Rainier
9 August – 13 August 2019
by
Shaun Tipson
Contents
The Meeting Point
We
met at the Centralia train station. Halfway between the mountain and Seattle,
and an Amtrak stop on the way South. The train rolled in at noon, pausing
briefly and discharging a handful of passengers. A brief rest, before
continuing a journey that was to end at 9pm the following night in Los Angeles.
Jason was one of the disembarking passengers. Clad in technical gear, and hefting a substantial backpack. There was no platform, so for the smaller passengers the conductors conjured small footstools, to provide a step from the train to the ground.
We met, and commented how it seemed like an auspicious beginning. A confluence of car and rail, coming together at such a random meeting point, felt like something from Around the World in 80 Days. It already felt like the experience would be something unlike anything we had experienced before.
My attitude was casual (borne, as I discovered later, from ignorance). Jason’s was not. Many relatives had expressed concern about the perceived dangers of the trip, and some had encouraged him not to go. Nevertheless, he was determined to follow in the footsteps of his grandfather, who can ascended the mountain multiple times in his full length army coat, wood-framed backpack, and ancient ice axe. For my part, it seemed like a good adventure, and I would challenge anyone to look at the mountain and not feel at least some urge to climb.
The mountain itself is Rainier, although some know it as Tacoma or Tahoma. It is incredibly prominent, which is a geographical term meaning the extent to which it emerges from its surrounding landscape. Quite simply, the land is flat around it, and then it spears into the heavens, topping out at 14,411 feet, making it the tallest mountain in Washington State.
Rainier is a volcanic mountain, and is surrounded by its slightly more diminutive cousins: Mt Adams, and Mt Saint Helens (which, famously, was the source of the largest eruption in modern US history, not that long ago). The top of Rainier is a volcanic crater, about 300 feet wide, and the edges of the crater are kept snow-free by the geothermic activity that continues to this day.
We climbed into my car, and hit the road. At the turn-off from the Interstate we stopped at a diner to eat. It was ‘merica from a post card, complete with extreme calories, friendly greeters and a cabinet full of pie. Jason told me that it was the kind of place where the waitress would start with a negative opinion about the customer, and you’d have to work hard just to get into the positive. I didn’t. I waved my hand to let her know that we wanted to order. And from then on there was a latent hostility in all of our subsequent interactions.
The food, however, was good. And big. In fact, there was no room for cake, so we piled back into the car and headed for Ashford.
9 August 2019
RMI
Guides’ HQ is in Ashford. Or, perhaps more accurately, it IS Ashford. The HQ
has everything that you need to get up and down the mountain, plus lots of
other stuff besides. There is a shop, a rental shop, a room for the
orientation, a bar and grill (strictly burgers and pizzas), and spaces for the
staff and admin. There is even a climbing wall and bouldering feature, if you happen to get bored.
When we arrived, we all sat down at a table, and met our lead guide Joe, and his assistant Abby. Joe had the kind of weathered look that you’d expect from someone that makes his living outdoors. This season he has ascended Denali, the highest peak in North America, and he exuded competence and calm. Abby also was obviously more often outside than inside. Born in Olympia, WA, and going to school in Colorado, she was planning to have a career in guiding after she finished school.
Joe explained that there would be 9 “clients” and 3 guides for our 5 day climb. Each guide would lead a rope team of 3 clients, and the third guide was Luke - whom we weren’t to meet until Day 3.
Joe
then told us it was time for “gear explosion”. We headed to a meadow next to
the RMI buildings, and spread all of our equipment on
the grass for inspection. We had been given a list, and the requirements of the
list were strictly enforced.
Sleeping bag, backpack, ice axe, mountaineering boots, crampons, helmet, head lamp, and the list went on.
I was most confused about the terminology “soft shell” and “hard shell”. It turns out that former is not water-proof, and the latter is. I, along with everyone else, failed the gear check. In my case, I had to go and rent hard shell pants (I had already rented a bunch of the other climbing specific stuff - as had Jason). Needless to say, the shop and rental shop do a thriving trade in the clients that fail gear check. Plus each guide has his or her own preferences, which might strongly be expressed to the climbing group.
