Mt. Rainier: A Brutally Honest Trip Report
Aug 21, 2020 19:48:56 GMT -8
zeke, reuben, and 6 more like this
Post by mocamper on Aug 21, 2020 19:48:56 GMT -8
On the morning of August 1, 2020, I stood on the summit of Mt. Rainier 14,411 feet above sea level. What follows is a brutally honest account of my journey to get there.
The wind knocks me off balance and leaves me gasping. Each gust blows shards of ice and snow into my face. I’m getting really cold now. My head spins, and my legs burn. We wait as the rope team ahead of us makes their way around a switch back. “Matt, I’m really feeling it now,” I shout above the wind. Matt climbs down to meet me. “I’m feeling cold, wobbly, my stomach and head ache,” I tell him as I fight back my emotions. “I don’t know if it’s wise for me to continue,” I shout. “You’re moving strong. I know you can do this,” Matt yells. But I have no confidence, and I have no mental reserve to steel myself against the fear and doubts. He radios up to the lead guide while I try to compose myself. Anger, fear, frustration swirl in my mind like the wind beating upon us. “Can you make it up the next break? Only about 20 minutes more?” Matt asks. I nod, and we continue through the darkness and the raw wind.
~~~
My son Benji and I had planned to spend a week backpacking in the Wind Rivers this summer, but the prospect left me restless and unsatisfied. What about Mt. Rainier? I don’t know where the thought came from, but I latch on to it. I knew that this pandemic must have wrecked a lot of travel plans. We might have a chance. The next day I call Alpine Ascents, a renowned guiding service in Seattle, Washington to ask if there were any possibility to make a climb this summer. “There is a lot of movement in our trips,” the woman on the phone said. She instructs me to put my name on waiting list. I tell Benji about the possibility, and he’s all in. A week later, I get an email with possible dates. We pick the dates, drop a thousand bucks on the deposit, and just like that we are signed up. We’re going to climb Mt. Rainier! We have exactly seven weeks until the trip. Just enough time to complete the Rainier training program from Mountain Tactical Institute, but there is no margin for injury or delay.
We start training on a Monday. A car approaches me as we run through the park. I move to the side of the road, and somehow, I trip on the edge and fall right in front of the car. I hop up as if nothing happened and keep running not even looking at the driver. I finish the five miles but my ankle is hurt. I’m pretty sure I sprained it, so I wrap it in ice when I get home. Is this expedition over before it begins? How am I going to train with a sprained ankle? The next day, I can’t do the sandbag get ups, and I feel like cancelling the trip. But the plane tickets are already paid for. “This trip means a lot to me. I can’t do it without you,” my son tells me. My wife tries to console me as I sit on the edge of my bed with my face in my hands. “I won’t let you quit,” she says.” I don’t really want to quit, but I am practical. I wrap my ankle tightly and wonder how to make the situation work. After mega doses of ibuprofen and another day of rest, my ankle feels pretty good. I can run on it without any pain. But will I be strong enough? All of the sources I read say that we should “be in the best shape of your life” to climb Mt. Rainier. But I don’t even know what that means. Seeds of doubt start growing in my mind.
After my ankle scare, the training goes well for me even though I leave for two weeks to complete my National Guard annual training. But it doesn’t go well for my son. When I return home from my annual training, I find out that my son has been skipping workouts. I’m angry. There is only one more week of training. For every work out he missed, his chances of summiting are that much less I reason. I push him hard trying to make up for lost time, but he pushes back. Before our last training ruck—a ten mile slog—my frustration boils over. I yell at him for not being more self-motivated. It’s almost 9 PM, and at our pace, we’ll finish 10 miles around midnight. We hike the first three miles in silence. The night is sticky and warm, and soon I am dripping with sweat. We finish 8 miles, and I call it. I don’t see the benefit of completing two more miles. When I get home, I tell my wife that eight miles was not enough to dispel my anger. But our time for training is up.
~~~
Early in the morning, we assemble in the parking lot of the visitors’ center at Paradise. Our guides, Stephen, Matt, Ian, and Connor, are happy to meet us. They all have impressive summits including Aconcagua, Denali, Cho Oyo, and hundreds of collective summits of Mt. Rainier. We exchange awkward introductions with the rest of our group: Jared, a second-year medical resident, and Janae, his wife, from Salt Lake City; Sharon, an industrial designer from New York City whose parents live in Seattle; Caroline and Nathan, a young married couple from Redmond Washington, and Shyam a soft-spoken man originally from India. He says this is his third attempt to climb the mountain. Awesome. Third time’s a charm, and I will be going up there with him.
