NORTH CONWAY, N.H. — To most of us, cold is nothing but a number. If we’re told that it’s -10, or -15, or that the wind chill is -50, it sounds impressive, but it doesn’t mean anything. It’s just one of those numbers listed on the weather map that makes you glad you don’t live in Minnesota.

The morning I climbed Mt. Washington with Timothy Warren, the temperature at the summit was -22 and the wind chill at the summit was -70. Peak wind gusts were recorded at 96 mph.

That day, I started to understand what cold really means.

When those kinds of numbers are involved, cold becomes very real and tangible. It becomes the enemy personified, something you constantly have to be aware of and track at all times.

Those numbers meant that the moisture in my breath froze to my face mask, leaving me unable to see and pawing at the ground to keep my balance.

Those numbers meant that when I ripped off my goggles to see, my eyelashes started to freeze together, and the only way to keep my eyes open was to tear out clumps of lashes at a time.

Those numbers mean that two weeks later, dead skin is still peeling off my fingertips, which spent too long exposed to the cold.

And we didn’t even make it to the summit.

Warren, a Warwick chiropractor, wants to make it to the summit of Mt. Everest and intends to climb Everest’s South Side next month. It’s impossible to simulate the conditions of Everest in New England, but there is one place that comes close: Mt. Washington, famous for having “the worst weather in the world.”

While Washington is only 6,288 feet high in comparison to Everest’s 29,000, it sits at the convergence of three weather bands, creating a vortex of horrid conditions. It holds the world record for wind speed, 231 mph.

If you’re looking to mimic what it’s like to climb the world’s highest peak, there’s no better place in New England.

So Warren will hit Mt. Washington probably four times before leaving for Everest, to test his gear — boots and a full-body fleece this time — put some strain on his body and keep his climbing senses and muscles sharp.

“It’s the only game in town, and it’s got the worst weather anywhere in the world,” he said.

It’s the best way for outsiders to understand at least a sliver of what Warren will go through as he tries to summit Everest.

Warren leaves on March 15 from T.F. Green Airport for New York, where he will fly straight to Hong Kong, then to Thailand and finally into Nepal. So he cajoles, badgers, finesses and out-and-out sells to me why I need to climb Washington with him if I want to understand what climbing Everest is all about.

I’m 27, in decent shape — lift some, run some, but I’ve never done any mountain climbing before and haven’t hiked since high school. Let alone climbed in the dead of winter. I hate the cold. I sleep with three blankets. My least favorite month is November, just because it means winter is coming soon. To repeat, I hate winter.

So it was not without fear of the unknown and its more tangible partner fear of discomfort, that I drove the four hours up to Conway on a Saturday to meet Warren for our Sunday morning climb.

I made it to the Nereledge Inn around 5 p.m. and Warren was already out climbing the low parts of the mountain, getting a workout in.

When he returned, we went to meet our guide and get me fitted in special boots for the next day. The boots they give me are much like a ski boot, but with a significant interior lining. You walk in them until things get rough, then attach a pair of hiking tools called crampons to deal with the really dangerous conditions.

Crampons are spikes that extend out of 12 points on the boot, 2 in the front and back and 4 on each side to give you the ability to cling to sheer rock faces and gain traction on steep inclines.

Then, because we had to get up before 5 a.m. and climb a mountain all day, naturally we went out for beers.

For me, the weekend was a chance to learn the basics of mountain climbing from Warren. For Warren, it was a chance to learn the finer points of expert climbing at the heights of the world from our guide, Everest pro Craig John.

John, a bespectacled Everest summit veteran and leader of several Everest expeditions, reached the mountain’s peak from its north side in 1998. He’d guide us up Washington the next day.

John, 49, quickly looks me up and down like a guy checking out his blind date, gauging my physical fitness to see if I’d put all of them in danger the next morning on the mountain. Later, he tells me, I looked like I’d do alright.

Washington is a pretty good training run for Everest, he tells us. The winds and the cold are largely similar to the Himalayas, amazing as that sounds. But Everest is massively more difficult because of one factor:

“It’s minus the altitude,” he said of Mt. Washington. “Therein lies the difference.”