In our case, Joe spoke highly of the “sun hoody”, a base layer with a hood, that offered sun and wind protection, and could be purchased (of course) from the shop. Dutifully, many in our group (but not me) trooped off to buy one.After gear check, we were herded into a room for orientation. This was Joe’s opportunity to do some Real Talk. It was a big mountain, and there were lots of potential dangers. Everyone’s safety depended on following the guides’ instructions, and not doing anything stupid. For each rope team, you were explicitly trusting each other member to catch you if you fell. At this point, I started to get an inkling that this wasn’t just a walk up a hill.
After orientation, we grabbed a pizza from the grill, before heading to our hotel for the night. Our hotel was Alexander’s Lodge. To me, it looked idyllic and peaceful. However, Jason soon pointed out (1) the bugs (2) the A/C (which was ancient) and (3) the bugs. In fact, (1) and (3) led to (2). The rooms had no open windows, which mean A/C.
In any case, we had soon covered the room with our gear. Or, more accurately, the part of the room that wasn’t taken up with the bed and the cot (for some reason, it seemed to amuse the hotel manager that we didn’t want to sleep in the bed together).
The orientation had caused us to become single-minded about packing and preparation. We immediately packed our backpacks for the following day. And then unpacked. And then repacked. And then we went to bed (it was my turn for the bed - the following night would be Jason’s).
Interlude
The 5 Day Climbing Group for 9 August 2019 The gear explosion was the first opportunity to meet the people in our group. Apart from the two of us, that rapidly became “the San Francisco guys”, there was a group of 3 from Texas, a group of 2 from Toronto, and individuals from Virginia and Salt Lake City. One woman; 8 men. The Texans were Curtis, Colin and Nick. They had gone to high school together, before parting ways. Somehow, they remained in contact strongly enough to continue these trips together, and they were heading to Oregon after the climb, before returning to Texas. Curtis and Nick lived in Houston, and worked in oil and gas. Curtis spent a bunch of time out on pipelines, and had the biggest, baddest pickup truck that I had ever seen. Nick had a kid at home, and, to the amusement of his friends, a minivan. Colin lived in Austin, and had the look of an endurance athlete. He, of the three, seemed most likely to be physically up for the challenge. By contrast, Curtis was the most likely too will himself to the finish, regardless of the physical cost to his body. The Canadians, after gently reminding me that Ontario was a province and Toronto was a city, introduced themselves as Christa and David. They were work colleagues, and not together romantically. The gear check was definitely hardest on them - as they had taken an approach to gear that was more approximate than the exact requirements mandated by RMI. Christa and David worked in IT, and were friendly and practical in way that you expect all Canadians to be. The climbing party was rounded out by Thomas, from Virginia, and Jason, from Salt Lake City. Each had a fascinating life experience. Thomas was the father of 9 children - the youngest 5, and the oldest 35. He had the unkempt appearance of a grizzled mountain man, and he wore a large crucifix around his neck. Thomas’ appearance was actually a little bit mis-leading - he actually worked on government procurement, helping his company sell products to the military. On the other hand, he had been going on mountaineering trips for decades, including in Alaska, although he had never scaled a high altitude peak. This was Thomas’ second attempt at Rainier. The first time blisters had forced him to turn back. At 58 years of age he feared that time was running out for him to summit the mountain, but he was also concerned that he hadn’t prepared enough (I was subsequently to discover). Jason, from Salt Lake city, made an immediate visual impression with his bright tattoos, including on his neck. It wasn’t hard to guess that there was military experience in his past. He had joined the Air Force on his father’s advice, and completed 3 tours in Iraq; 2 in the Air Force, and one as a contractor. His current job was personal protection services for the government, which meant spending chunks of time in strange parts of the world. Jason (who, to avoid confusion, I’ll call J2) had come straight from a mountaineering trip up Mt Hood. He was therefore the most experienced of the crew. In fact, no-one besides J2 had any real experience equivalent to what we were trying to attempt. |