We depart from the parking lot slowly. I ask Stephen, the lead guide, if this is the pace we’ll be going all day. “Yes,” he says, “and the pace for the summit day will be like this.” He slows down and places one foot in front of the other in an exaggerated manner. Good. I can keep up with this, but doubts about my preparation still nag me. I’m I ready? Can I do this? Adding to my stress, I know they will be watching our performance. The Alpine Ascents website states flatly, “the guide retains the right, at any point, to determine whether a climber is sufficiently fit to continue the climb.”
As we trudge along the trail toward the Muir snow field, the mountain seems to grow larger—beautiful and ominous. The Nisqually Glacier is a jumble of ice and snow leading the eye up toward the summit.
Matt hikes beside me as Jared, Janae and my son Benji have pulled ahead. We have passed the first group, and we’re definitely going faster than what Stephen said. We take a long break at Pebble Creek before we leave the dry trail to enter the Muir Snow field. We wait for the second group to arrive as we chat and take in the views. The second group arrives soon, but Shyam and a guide show up much later.
Once on the snowfield, the sun’s rays beat down from above and also from below reflected off the snow. I’m dripping with sweat. I tell Matt that the heat, more than anything, is slowing me down. He reassures me that my pace is just fine. “You’re only about 30 seconds off their (Jared, Janae, and Benji) pace,” he says. “If you were 20 minutes behind, then we’d need to have a talk about summit day.” He asks for my empty Gatorade bottle. “See that water over there?” he asks pointing to some water flowing over some rocks. “I’ll go fill up over there.” “Don’t we have to purify it first?” “Nah, we drink it all the time. Trust me.” He detours toward the water while I keep plodding along.
At our next break, Matt hands me the bottle of fresh glacier water. I gulp the cold and refreshing water. Again, I notice that Shyam is not with us. Hmm, have we lost one already? I finally spot him and Ian still a long way behind. This time, we don’t wait for him to catch up before we continue upward. I wonder what the deal is. Someone mentioned the large camera he was carrying. For being his third attempt, I thought he would be better prepared than he seems to be. But I just hope I can keep up. Despite the reassurance from Matt, I ask Stephen if I’m doing OK. “You did fine. There is nothing that shows you can’t do this,” he says. I realize I’m being obsessive about this.
Finally, we arrive at Camp Muir. We are half way up the mountain! We covered about four miles and gained about 4,500 feet of elevation. I’m drained and my legs are worked.
We relax and rehydrate for the rest of the afternoon. Benji and I pick out a tent then move our gear inside. I notice a small crack in the snow near our tent. The crack is only about two inches wide, but it’s menacing--dark and eerie. I imagine it opening wider during the night swallowing up our tent while we sleep. That evening, the guides brief us about the next day as we eat dinner. The freeze-dried meal I picked, Quinoa Black Bean Bowl, tastes disgusting. I force down as much as I can, but I don’t finish it. While we are eating, the guides get some information from a group that attempted to summit earlier that morning. They couldn’t make it when they discovered a snow bridge had collapsed at around 12,800 ft. elevation. None of us climbers seem to comprehend the implications of this, and I’m happy to have made it this far.
In the morning, we eat a leisurely breakfast, and we get ready for snow school. It’s a good refresher for me. 13 years before, I took a two-week mountaineering course from Alpine Ascents where we learned all this: climbing steep slopes, rope travel, self-arrest. This is fun. We climb to the top of Muir Peak to get used to rock scrambling with crampons strapped to our boots. This will be necessary for going over the Cathedral Gap and the Disappointment Cleaver.
After lunch, we pack up and head for high camp by crossing the Cowlitz Glacier and climbing over a rock feature called the Cathedral Gap. At the top of the gap, the large crevasses of the Ingraham Glacier dominate the view, and the tents at high camp are just small, yellow dots on the snow.
