The Army had this elaborate plan to find the caves. Dozens of soldiers would be dropped via helicopter into an isolated valley in Taliban country, each carrying enough equipment, food, and water for several days of marching. From there they would target ten or so suspected cave sites that had been reconnoitered by air, dotted into a nearby mountain range. It sounded fun, so I tagged along, and jumped off the helicopter onto the muddy farm field with everyone else. Almost before we had a chance hit the soil the Blackhawk lurched up again into the sky, the roar of the rotors quickly fading away. Soon it was quiet.The rising sun was just peeking over the horizon.

The platoons regrouped, and then headed off for their objectives. The one I stayed with was led by an ebullient and witty staff sergeant from Indiana named Steven Caldwell. Sgt. Caldwell had planned on leaving the Army last year but they "stop-lossed" him, basically conscripting him to another year of active duty. But if he was bitter about this he didn't show it. Caldwell had Midwestern good looks and piercing emerald eyes that reminded me of those of the Afghans themselves.

Caldwell's platoon was a motley group of young men from across America. They irreverently cracked jokes as they marched, mostly banter about their girlfriends back home or discussions on the bathroom habits of local afghans They reminded me off the zany supporting cast in a comedic war movie. Also along for the ride was a somber Air Force dog handler named Schwartz and his pride and joy, a black German Shepherd named Bleck who was trained to sniff out explosives. All of them were hauling huge packs full of 100 pounds or more of gear, along with their heavy weapons and ammunition.

The entire first day of the mission was earmarked for finding the first two caves, but a short walk took us to the spot where they were, and it turned out they weren't caves at all, just natural ridges in the rock that apparently looked like caves from the air. Caldwell shrugged, entered the information on a rugged handheld GPS-type device that he was using to find the targets, and we continued on to look for the rest, some miles ahead on a windy path.

We passed through several villages along the way, the Pashtun tribalists regarding us with curious stares as we walked by. Caldwell made a big show of being friendly and shouting out American colloquial greetings they couldn't possibly understand. They sometimes waved back, with bemused smiles.

"No Americans have run a mission in this valley for three years," he said to me, still waving and beaming. "They're not sure what to make of us. We may as well be friendly."

A few hours of hiking brought us to a road that hugged the base of a long, imposing cliff face. Caldwell glanced down at his computer and back up at the mountainside.

"Looks like the next few caves are right up there," he said, pointing to a spot on the cliff far above us. He looked over his men. "Who's coming with me?"

No volunteers. Caldwell rolled his eyes, and muttered several unprintable things. Then he dropped his pack with a thud onto the dirt.

"Fine, just watch the road. I need the K-9, though," and with that he started clamoring up the mountain. Schwartz and Bleck scrambled up after him. Soon they were all over a ridge and out of sight.

I hesitated for a few minutes, trying to convince myself there was something productive to photograph right where I was, without venturing up into the heights. The platoon laughed and loudly started back with their discussion about the Afghans' toilet habits. I sighed, slung my camera over my shoulder, and headed up the mountain.

It was ridiculously dangerous; the route up ranged from a steep incline to nearly vertical, and the rock itself was a gray shale of some kind that had a disquieting tendency to disintegrate as you searched for a foothold on it. One slip on this thing and you'd go for a long, painful tumble onto jagged rocks somewhere below. Eventually I caught up with Caldwell, Schwartz and Bleck on a narrow ridge. They were barely sweating.

"Caldwell, you're from Indiana," I said, panting. "Where'd you learn how to climb mountains?"

He smiled without looking up from his computer. "Man, I've been stationed in Alaska for five years. We do this stuff all day...a-ha, it's over by that crevasse." He bolted off and started making his way laterally across to the base of a long vertical crack that wound down the cliff face. Schwartz and Bleck gamely followed after him.

The way they went looked nearly impossible to me, so I hiked up a bit instead, looking for a better place to cross to the crack. But there was nothing a few feet up either, and I couldn't go down because I couldn't see, so I went up still farther. Still there was no way to cross. Before long I couldn't go up any more and the sides were nothing but an inclined slope of loose pebbles. Somehow I'd gotten 50 feet over the others, and was completely stuck.