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Interlude The Route
We would then make our way up the Cleaver, and take a break at the top (12,000). We would then ascend another 1,000 feet through ice, snow, crevasses and giant, scary blocks of precariously hanging ice to High Break (13,000 feet). From there, we would trudge with weary legs and empty lungs up switchback after switchback, until we entered the crater (14,200 feet). Joe was at pains to tell us that RMI would give us a “summit” certificate if we made it to the crater. But there’s actually a location on the crater rim - Columbia Crest - that is another 200 feet higher than the crater (for a final elevation of 14,411 feet). Joe said that he had a strong preference for getting his climbers to the “tippy top”, but sometimes climbers were so exhausted, they it was better for them to huddle in the snow, drinking and eating, rather than doing the extra bit. The implication - which was made express in the days to come - was that many people didn’t make it to the top. Of those that did, some were so exhausted and oxygen starved that they could even walk another 15 minutes up a gentle slope. At this point, my moderate anxiety started metastasizing into full-blown fear. Clearly, I wasn’t alone. The group was unnaturally quiet throughout the presentation, and the questions were all very focused on removing unknowns. And, of course, the climb is then followed by the descent. Assuming we were to make it to the top, we then had to do the route in reverse. Tired; weary and with the sun warming the ice and snow (which raised the risk of calving ice, rockfalls and just generally enhanced the dynamism of the terrain). And, as if descending 4,500 feet to Camp Muir was not enough, we would then have an hour to repack our bags and gather what energy we had, before descending another 4,500 feet to the car park at Paradise. Damn. This was real. |
Day 2
Mountaineering School
10 August 2019
After breakfast at the Lodge, we shoved our packs into the car and headed back to Ashford (7 minute drive according to Google). We met at 8am, and piled into a mini bus which was to take us the 45 minutes to Paradise.
Paradise
is a central point in the Rainier National Park. It has a visitor’s centre, restaurant, and lots of stuff for hikers. Between
the park entrance and Paradise you can see the
majestic glacier-carved landscape. Braided rivers flowing is giant
glacier-carved valleys. Stone bridges over incredible waterfalls. Wildflower
meadows and pockets of pine trees. And if you look up, you may be lucky enough
to see The Mountain.
Of course, on our morning there was fog and mist. The weather forecast for our time at Rainier had been pessimistic, but it was improving all the time. Our hope was that by the time we climbed, the cloud would disappear, and we would climb in the sunshine.
Oh, did I mention that the gear list contained items that would only possibly be used in emergency situations? Avalanche beacon. Goggles. Enough layers to stay warm in a blizzard. Which made me think: how on earth do we get down the mountain in a blizzard? My anxiety level went up another notch.
But
Day 2 was not the time to stress. Our goals for the day were simply to carry
our packs from Paradise up to the snow line. Then put on our boots, harnesses,
and helmets. Grab our ice axes and spend some time learning the mountain and
the gear. After that, we’d be heading back to Ashford
at around 3pm. This was a “shake down” hike. That’s
all.
So that’s what we did. We walked up the hill. We learned how to Rest Step (to conserve energy), how to Side Step, Duck Step, and American Step (the Side Step crossed with the Duck Step). We learned how to put on our crampons, and we learned how to dive into the snow with our ice axes, in order to arrest a slide. We also learned how to have a break (grab your food and water, then sit on your backpack) and where to go to the toilet (on the mountain: anywhere on the snow).
We
then finished by going for a walk tied into a rope team, holding our axes and
wearing our crampons. Jason and I were on a team with Thomas, and he helped us
practice when he slipped and started slightly down the mountain. Immediately
someone cried “falling”, and we all instinctively dived into the snow to arrest
his fall.
We
then repacked all of our gear, and headed back to
Paradise, the bus, Ashford and the Lodge (for some more packing, unpacking,
packing, unpacking, and packing).