Once we arrive at high camp we settle into our tents. We’re now camped at 11,000 feet elevation, and the scale of the mountain is overwhelming, oppressive. We are surrounded by rocky cliffs to our south. A break in the cliffs is called Cadaver Gap. To the west, the upper slopes of the mountain loom above us. Giant seracs wait for fate to release them. Enormous crevasses, blue and still, lie waiting for anyone hapless enough to fall. The upper mountain looms ominously above. The Disappointment Cleaver lies to north. The cleaver seems impossibly steep, but we have to climb it in the morning. To the east the Ingraham glacier drops away from our view and Little Tahoma Peak juts into view. Despite the enormity of the mountain, I feel claustrophobic and afraid.
Matt and Stephen, having left early from Camp Muir to survey the route around the collapsed snow bridge, finally return to camp. They seem tired. They’ve spent the day carving a new route around the crevasse which will add about 20 minutes to the climb. They also installed anchors above the most exposed parts. Stephen briefs us about the climb tomorrow while we’re eating dinner. “It’s a real mountaineering route,” he says implying that it will be difficult.
After dinner, everyone seems anxious and excited. The tension is palpable. Before we all disperse for the night, Shyam announces that he will not be going to the summit tomorrow and wishes us luck. I’m honestly bewildered by what he is doing up here in the first place. He seemed to be on his own schedule since we started climbing.
Inside our tent, I put my arm around Benji. “I’m a little scared,” I tell him. “But we can do this.” He’s excited to go, and I hang on to him a while longer. The doubts in my head creep up again. I’m not doing a good job fighting them. In about six hours, at 1 AM, we will start our summit push. We slip into our sleep bags, and I try to make myself comfortable. I’m so nervous I can’t sleep. I put in my ear plugs. I must sleep in fits which is better than nothing, but when I wake up to pee, the doubts and fear always come screaming back. I’m sweating in my sleeping bag. I want so much just to fall asleep. But I hear snoring. Shyam is in the tent next to us, and he is snoring loudly. At this moment I hate him. He’s not going to climb. Why is he sleeping when I can’t? I have to get up at midnight. Finally, I doze off.
“Ok, Alpine Ascents, it’s time to wake up,” Connor announces. “We have some hot water for you. Go ahead and turn on a headlamp, so I can see that you’re awake.” I remember why I hate alpine starts. I want to sleep more, but it’s go-time. I remember why I hate alpine starts. After scarfing down some oatmeal, I put on my harness and crampons. One guide will lead two climbers on a rope. Matt eagerly announces, “I got Ben and Benji!” As Matt double checks our gear, Connor says, “Go bold. Start cold.” They suggest we start in our base layer top as we will warm us as we climb the cleaver. Benji and I stuff our jackets into our packs.
Matt leads Benji and me in the dark except for the small circle of light from our headlamps. We climb straight up the glacier for a while then turn north toward the Disappointment Cleaver. My legs, depleted from the previous climbing, feel stiff and sore. We short-rope up the cleaver. It’s not as steep as I expected, but the wind blows dust in my face and grit into my teeth. Despite the cool temperatures, I am sweating as expected. At the top of the cleaver we rest, and I force down some food. But I don’t feel like eating much. We strip down to our base layer again expecting the wind to die down, but it doesn’t. We climb on in the darkness, and the cold begins to do it’s cruel work.
The wind knocks me off balance and leaves me gasping . . .
~~~
After my meltdown, we slowly traverse around the crevasses carefully clipping into the anchors so we don’t fall into the abyss. When we reach our resting spot, Benji joins Jared and Janae on another rope team leaving me alone on Matt’s rope. “It’s just you and me now,” he says. “You can do this!” He also takes my pack and puts the strap over his shoulder. I’m simultaneously relieved because the climbing is easier now without my pack and embarrassed because I let my fears overwhelm me and because Matt is carrying my pack. I wish I could say that I dominated my fears and insecurity to continue the climb. But I am not going forward bravely or confidently. I am just numb except for a lingering anger. With 30 feet of rope between Matt and me, I am alone to face the mountain and my thoughts by myself. Inside I’m a whimpering mess, and I hate myself at this moment. I put one foot in front of the other robotically. We have been climbing for about four hours, and an orange crack splits the horizon and cloud. The sun is rising.
~~~
We step onto the crater rim, and I walk to where Benji, having arrived several minutes before me, is sitting on his pack. “We did it,” I say between sobs as I hug him. He looks tired and worried. Neither of us feel triumphant. We rest for a while until it’s time to cross the crater and climb the remaining 100 feet to the Columbia Crest, the actual high point of the mountain. My legs are hammered and for a second I don’t want to go. But I have to finish this. Benji slowly gets up. After the climb, he admits that he was thinking of rationalizations for not going to the crest. He was cold, exhausted, and scared. The climb was equally harrowing for him too. We slowly make our way up to the crest with the rest of the group. We exchange hugs and high-fives all around as we celebrate at the top. The wind still slams us. Stephen estimates the wind at 40 MPH, but someone else mentions 50. The views are amazing, and slowly the fear, the mental exhaustion, the anger disappear.
