leaving behind 11 who were trapped, for four days, in a snow cave.

Nine died.

Patrick McGinness, not yet 16, was one of them.

I was the first reporter on the scene, sent to the mountain early in the morning to check out a report of lost hikers. And because it's the 30th anniversary of the climb, and newspapers tend to produce these anniversary stories, I was asked to write something about one of the worst climbing accidents not just in Oregon, but in the United States.

I called Frank McGinness.

"Long time, no talk," he said.

He listened patiently.

"The pain isn't as bad," he said. "But then it blindsides me and I find myself in tears."

He paused.

"Let's have lunch," he said.

***

I opened the restaurant door. A waitress asked if I was meeting a friend. I guess you'd call him that, I told her. She suggested he might be in the back room and led the way.

And there he was.

"Other than being a little thin on the top," he said with a chuckle, "you look the same."

And so did he.

Trim, athletic, with short hair, and twinkling eyes. He's 74, but doesn't look it. He said he had a serious heart issue last year, nearly died in the emergency room, but he's doing well now.

We ordered lunch and reminisced.

When I arrived on Mount Hood that day, I was not prepared for what awaited me. I was a young police reporter typically sent out to cover the most routine of stories. But when I got out of the car, the wind nearly blew me over. It was terribly cold, and the conditions were a whiteout. This would be no routine story.

Before long, authorities showed up.

Then searchers.

Then parents.

One of the first I met was McGinness.

Like all of the parents, he'd been called the night before by school officials to say that the kids would be home later than expected because of weather problems. They got a second call saying the kids would now be coming home on the school bus past midnight. And then the third, and final, call: The hikers were considered lost and searchers had been notified. Parents headed to the mountain to see what in the hell was going on.

"You mind if I ask you some questions?"

McGinness nodded. He closed his eyes. He listened.

"I remember getting up to the Timberline parking lot," he said. "I talked with a cop. He didn't know what was going on."

McGinness and I shared a memory of a surreal evening in the lodge dining room that first night. The only people in the room were me, the parents and searchers getting something to eat before going back on the mountain.

"It was so quiet," McGinness said. "If you said anything, it echoed around the room. You'd hear someone crying. I remember a searcher asking me who I was. I told him I was a father. That's what I remember - telling him I was a father."

Searchers found nothing on Day 1.

On Day 2, two from the hiking party made it down the mountain. They'd broken away from the group in a gamble to get help. I remember seeing them emerge from the whiteout, telling searchers that the remaining 11 were trapped on the mountain in a snow cave.

"There was a press conference," McGinness said. "I remember using a payphone to let people in Portland know what was going on."

On Day 3, the blizzard still raging, searchers found three people dead on the slope. One wore no parka, another no gloves. Two had peeled off their boots. Hypothermia had driven them to it. They thought they were hot.

On Day 4, the weather finally broke and searchers found the snow cave.

I heard the news on a police radio, sitting in my company car with a father who was warming himself. McGinness heard the same report from my radio, standing not 5 feet away and staring up at a Mount Hood bathed in sunlight, watching small figures on the slope.

The children were airlifted to Portland hospitals.

Patrick McGinness had a core body temperature of 50 degrees. He was taken to an operating room where he was connected to a heart-lung machine that warmed his blood before returning it to his body. His teeth were clenched so tightly that it was impossible for surgeons to insert tubes into his mouth. He died less than an hour after arriving at the hospital.

"He was a bright spirit," his father said. "He had a wonderful heart and soul."

Our lunch arrived.

We ate in silence.

***

In the aftermath, McGinness finally said, he cried, threw things and "hit the vodka heavier than I should have." He lost his wood-finishing business and went through a divorce.

All but one of the families settled with the school's insurance company. The family that did sue eventually won $500,000 from jurors who found the school had been negligent in the death of their son. A report outlined mistakes made on the mountain.

McGinness admitted he struggled.

"I went through a number of counselors," he said. "I had to get over the anger and then into the pain."

He leaned back in his chair, trying to find the right words to explain his journey.

"I had to face the tremendous loss it was," he said. "The counselor helped me learn there's a difference between knowing loss and accepting loss. I had to own what had happened. Then I had to figure out how I wanted to live my life."

McGinness knows he wasn't alone. Being discreet, he won't mention names of those connected through the tragedy. But he mentions divorces, serious health ailments.

"Some of the parents clammed up," he said. "That's the worst thing you can do. You hold that inside and it manifests itself."

He allows himself to think about what could have been.

"Pat would be going on 46," his father said. "He played the piano. He was in choir. He loved music. I like to think he'd be a choir director somewhere."

I paid the bill.

McGinness smiled, thinking of the future. His youngest son, Chris, is going to be married this summer to a woman he met in a running group.

"Chris and I talk," he said. "He will bring something up. He will talk about Pat."

We walk out of the restaurant and linger on the sidewalk. I tell McGinness that this will be the last anniversary story I'll write. He understands. It's his last, too, he says, adding, "I'm a man at peace."

--Tom Hallman Jr.

thallman@oregonian.com; 503 221-8224

@thallmanjr