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Interlude Jason and Shaun’s thoughts on likely success At this stage, we had formed some preliminary views about each individual’s relative changes of success. This view was informed by the various tidbits that we dropped into conversation, on a completely intentional basis, by a number of the crew. J2 has submitted another mountain last week, and knew how to use a pulley system. Thomas had hiked halfway to Muir that morning. The Texans had competed in endurance sports together. By contrast, Jason and Shaun had hiked a couple of small hills, sometimes with a pack and mostly not. And otherwise spent a bunch of time on ellipticals, stair machines and treadmills at the gym. We were well and truly “flatlanders” - an endearing term the guides had for sea level denizens. In any case, our initial view was that J2 and the Texans were going to the top for sure. Thomas seemed a good bet as well, although he did fail the last time. We weren’t sure about the Canadians, although the Canadians had that typical Canadian can-do attitude that just powers relentlessly over adversity like a steamroller. And then, there was Jason and Shaun the Flatlanders. Trying to keep it together. |
11 August 2019
On the third morning I sprung out of my cot, and we grabbed breakfast. This time was the real deal. I had been woken up in the middle of the night by a crashing sound. It took me a few seconds to figure out what it was. It turned out there was a thunderstorm right on top of us, and during the night it had dumped rain on the whole area.
For us, at the Lodge, we were inconvenienced by a lack of wifi. It has been knocked out by the storm. For the climbers on the mountain, the consequences had been more significant. The rain had been so hard that the climbing group that morning had had to turn back an hour out of Camp Muir. No doubt the lightning was a factor as well (and Joe told us calmly that in an electrical storm in the mountains all of the metal gear starts to buzz, as if this was the most interesting but innocuous fact in the world). I couldn’t help but picture myself huddled in the rain clutching my (metal) ice axe, waiting for the guide to decide whether to go ahead or whether to turn back. Needless to say that anxiety meter went up another notch.
After breakfast it was time to pile into the car and drive to Ashford. Our packs held all of the required expedition items, which added up to a combined weight of 40 lbs. The pack was heavy, and made even more so by all of the food and water that we were carrying up the mountain. The food was a mixture of bars, nuts, jerky, sugar and dehydrated meals. Thousands of calories, made as light as possible.
Once
more we drove from Ashford to Paradise, and started
the walk up the hill. We were in our normal hiking shoes, and wouldn’t change shoes until the snowfield began, which was
about halfway up. The weather was once again misty, but not rain. It was the
kind of lazy rain that waits for you to walk it, rather than making the effort
to fall onto you. Our third guide, Luke, had joined us. For Luke, the glass was
always half full. The damp mist “made the wildflowers really pop”. And he was
right. All of the meadows around us were filled with a
rainbow of glistening flowers. We couldn’t see the
hills, but we could see the beauty right in front of our eyes.
Abby
was the pace setter for the group. The pace setter is vitally important,
because you have to maintain a pace for hours at a
time. Too fast, and you burn out. Too slow, and you spend more time traveling
than you need to. In fact, pace was the first time we heard the word
“efficient” be used as a term of reverence. For mountaineers, the goal is not
speed. The goal is efficiency. The least amount of effort and risk to
accomplish an objective. Efficiency can mean speed. But it also means
precision, and intellect, and experience.
After two-ish hours, we
arrived at the snowfield, and took a break to change our shoes. The whole way
had been uphill, and as we got higher, the hiking
paths became rougher. We were clambering over small, then medium, then bigger
rocks, and finding our way on stepping stones across
streams. There is no doubt that the initial excitement was fueling us, since
everyone was 
cheerful
and in good spirits at the first break.
With our packs back on our backs, we stepped onto the Muir snowfield. This time, in single file, we started plodding up the mountain in the mist. The only thing that we could see was white - ahead, beside and behind us. We followed in the footsteps of the person in front, like some insane band of military recruits who forgot how to sing their marching song.
After some indeterminate time, we came out above the
cloud layer. I had already learned that I “ran hot” - as the guides liked to
say - and I was soaked through with sweat. It turns out that hiking is all
about heat release, not heat retention (at least, until the weather gets bad
and it’s time “to marshmallow”, as Joe put it). I
spent most of the time in base layer and hiking pants. Nothing else. And still
I couldn’t get rid of enough heat to stop my
sunglasses from fogging or my bandana from becoming 
waterlogged.