~~~
We return to high camp the way we came. Only I’m in the lead with Benji and Matt behind us. I slowly and cautiously follow the rope teams down. The crevasses are impressive now in the light. They are cold and forbidding. More like creepy. Once we make it down to the cleaver, we can see what we climbed. It’s amazing. We did that.
We reach high camp where we started in the dark. After a long rest, we continue our descent crossing the Cathedral Gap toward Camp Muir. The guides remind us of the rock fall danger. We move fast, but suddenly a loud pop echoes above us. I look up to see a rock heading for us. “Just make sure it doesn’t hit you,” Matt says deadpan. I watch the softball-size rock speed toward us. It passes about 20 feet away me.
We reach Camp Muir to pick up some of our gear that we didn’t take to high camp. Matt jokingly warns us that people will think we are celebrities. “Did you climb that?” they will ask. “You slept up there?!! Wow!” After a short rest at Camp Muir, we head down to our cars. Along the way, we glissade down the snow. I think I’m finally having fun! We glissade every chance we get. Janae declares Benji and me the glissading experts since we seemed to go down the fastest. It’s all in the lean. You have to lean just right to make the turns. Near the bottom of one run, I hit a bump and catch some air. It’s the first happiness I’ve felt in three days.
We take a long rest at Pebble Creek while we wait for Matt and Connor. They stayed behind to do some camp maintenance. When they reach us they announce that three new tent platforms are complete. Some of the group changes into their hiking shoes, but I opt to keep the mountaineering boots on. I don’t want my shoes to get wet. Connor sits down near me and congratulates me on the climb. “It’s cool you can do this with your son,” he says. “I wish I could do stuff like this with my dad.” Apparently, they don’t see a lot of fathers and sons on their climbs. “I’m glad you overcame those mental challenges to finish the climb with such good style,” he says. I know enough about mountaineering to know that style is important. I take the complement graciously, but I’m embarrassed that I let my fear have so much control over me on the climb. The truth is that I didn’t climb with style.
As we continue down toward the Paradise Visitor’s Center the crowds of day hikers get bigger. A lady stops me. “Did you climb that today?” she asks. “Yes,” I reply. “How long did it take you?” “Three days,” I explain. I see the wonderment in her expression. Matt’s words prove to be prophetic.
~~~
We finally reach our cars about 15 hours after we started. We met as strangers but leave as friends. Shared suffering creates a bond with those who endure it. All of us overcame fear and fatigue to accomplish something only half of those who try succeed at.
~~~
When I get home to Missouri, I finally have some time to reflect and deconstruct what just happened. I somehow feel like I didn’t climb the mountain on my own terms. I could have done it with better style. I let my fear and emotions control me, and I am embarrassed that Matt carried my pack on the last leg up to the crater. He said it was his job to help his clients succeed. “You did all the work. You climbed it yourself,” he told me. My wife is surprised at my attitude. She tells me I shouldn’t diminish my success. When I tell my father-in-law, who climbed Rainier 40 years earlier, that the guide carried my pack he tells me not to worry about it. “You climbed Mt. Rainier!” he says as if the significance of that fact is self-evident. He’s right.
Benji and I talk about our experience. He says he would have quit with me if I had given up. I realize I must have put a lot of pressure on him when I told him I was scared. I felt guilty for that. The physical challenges of the climb weren’t as hard as we thought. We both admit that we really didn’t have anything to fear in that regard. Our training was sufficient although I think we got by with the minimum. Looking back, the worst part was not knowing what our limits were. I don’t think I truly reached my physical limit or my emotional limit—I just psyched myself out. I gave too much attention to all the dire warnings I read online. Had I managed that better, I am sure I would not have had a meltdown. However, we realized we made a mistake by not putting on a jacket after our first break. The wind kicked our butts for sure.
Having come to an understanding of my emotions and actions on the mountain, I realize what I did on the mountain was pretty amazing. My training was sufficient, and my will was strong enough to overcome my fear. And I’m left with confidence and a hunger for more. I want to go back and summit with style some day. But for now, I am happy for the experience. I stood on the summit of Mt. Rainier.