Moments like those in foreign lands always prompt me to get philosophical, even existential: Why am I here? How did this happen? Why exactly am I hanging on the side of a mountain in Afghanistan this morning? I'm not in Army, I didn't sign up for this. I should be back home, watching TV or canoodling in bed or having a strong espresso in Brooklyn. Or just about anywhere else.

After a few more minutes of self-pity, I lunged to the left and danced across the crumbly slope like a barefoot teenager on the hot sands of a vertical beach. I made it to the crevasse and awkwardly landed on my rear, and instantly started sliding down. But inside the crack I could use my feet to slow myself and it was actually kind of fun, like a waterslide. (My pants would disagree; I shredded them and, as they were my only pair, an Afghan tailor working on the Army base later laboriously put them back together.) Finally I tumbled to a stop at the bottom, landing with a cloud of dust right next to Caldwell, who was still absorbed in his GPS.

"Hey there," he said. "Man, this ain't no cave here, either. You about ready?"
"Whenever you are."

We traversed mountain face in this manner for the rest of the afternoon, though from there the route eased somewhat and I was careful not to get myself into any more one way no-return predicaments. All of the rest of the of the objectives were similar tricks of light and shadow; not one was anything close to cave. We finally headed down the mountain in the afternoon, and had made it so far Caldwell had to radio his wise-cracking platoon to carry our packs up the road to us.

But there was another mountain left to climb that day. We continued down the trail some miles through a spectacular winding pass, heading to the next targets. But it was getting late and chatter on the simple radio scanner that the translators carry indicated that the Taliban fighters were watching us, radioing to each other with alarming specificity about the size and location of our column. And most of the men were carrying over a hundred pounds in gear and were getting exhausted, and the formation was breaking up. Caldwell went into full drill-sergeant mode, yelling and cajoling to trying to get the various platoons together, but it was to no avail.

"We're sitting ducks. We gotta get to the high ground," Caldwell finally announced. And the high ground was a majestic hill, looming right next to us. Without pause all the men were sent climbing up its side. It wasn't as steep as the one we'd climbed earlier, but it was much higher; perhaps akin to walking up brutally inclined steps to the top of a skyscraper. One by one, huffing and spent, the men reached the top, and were rewarded at least with a spectacular view of the surrounding mountains.The sun was just setting, and almost immediately the men started unrolling their sleeping kits and preparing for bed.

"We're going to sleep here?" I asked a gawky teenaged private, incredulous. The peak where we were standing, which had looked like a flat tabletop from the valley floor, was actually only as wide as a city sidewalk before sloping down precipitously on the other side.
"Yeah," he said. "Do you roll around a lot in your sleep or something?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe."
"You need to sleep, like..." He searched for the words. "Like horizontal."

The night was inky dark and freezing cold. I couldn't take any pictures because there was a complete restriction on movement and light once the sun set, due to the certainty we were being watched by Taliban sentinels on other peaks. So I ate whatever food rations I had, took an Ambien, cinched the sleeping bag over my head, and completely passed out.

In the morning we marched off the mountain before sunrise, and headed to one or two more targets, which again turned out to be nothing. Caldwell then radioed back to base, and there was some gloomy talk from there about extending the mission for another night to search for still more of the elusive caves. But this was scuttled and soon helicopters were dispatched to pick us up. The men ringed the edge of a plowed farm field in a defensive position and, an hour or so later, massive double-rotored Chinook cargo helicopters appeared over the mountain tops, beating their way steadily toward us. As they landed, the loose soil below exploded as if it were hit by a mortar, and a solid wall of dirt hit us like a sudden wave crashing on the beach. Choking with the sand and dust, everyone clamored inside and headed back to base.

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• Writing from Afghanistan: On a camel caravan
• At an outpost in Afghanistan, conditions are sparse despite technology
• Journal from Afghanistan: An enormous undertaking in 'our name'