My Mt. Rainier Climb

On Tuesday morning, July 29, I was at the summit of Mt. Rainier. This post is a record of how I got there.

It all started on a dark and stormy night ... no, wait ... I first read about mountaineering in a travel writing class I took at the UW. We read Jon Krakauer's account of a 1996 climbing tragedy on Mt. Everest. That was a thrilling read and I've always remembered it. (Krakauer is a Seattlite and outdoor journalist, and wrote the book Into the Wild that was turned into a movie.) I think that's what got me started thinking about climbing Mt. Rainier. Here's how Into Thin Air, the book about Krakauer's Everest experience starts:

"Straddling the top of the world, one foot in Tibet and the other in Nepal, I cleared the ice from my oxygen mask, hunched a shoulder against the wind, and stared absently at the vast sweep of earth below. I understood on some dim, detached level that it was a spectacular sight. I'd been fantasizing about this moment, and the release of emotion that would accompany it, for many months. But now that I was finally here, standing on the summit of Mount Everest, I just couldn't summon the energy to care."

Now, if that doesn't juice up a little rise-to-the-challenge, what will?

Last year, when a couple friends and I hiked up to Blanca Lake, I mentioned that I had thought about climbing Rainier. Of course, once I had said it, I had to follow through. I'm also 30 this year and wanted to mark that turning point with something momentous. After getting my wife's consent, I registered with RMI (one of the local guide outfits) in January. Unfortunately, the best slot was right on her birthday.

My six-month training regimen involved carrying around a 40-pound backpack. I hiked with it on from my house up to my parents' house. Twice a week, after work, I carried it up and down the Renton Transit Center parking garage for about 30 minutes. I also did a lot of push-ups, curls, sit-ups, and pull-ups. And I took a couple hikes: one carrying Cora up Rattlesnake Trail with some friends, and another up to Mailbox Peak just one week before the Rainier climb. The Mailbox Peak hike gave me some confidence, cause it was pretty serious (4,000 vertical feet in 2.5 miles) and I didn't feel too bad afterwards. I also grew a beard; just because mountain men wear beards.

The climb program I signed up for was four days. The first day was orientation and getting your gear (I rented nearly all my stuff) at the basecamp in Ashford, WA. I slept in my car the first night. The second day was training in efficiency techniques, rope management, and self-arrest with the ice ax in case you or someone on your team fell.

There were 15 people in our climbing group, with five guides. I was the only one out of all 20 people who was local. There were two guys from Amsterdam, a bunch of folks from San Francisco, and others from South Carolina, Florida, Virginia, Colorado, and Massachusetts.

On day three, we climbed from Paradise to Camp Muir, an elevation gain of 4,600 feet. The weather was great and everyone was really excited.


At Camp Muir, with the Cowlitz Glacier and Cathedral Gap in the distance behind me.

At Camp Muir, we ate our dinners and laid down at 7 p.m. Because I couldn't sleep, I went out to snap some pictures at dusk, around 9 p.m. I saw a cute little mouse outside, scurrying toward the bunkhouse.


Camp Muir at dusk.

About an hour later, as I lay sleeping on a bottom bunk, I felt something mussing my hair. It was the mouse! For the next two hours, a family of demon mice tortured me in the darkness, scampering here and there, scratching on wood, and ripping through people's food packs. Needless to say, I was overjoyed when a guide woke us at 11:50 p.m. to get ready. The weather was good and we were going to start our summit climb.


My spot in the RMI bunkhouse. The scene of the demon mouse attack.

For the summit climb, we could leave our sleeping bags and food for the return trip at Camp Muir. We only needed to pack approximately 20 pounds. On the upper mountain, we needed our ice axes and crampons--metal claws that attached to our climbing boots and helped us climb across the glaciers. We roped up into teams of three to five and headed out into the darkness, little LED headlamps in a long line inching out over the Cowlitz Glacier. Above, the Milky Way shone like ... well, like countless stars are supposed to shine at 10,000 feet, I suppose.

We crossed over a rock and ash divide called Cathedral Gap, and trudged over the Ingram Flats, oblivious to the huge rocks and bus-sized ice blocks that were poised above (we saw those later, on the way down). Next, we needed to climb a big ridge called Disappointment Cleaver. It's a large rocky ridge that juts up out of the mountain and separates two glaciers. This was a really tough part of the climb because the crampons and stiff climbing boots made it difficult to feel for good footholds, and we also needed to avoid tripping over our rope or yanking our teammates off balance. Climbing the cleaver took an hour and a half, and the sky in the west was slowly glowing orange.

At each break, each person needed to commit to finishing the next session because it was unsafe to change the rope teams in between. We also needed to keep pace so we wouldn't be on the mountain too long. This was the half-way point and the guy I was roped up with decided to turn back. I roped up with another team and continued on.

The good thing about the rest of the climb was there were fewer rock scrambles, but on the other hand, the air was getting thinner and it had been three hours of strenuous climbing already.

The sunrise at this point was breathtaking. Above us, the deep blue of the troposphere and space. A sea of clouds stretched out to the east, and the golden orb of the sun sat just above the Olympic Mountains.


Sunrise at 13,000 feet, facing west.


Sunrise at 13,000 feet, facing north.


The sea of clouds, looking toward the east.

From this point on, the climb was relentless switchbacks through ice fields. I focused on the efficiency techniques we had learned, such as rest-stepping (where your body weight rests on your skeletal structure in between steps) and pressure breathing to expunge all the carbon dioxide from your lungs.

My mind also wandered. I thought about how Jesus went without food, drink, or rest for the 24 hours before His crucifixion; how he spent those final hours gasping for breath on the cross. Most of all, about how He intentionally endured that suffering for a definite purpose--to pay the full penalty of our sin.

I peeked up from time to time to estimate how much further. Just 1,000 more vertical feet, I told myself, comparing the elevation gain to previous hikes. Step ... rest ... breathe. Everyone was feeling the effect of the higher altitude. The wind was picking up, blowing against our bulked up profiles and nearly knocking me off my feet. Not something you'd want to happen on a 60-degree snow slope.

I looked up again and couldn't see the other team; they had made it to the rim of the crater and were out of sight. The clouds were thick now and the mountaintop was enveloped in a grey white. The inside of the crater was about half-mile in diameter.


Resting in the crater.

On the way down, the further we went, the more despondent I became. I wanted it to be over so badly, but it was literally miles and hours of hiking down through snow and rain. Bleh, big time. Finally, we were in the Paradise parking lot again and getting on the shuttle. I got home by 7:30 p.m. that night and was at the office by 10 a.m. the next morning.


Exhausted, but exhilarated at having finished.