The Only Thing We Have to Fear
“And my soul must be iron
‘Cause my fear is naked
I’m naked and fearless
And my fear is naked”
The wind knocks me off balance and leaves me gasping. Each gust blows shards of ice and snow into my face. I’m getting really cold now. My head spins, and my legs burn. We wait as the rope team ahead of us makes their way around a switch back. “Matt, I’m really feeling it now,” I shout above the wind. Matt climbs down to meet me. “I’m feeling cold, wobbly, my stomach and head ache,” I tell him as I fight back my emotions. “I don’t know if it’s wise for me to continue,” I shout. “You’re moving strong. I know you can do this,” Matt yells. But I have no confidence, and I have no mental reserve to steel myself against the fear and doubts. He radios up to the lead guide while I try to compose myself. Anger, fear, frustration swirl in my mind like the wind beating upon us. “Can you make it up the next break? Only about 20 minutes more?” Matt asks. I nod, and we continue through the darkness and the raw wind.
~~~
My son Benji and I had planned to spend a week backpacking in the Wind Rivers this summer, but the prospect left me restless and unsatisfied. What about Mt. Rainier? I don’t know where the thought came from, but I latch on to it. I knew that this pandemic must have wrecked a lot of travel plans. We might have a chance. The next day I call Alpine Ascents, a renowned guiding service in Seattle, Washington to ask if there were any possibility to make a climb this summer. “There is a lot of movement in our trips,” the woman on the phone said. She instructs me to put my name on waiting list. I tell Benji about the possibility, and he’s all in. A week later, I get an email with possible dates. We pick the dates, drop a thousand bucks on the deposit, and just like that we are signed up. We’re going to climb Mt. Rainier! We have exactly seven weeks until the trip. Just enough time to complete the Rainier training program from Mountain Tactical Institute, but there is no margin for injury or delay.
We start training on a Monday. A car approaches me as we run through the park. I move to the side of the road, and somehow, I trip on the edge and fall right in front of the car. I hop up as if nothing happened and keep running not even looking at the driver. I finish the five miles but my ankle is hurt. I’m pretty sure I sprained it, so I wrap it in ice when I get home. Is this expedition over before it begins? How am I going to train with a sprained ankle? The next day, I can’t do the sandbag get ups, and I feel like cancelling the trip. But the plane tickets are already paid for. “This trip means a lot to me. I can’t do it without you,” my son tells me. My wife tries to console me as I sit on the edge of my bed with my face in my hands. “I won’t let you quit,” she says.” I don’t really want to quit, but I am practical. I wrap my ankle tightly and wonder how to make the situation work. After mega doses of ibuprofen and another day of rest, my ankle feels pretty good. I can run on it without any pain. But will I be strong enough? All of the sources I read say that we should “be in the best shape of your life” to climb Mt. Rainier. But I don’t even know what that means. Seeds of doubt start growing in my mind.
After my ankle scare, the training goes well for me even though I leave for two weeks to complete my National Guard annual training. But it doesn’t go well for my son. When I return home from my annual training, I find out that my son has been skipping workouts. I’m angry. There is only one more week of training. For every work out he missed, his chances of summiting are that much less I reason. I push him hard trying to make up for lost time, but he pushes back. Before our last training ruck—a ten mile slog—my frustration boils over. I yell at him for not being more self-motivated. It’s almost 9 PM, and at our pace, we’ll finish 10 miles around midnight. We hike the first three miles in silence. The night is sticky and warm, and soon I am dripping with sweat. We finish 8 miles, and I call it. I don’t see the benefit of completing two more miles. When I get home, I tell my wife that eight miles was not enough to dispel my anger. But our time for training is up.
~~~
Early in the morning, we assemble in the parking lot of the visitors’ center at Paradise. Our guides, Stephen, Matt, Ian, and Connor, are happy to meet us. They all have impressive summits including Aconcagua, Denali, Cho Oyo, and hundreds of collective summits of Mt. Rainier. We exchange awkward introductions with the rest of our group: Jared, a second-year medical resident, and Janae, his wife, from Salt Lake City; Sharon, an industrial designer from New York City whose parents live in Seattle; Caroline and Nathan, a young married couple from Redmond Washington, and Shyam a soft-spoken man originally from India. He says this is his third attempt to climb the mountain. Awesome. Third time’s a charm, and I will be going up there with him.