And
then we walked. And walked. And kept on walking. For me, the passage of time
was immaterial. The guides presumably needed to know the time, in order to keep
to some kind of schedule of who needs to be where
when. But for those that follow behind it doesn’t
matter how long it takes. 2 minutes. 2 hours. 20 hours. None of it matters. The
objective is the objective, and either you make it or
you don’t.
At
some point we became aware that there was a rocky ridge in front of and above
us. For a long time it didn’t appear to get any closer
- and Jason swore it was actually receding - but eventually we could see
buildings, and then people, and then we were off the snow field. We dumped all of our “sharps” (axe, crampons etc)
on a rocky ledge, and put everything else in the bunk room. Jason snagged us
prime piece of corner plywood, which would be our home for two nights. We were
all bone tired from the march up the hill, and so we sat in the sun and try to
catch glimpses of the civilization below us, the glacier behind us, and the
mountains in front of us, as they would pop in and out of the clouds.
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Interlude - Camp Muir aka “The Ridge” Camp Muir is a set of structures at the top of the Muir snowfield, and the jumping off point for the true Rainier summit push. The RMI structures are a bunk house (capacity: 18, in three levels on plywood bunks) and a hut for the guides. There is also a hut for the rangers, two sets of restrooms, and a public shelter. Water comes from solar stills (dig up clean snow, melt it, and voila you have water), and everything else is if-you-bring-it-you-take-it-out-again. There are tents pitched on the Cowlitz Glacier behind Camp Muir (i.e. the non-snowfield side). Obviously, it’s important to select a site that doesn’t become a crevasse in the middle of the night. Presumably, there were at least a few experts at figuring that out, because there were tents on the part of glacier next to the camp. All in all, the camp was as nice as you could reasonably expect, considering its remoteness. Throughout the afternoon, as we each tried to find a comfortable spot to sit on the rocks, dirt and gravel, we watched a steady procession of people make their way up the snowfield to the camp. Most turned around, and headed back down to Paradise. Most of those were appropriately kitted out. There was, however, the odd person who seemed to think it was a nice walk on a sunny afternoon, which I guess it was on that particular afternoon. I can only imagine what happens when the weather changes and the cloud hides the way down. |
We
each rehydrated a meal - Chicken and Rice for me - ate as much food as we
could, and then rolled into our sleeping bags. It was 6pm, and we were sharing
the bunk house with a group that was leaving that night. That group had climbed
up from Paradise that day, and was going to attempt to summit immediately,
rather than waiting a day (as we were doing). At the time, I must admit I was
feeling a bit jealous, because I was feeling pretty good,
and the weather looked like it would be good. Joe had, however, told us that
even if we went that night (which we wouldn’t), we would still have to wait at
Muir for a day before going down, because the guide schedules assumed that our
guides would be up there for 2 nights, and for safety reasons that couldn’t be
changed.
I slept restlessly for a few hours, and then Casey, the lead guide for the other group, came in at midnight to wake his group up. I took the opportunity to go to the restroom. On my trip to and from I was staggered by the beauty of the scene. It was an almost full moon, and the cloud layer was below us. We were surrounded by mountains, and the sky was crystal clear. The glacier was easy to see, and the path across was clear.
I went back to bed. While I was asleep, Abby and Luke followed the climbing group across the Cowlitz Glacier and to the Ingraham Flats. Their job was to take back and climbers that wanted to bail out at that point. No-one took them up on the offer, and so back they came.
12 August 2019
There
was no rush on starting in the morning. We had nowhere to be, and so we rolled
out of bed around 8am. An hour or so later Joe told us to gear up for an
optional hike out across the glacier. The Canadians opted out - they were still
feeling the after effects of the hike up from
Paradise, and they preferred to hang out in the sun. The rest of us donned our
full set of equipment, and put lunch and water in our
backpacks. We then roped up and stepped out onto the glacier.
Our rope team for the day was Jason, myself and Luke the guide. We zigzagged our way across the
glacier, occasionally stepping over crevasses, and looking uphill from time to
time to make sure nothing was rolling towards us. After a while we stopped, and
I took off my helmet to reposition my bandana. 
At
that point Luke became much less nice, as he told me to put my helmet back on.