The two of them spend the night discussing climbing tricks and breakfast options in Katmandu — if you’re there, hit Mike’s Breakfast, it’s the best — while I watch the clock thinking we should probably turn in soon, slowly drifting off to sleep on my bed.

The alarm goes off just before 5 a.m., but I’ve been up for hours, nervous. Warren bounds out of his bed, excited and ready.

So much of climbing is body management. Too little clothing and you’ll be uncomfortable and endanger yourself. Too much clothing and you’ll sweat profusely and endanger yourself.

I have managed to buy and borrow a series of layers and that morning, I start with sweat-wicking long underwear tops and bottoms and layer ski pants on the legs, two fleeces on the torso and complete it with a waterproof shell jacket. I’m wearing sock liners and thick wool socks on my feet and my head is nearly covered by a face mask. The Gore-Tex, double-lined gloves keep the hands surprisingly warm and I have ski goggles at the ready for when the wind throws around too much snow to see.

The other side is fuel: the trick is keeping the body hydrated and energized, but not overloaded. On a climb like this, breaks are taken each hour: we would sit on our bags and shove down energy bars and beef jerky and regain energy. Then, quickly we mount up and move on.

We drive 20 minutes from our bed and breakfast to the base of the mountain at Pinkham Notch. The observatory at the mountain’s summit transmits conditions to the base and the summit that day is at -22 with winds averaging 70 mph. That makes for a -50 wind chill, cold enough that exposed human skin gets frostbite within five minutes. The word around the base lodge is that it’s probably too dangerous for climbers to summit today.

I have no problem with this.

The pace is fast. We hike up a gradual incline for a few hours, from Pinkham Notch up the Tuckerman Ravine Trail. Then we break off and head briefly up the Huntington Fire Trail. There, we put on our crampons and John tells me that the climb will change from here.

As soon as we turn onto the Winter Lion’s Trail, I realize he’s not kidding.

It’s up. Nearly straight up, like those rock-climbing walls you see at gyms and local fairs. I’ve never done anything like this. But fear of embarrassment is a great motivator. “You ready?” John asks.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” I say, throwing in a thumbs-up through my glove for extra bravado.

And we climb. Kicking the crampons into the ice at times, looking for a foothold, grabbing on to trees and roots and branches to push farther upward. To a real climber, this would be nothing, but to a novice, it feels like Everest itself.

After perhaps close to an hour, my thighs and butt muscles are burning, close to failure — and then the vertical ascent stops. We have made it to the top of the tree line, the natural boundary past which trees cannot survive. It’s a milestone for me and it gives a beautiful view of the lower portions of Washington and of the White Mountains in general. It’s the last good moment.

As soon as we clear the tree line, everything changes. The wind, barely present before, is sudden and shocking. The snow swirls and visibility drops quickly. We try to stay along the trail, but as we near the top of Lion’s Head, only 1,000 feet from the summit, I am tiring and soon unable to see, as my breath freezes on the inside of my mask, which is not properly sealed.

Tripping repeatedly, I remove the mask and try to move ahead, covering my eyes with my arm to try to shield them from the wind and cold. My eyelashes freeze together almost instantly, freezing my eyes shut.

Craig John takes one look at me stumbling around, pawing at the ground and says it’s time to go back.

After four hours of hiking up, I don’t disagree.

We amble down, making it in half the time it took to ascend. We belay down with ropes on the steepest parts and the challenge is in going slowly enough on the steep descent without losing control. I fall twice, while I never fell on the ascent. Finally, around 2 p.m., we reach Pinkham Notch.

I need a nap.

As I get set to head back to Rhode Island, our guide tells me that for a first-timer, I did alright.

“You did real good. Real good.” I feel like my T-ball coach just told me I’ll be a great middle school baseball player someday. It’s a good feeling.

Warren packs up his gear and shoves it in his truck for the four-hour drive home. He’ll be back the next weekend.

dbarbari@projo.com