We depart from the parking lot slowly. I ask Stephen, the lead guide, if this is the pace we’ll be going all day. “Yes,” he says, “and the pace for the summit day will be like this.” He slows down and places one foot in front of the other in an exaggerated manner. Good. I can keep up with this, but doubts about my preparation still nag me. I’m I ready? Can I do this? Adding to my stress, I know they will be watching our performance. The Alpine Ascents website states flatly, “the guide retains the right, at any point, to determine whether a climber is sufficiently fit to continue the climb.”
As we trudge along the trail toward the Muir snow field, the mountain seems to grow larger—beautiful and ominous. The Nisqually Glacier is a jumble of ice and snow leading the eye up toward the summit.
Matt hikes beside me as Jared, Janae and my son Benji have pulled ahead. We have passed the first group, and we’re definitely going faster than what Stephen said. We take a long break at Pebble Creek before we leave the dry trail to enter the Muir Snow field. We wait for the second group to arrive as we chat and take in the views. The second group arrives soon, but Shyam and a guide show up much later.Once on the snowfield, the sun’s rays beat down from above and also from below reflected off the snow. I’m dripping with sweat. I tell Matt that the heat, more than anything, is slowing me down. He reassures me that my pace is just fine. “You’re only about 30 seconds off their (Jared, Janae, and Benji) pace,” he says. “If you were 20 minutes behind, then we’d need to have a talk about summit day.” He asks for my empty Gatorade bottle. “See that water over there?” he asks pointing to some water flowing over some rocks. “I’ll go fill up over there.” “Don’t we have to purify it first?” “Nah, we drink it all the time. Trust me.” He detours toward the water while I keep plodding along.
At our next break, Matt hands me the bottle of fresh glacier water. I gulp the cold and refreshing water. Again, I notice that Shyam is not with us. Hmm, have we lost one already? I finally spot him and Ian still a long way behind. This time, we don’t wait for him to catch up before we continue upward. I wonder what the deal is. Someone mentioned the large camera he was carrying. For being his third attempt, I thought he would be better prepared than he seems to be. But I just hope I can keep up. Despite the reassurance from Matt, I ask Stephen if I’m doing OK. “You did fine. There is nothing that shows you can’t do this,” he says. I realize I’m being obsessive about this.
Finally, we arrive at Camp Muir. We are half way up the mountain! We covered about four miles and gained about 4,500 feet of elevation. I’m drained and my legs are worked.
We relax and rehydrate for the rest of the afternoon. Benji and I pick out a tent then move our gear inside. I notice a small crack in the snow near our tent. The crack is only about two inches wide, but it’s menacing--dark and eerie. I imagine it opening wider during the night swallowing up our tent while we sleep. That evening, the guides brief us about the next day as we eat dinner. The freeze-dried meal I picked, Quinoa Black Bean Bowl, tastes disgusting. I force down as much as I can, but I don’t finish it. While we are eating, the guides get some information from a group that attempted to summit earlier that morning. They couldn’t make it when they discovered a snow bridge had collapsed at around 12,800 ft. elevation. None of us climbers seem to comprehend the implications of this, and I’m happy to have made it this far.
In the morning, we eat a leisurely breakfast, and we get ready for snow school. It’s a good refresher for me. 13 years before, I took a two-week mountaineering course from Alpine Ascents where we learned all this: climbing steep slopes, rope travel, self-arrest. This is fun. We climb to the top of Muir Peak to get used to rock scrambling with crampons strapped to our boots. This will be necessary for going over the Cathedral Gap and the Disappointment Cleaver.
After lunch, we pack up and head for high camp by crossing the Cowlitz Glacier and climbing over a rock feature called the Cathedral Gap. At the top of the gap, the large crevasses of the Ingraham Glacier dominate the view, and the tents at high camp are just small, yellow dots on the snow.
Once we arrive at high camp we settle into our tents. We’re now camped at 11,000 feet elevation, and the scale of the mountain is overwhelming, oppressive. We are surrounded by rocky cliffs to our south. A break in the cliffs is called Cadaver Gap. To the west, the upper slopes of the mountain loom above us. Giant seracs wait for fate to release them. Enormous crevasses, blue and still, lie waiting for anyone hapless enough to fall. The upper mountain looms ominously above. The Disappointment Cleaver lies to north. The cleaver seems impossibly steep, but we have to climb it in the morning. To the east the Ingraham glacier drops away from our view and Little Tahoma Peak juts into view. Despite the enormity of the mountain, I feel claustrophobic and afraid.
