It was 4am, the sweat was running down my chilled back and genial optimism was clearly the quality that Charlie was relying upon to see us through. "Soon be there," he chimed, as the summit of Sri Lanka's highest mountain stubbornly refused to loom into view. It was precisely then that all the lights on the mountain went out.
Adam's Peak - with its promise of one of the greatest sunrises in Asia - had drawn us ahead for the last hour with a maddening series of false summits, each being only the precursor to another climb.
Gratefully, we blundered inside the refreshment station, cobbled together, like all the others, from blue polythene and bits of wood. The kings of the ancient capital, Polonnaruwa, provided the first resting places more than 1,000 years ago.
Gamini, the proprietor, grinned at our discomfort as he lit an emergency gas lamp and made tea the Sri Lankan way, with copious amounts of sugar and milk and even a hint of tea.
According to Lonely Planet, a Victorian guidebook described the hardships of Adam's Peak thus: "Others struggle upwards unaided, until, fainting by the way, they are considerately carried with all haste in their swooning condition to the summit and forced into an attitude of worship at the shrine to secure the full benefits of their pilgrimage before death should supervene; others never reach the top at all, but perish from cold and fatigue; and there have been many instances of pilgrims losing their lives by being blown over precipices."
All Sri Lanka's four major religions claim Adam's Peak as a holy mountain. In what amounts to a religious version of Cinderella, all that remains at issue is exactly whose foot would fit the footprint impressed in the boulder at the summit. Buddhists call the mountain Sri Pada ("the sacred footprint") and tell that the Buddha climbed it; to the Hindus, the peak is Shivan Adipatham ("the creative dance of Shiva"). Roman Catholicism plumps conveniently for St Thomas, who preached in south Asia, but unfortunately never found the need to reveal his shoe size. Muslims contend that Adam first set foot on earth here, which at least saved him the uphill trek.
It is to be hoped that they all stuck around for the sunrise. A few minutes after dawn, the sun magnified the triangular shape of the peak on to the surrounding hills which, as the sun rose, retreated back into its base like a frightened nocturnal animal. But what I chiefly remember were the gasps of delight from the scores of rapt onlookers at the summit as the sun, supremely, unstoppably, unutterably, first came into view.
The pilgrimage season lasts between December and April - for the rest of the year, the climb is often too treacherous and shrouded in mist - and even in its most appealing season, a night-time ascent can be decidely chilly. It was 30C on the beaches, but here it was cold enough to see our breath.
We breezed the climb, power cut and all, in little more than three hours, and later were propelled downwards in half the time by violently wobbling thighs.
We climbed from the most popular, and least demanding direction, a five-mile ascent from the small roadside settlement of Dalhousie, although there is a much more demanding route from Ratnapura, from the south-west, across the boulders and dry river beds of the Carney Estate.
A few days later, when we returned, exhausted but satisfied, to Colombo, Errol and Darryl recalled the days before Adam's Peak was tamed by strip lights.
"In those days, we walked with kerosene torches, carried by a bearer," Errol said. "There were no steps, just an uneven footpath on the rocks. The steps and lights came in the 1970s. Then they introduced the refreshment stations. There'll be an escalator before long. You found out what it used to be like."
Not quite. There had been no swooning pilgrims, as far as we were aware, and no falls down precipices. But that's Victorian melodrama for you. The sunrise had been unforgettable. And that was all that mattered.