Jason received a similar response when he took a photo later on - we were in an
exposed area, and Luke made sure we knew that mountain newbies like us needed to ask before doing anything that
would put us (or him) in danger. Of course, it was completely understandable,
and an obvious mistake on both of our parts, but it once again underlined the
potential hostility of the environment 
in
which we were in.
After the glacier we ascended Cathedral Gap, which was a fancy name for a precipitous hill which held a sequence of 5 or 6 switchbacks before you got to the top. Walking up the Gap was an exercise in trying to maintain purchase with crampons while you were stepping on rocks (and sometimes sand) of variable consistency. From the Gap we stepped onto the ice field leading up to the Ingraham Flats. Joe had actually led us to believe that our hike would be stopping before we stepped onto the ice field. The reason he gave was that the ice was “sketchy”, which he explained as meaning that it was sufficiently slippery that there was a chance that one person could slip and fall while the team was crossing the ice, and the rest of the rope team would then have to try and arrest that fall.
Joe said that he’d prefer not to take the group across the ice field more times than absolutely necessary. At that point, Jason and I exchanged a look. First of all, we had to go across the ice field at some point - there was no other way to the summit. Second of all, the mere use of the word “sketchy” was enough to once again ratchet up the anxiety level.
Needless to say, I was surprised when Joe told us that we would actually be doing some route making across the ice field. In other words, we were tasked with cutting some steps, that could then be used by other climbing parties (and us) to help cross the field. Unfortunately for Jason and I, Luke was the most junior guide on the trip. In guiding, it seems like there is a very strong culture of the most mundane tasks being led by the most junior guide. Cutting the ice was a mundane job, which means Luke was the man for the job (although he swore that it just happened to be his turn).
The next thing we knew, Luke was marching in front, whacking at the ice with his axe. Our job - as members of his rope team - was to use our crampons to kick out and further develop the steps. The other rope teams then followed, and hopefully by the time we were done the steps would be more fully formed.
Step. Kick. Step. Kick. Step. Kick. At this point,
the altitude started to kick in. We were at 11,000 feet. This means that our
heart rates were elevating, because of the increased effort, and it was getting
harder to fill our lungs. We had to move efficiently, which meant managing our breathing
and movement in order to establish the objective (making the steps). That meant
Pressure Breathing.
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Interlude - Rest Stepping, Pressure Breathing and Drugs Mountaineering happens in mountains, and mountains are really high. Some humans are used to that, but most are not. Especially not Flatlanders. Unless you happen to be genetically blessed, or environmentally conditioned, you need some help to survive - and be efficient - on the mountain. I can only imagine what this means in the really high mountains, like the Himalayas. As an example, summiting Denali - which is about 20,000 feet - takes about 3 weeks. Most of that time consists of ferrying supplies back and forth between higher and lower camps, and giving the body a chance to adjust. Rainier is much lower, but we were all coming from a much lower base, and the decreasing oxygen content of the air is obvious as you get higher and higher on the mountain. Throughout the trip the guides would talk about altitude sickness - what it would feel like, and how to try and cope with it. They said that you wouldn’t want to eat or drink. That you wouldn’t be able to move without feeling out of breath. Some people get to the crater and feel like it’s the surface of the moon. Folklore says that the crater is speckled with patches of yellow snow. Not from climbers’ pee, but rather from all the tipped-out cans of beer, that people brought up to celebrate with, and then felt too sick to drink. For Jason and I, this was one of the biggest anxiety inducers. The only way to know if you’re susceptible to altitude sickness is by going up high. And neither one of us had ever done that. Plus we wouldn’t really know how hard it would hit us until we left the second break. This was important, because after the second break it was “no turning back”. RMI had the ability to send climbers down - without affecting the other climbers - at the first and second breaks. This was not true after the second break. If you came down, then you brought your team down with you Prior to the climb, Jason and I had independently asked doctors if we should be taking any meds. Both doctors had recommended - and prescribed - acetazolamide. Neither doctor had mentioned any side effects, and the quickness of the prescription