Matt and Stephen, having left early from Camp Muir to survey the route around the collapsed snow bridge, finally return to camp. They seem tired. They’ve spent the day carving a new route around the crevasse which will add about 20 minutes to the climb. They also installed anchors above the most exposed parts. Stephen briefs us about the climb tomorrow while we’re eating dinner. “It’s a real mountaineering route,” he says implying that it will be difficult.
After dinner, everyone seems anxious and excited. The tension is palpable. Before we all disperse for the night, Shyam announces that he will not be going to the summit tomorrow and wishes us luck. I’m honestly bewildered by what he is doing up here in the first place. He seemed to be on his own schedule since we started climbing.
Inside our tent, I put my arm around Benji. “I’m a little scared,” I tell him. “But we can do this.” He’s excited to go, and I hang on to him a while longer. The doubts in my head creep up again. I’m not doing a good job fighting them. In about six hours, at 1 AM, we will start our summit push. We slip into our sleep bags, and I try to make myself comfortable. I’m so nervous I can’t sleep. I put in my ear plugs. I must sleep in fits which is better than nothing, but when I wake up to pee, the doubts and fear always come screaming back. I’m sweating in my sleeping bag. I want so much just to fall asleep. But I hear snoring. Shyam is in the tent next to us, and he is snoring loudly. At this moment I hate him. He’s not going to climb. Why is he sleeping when I can’t? I have to get up at midnight. Finally, I doze off.
“Ok, Alpine Ascents, it’s time to wake up,” Connor announces. “We have some hot water for you. Go ahead and turn on a headlamp, so I can see that you’re awake.” I remember why I hate alpine starts. I want to sleep more, but it’s go-time. I remember why I hate alpine starts. After scarfing down some oatmeal, I put on my harness and crampons. One guide will lead two climbers on a rope. Matt eagerly announces, “I got Ben and Benji!” As Matt double checks our gear, Connor says, “Go bold. Start cold.” They suggest we start in our base layer top as we will warm us as we climb the cleaver. Benji and I stuff our jackets into our packs.
Matt leads Benji and me in the dark except for the small circle of light from our headlamps. We climb straight up the glacier for a while then turn north toward the Disappointment Cleaver. My legs, depleted from the previous climbing, feel stiff and sore. We short-rope up the cleaver. It’s not as steep as I expected, but the wind blows dust in my face and grit into my teeth. Despite the cool temperatures, I am sweating as expected. At the top of the cleaver we rest, and I force down some food. But I don’t feel like eating much. We strip down to our base layer again expecting the wind to die down, but it doesn’t. We climb on in the darkness, and the cold begins to do it’s cruel work.
The wind knocks me off balance and leaves me gasping . . .
~~~
After my meltdown, we slowly traverse around the crevasses carefully clipping into the anchors so we don’t fall into the abyss. When we reach our resting spot, Benji joins Jared and Janae on another rope team leaving me alone on Matt’s rope. “It’s just you and me now,” he says. “You can do this!” He also takes my pack and puts the strap over his shoulder. I’m simultaneously relieved because the climbing is easier now without my pack and embarrassed because I let my fears overwhelm me and because Matt is carrying my pack. I wish I could say that I dominated my fears and insecurity to continue the climb. But I am not going forward bravely or confidently. I am just numb except for a lingering anger. With 30 feet of rope between Matt and me, I am alone to face the mountain and my thoughts by myself. Inside I’m a whimpering mess, and I hate myself at this moment. I put one foot in front of the other robotically. We have been climbing for about four hours, and an orange crack splits the horizon and cloud. The sun is rising.
~~~
We step onto the crater rim, and I walk to where Benji, having arrived several minutes before me, is sitting on his pack. “We did it,” I say between sobs as I hug him. He looks tired and worried. Neither of us feel triumphant. We rest for a while until it’s time to cross the crater and climb the remaining 100 feet to the Columbia Crest, the actual high point of the mountain. My legs are hammered and for a second I don’t want to go. But I have to finish this. Benji slowly gets up. After the climb, he admits that he was thinking of rationalizations for not going to the crest. He was cold, exhausted, and scared. The climb was equally harrowing for him too. We slowly make our way up to the crest with the rest of the group. We exchange hugs and high-fives all around as we celebrate at the top. The wind still slams us. Stephen estimates the wind at 40 MPH, but someone else mentions 50. The views are amazing, and slowly the fear, the mental exhaustion, the anger disappear.
~~~
We return to high camp the way we came. Only I’m in the lead with Benji and Matt behind us. I slowly and cautiously follow the rope teams down. The crevasses are impressive now in the light. They are cold and forbidding. More like creepy. Once we make it down to the cleaver, we can see what we climbed. It’s amazing. We did that.
We reach high camp where we started in the dark. After a long rest, we continue our descent crossing the Cathedral Gap toward Camp Muir. The guides remind us of the rock fall danger. We move fast, but suddenly a loud pop echoes above us. I look up to see a rock heading for us. “Just make sure it doesn’t hit you,” Matt says deadpan. I watch the softball-size rock speed toward us. It passes about 20 feet away me. We reach Camp Muir to pick up some of our gear that we didn’t take to high camp. Matt jokingly warns us that people will think we are celebrities. “Did you climb that?” they will ask. “You slept up there?!! Wow!” After a short rest at Camp Muir, we head down to our cars. Along the way, we glissade down the snow. I think I’m finally having fun! We glissade every chance we get. Janae declares Benji and me the glissading experts since we seemed to go down the fastest. It’s all in the lean. You have to lean just right to make the turns. Near the bottom of one run, I hit a bump and catch some air. It’s the first happiness I’ve felt in three days.
We take a long rest at Pebble Creek while we wait for Matt and Connor. They stayed behind to do some camp maintenance. When they reach us they announce that three new tent platforms are complete. Some of the group changes into their hiking shoes, but I opt to keep the mountaineering boots on. I don’t want my shoes to get wet. Connor sits down near me and congratulates me on the climb. “It’s cool you can do this with your son,” he says. “I wish I could do stuff like this with my dad.” Apparently, they don’t see a lot of fathers and sons on their climbs. “I’m glad you overcame those mental challenges to finish the climb with such good style,” he says. I know enough about mountaineering to know that style is important. I take the complement graciously, but I’m embarrassed that I let my fear have so much control over me on the climb. The truth is that I didn’t climb with style.
As we continue down toward the Paradise Visitor’s Center the crowds of day hikers get bigger. A lady stops me. “Did you climb that today?” she asks. “Yes,” I reply. “How long did it take you?” “Three days,” I explain. I see the wonderment in her expression. Matt’s words prove to be prophetic.
~~~
We finally reach our cars about 15 hours after we started. We met as strangers but leave as friends. Shared suffering creates a bond with those who endure it. All of us overcame fear and fatigue to accomplish something only half of those who try succeed at.
~~~
When I get home to Missouri, I finally have some time to reflect and deconstruct what just happened. I somehow feel like I didn’t climb the mountain on my own terms. I could have done it with better style. I let my fear and emotions control me, and I am embarrassed that Matt carried my pack on the last leg up to the crater. He said it was his job to help his clients succeed. “You did all the work. You climbed it yourself,” he told me. My wife is surprised at my attitude. She tells me I shouldn’t diminish my success. When I tell my father-in-law, who climbed Rainier 40 years earlier, that the guide carried my pack he tells me not to worry about it. “You climbed Mt. Rainier!” he says as if the significance of that fact is self-evident. He’s right.
Benji and I talk about our experience. He says he would have quit with me if I had given up. I realize I must have put a lot of pressure on him when I told him I was scared. I felt guilty for that. The physical challenges of the climb weren’t as hard as we thought. We both admit that we really didn’t have anything to fear in that regard. Our training was sufficient although I think we got by with the minimum. Looking back, the worst part was not knowing what our limits were. I don’t think I truly reached my physical limit or my emotional limit—I just psyched myself out. I gave too much attention to all the dire warnings I read online. Had I managed that better, I am sure I would not have had a meltdown. However, we realized we made a mistake by not putting on a jacket after our first break. The wind kicked our butts for sure.
Having come to an understanding of my emotions and actions on the mountain, I realize what I did on the mountain was pretty amazing. My training was sufficient, and my will was strong enough to overcome my fear. And I’m left with confidence and a hunger for more. I want to go back and summit with style some day. But for now, I am happy for the experience. I stood on the summit of Mt. Rainier.