implied - to us at least - that this was a normal thing. Apparently the drug works by preventing inflammation of the brain, which can then lead to headaches at altitude. When we told Joe about the drug, he seemed a little surprised. But after checking with his medical specialist, he said it was fine, and the only side effect was that we would likely pee a lot more (true, it turns out). I am still unclear on whether it would be been better to wait and take it if symptoms developed - some of the guides thought that might be the case. At the end of the day, it definitely didn’t hurt, and it may have helped The non-pharmaceutical way to manage the altitude is via technique, which means rest stepping and pressure breathing. Rest stepping is a technique that you can use on steep slopes to manage fatigue. Basically, you pause on each footprint, with the weight in one leg, which gives the muscles of the other leg a rest. Assuming you can maintain your breathing, rest stepping enables you to more or less continue indefinitely up a steep slope without your leg muscles failing. Rest stepping also works regardless of your foot orientation, so you can do it side-stepping, duck walking (feet like a V), or one foot side / one foot duck (the “American” step). Pressure breathing is a breath management technique, which requires you to deeply breathe in, and then rapidly exhale. This process oxygenates the blood, and also counters stress related breathing (which could otherwise cause you to breath rapidly and shallowly, which just worsens the situation at altitude). We had learned all of these techniques during the school day, and on steep slopes our world would rapidly shrink down to only three things: the rope, our feet, and our breath. Step. Breath. Step. Breath. Step. Check the rope. Breath. Every now and again we would look up, and then go back to step, breath, rope. |
By
the time we got to the top of the ice field it was time for lunch. The Ingraham
Flats are not, in fact, flat. But they are flat enough that you can comfortably
sit on your backpack while you try and force down 2 day
old pizza, an energy bar, and half a liter of water.
The flats themselves are beautiful. Above the flats the glacier is fracturing and creating ice sculptures, and it gives a feeling of a breaking wave that was frozen at an instant in time. Sometimes, of course, part of the wave un-freezes, and the glacier calves and material rolls downhill. The flats are safe, but the route from the flats to the Cleaver is less so. Needless to say, there was lots of talk about efficient movement in that portion of the summit climb
From our lunch spot we could look up at the Cleaver. The Cleaver is 1000 vertical feet of a loose agglomeration of rocks and assorted debris. It was well known as being the worst and hardest part of the climb, simply because clambering over loose and variably sized rocks means there’s very little opportunity for rest stepping or pressure breathing. The Cleaver itself is supposedly named Disappointment Cleaver because the first people to try to climb Rainier allegedly got to the top of the Cleaver, thought they had summited, and then came back down, only to find that they hadn’t actually reached the top. Joe dismissed that story out of hand. He said that when you get to the top of the Cleaver it’s pretty clear that there’s more mountain above you, so that’s an impossible mistake to make.
One way to think of the Cleaver is that it’s the safest way up that part of the mountain, because it enables you to skip the two shifting and potentially impassible glaciers on either side (i.e. that it cleaves). As we were sitting at lunch, we saw figures silhouetted against the skyline, halfway down the Cleaver. It was one of Casey’s groups, that had left that morning. There smallness, against the backdrop of the sky, gave scale to the immense size of the Cleaver. And we would be climbing that thing in the dark.
We
finished our lunch and then headed back to Camp Muir. I was glad that we had
gone further than Joe had indicated. We had now seen the first stage of the climb,
and it seemed comparatively innocuous. Plus the
“sketchy” ice now had foot steps cut in. And finally,
it was just a beautiful day out on the ice, surrounded by mountains and an
infinite array of shapes carved in ice.
We had dumped our gear and found a rock to perch on when all of Casey’s group staggered back in. They had had a 100% summit success rate, which felt unusual. For my part, I was definitely motivated by one member of that group, who - at least externally - appeared to be physically unfit. I figured - if he can do, I can too. Right? After an hour, that group was herded off into the Muir snowfield. Some of them appeared to be out on their feet. And they had another 3 hours and 4500 feet of descending in front of them. With a 40 lb pack on their backs. Needless to say, there wasn’t much celebration on the Ridge, since clearly the job wasn’t done yet.
Soon enough, Casey’s group was replaced by another group that had slogged its way up to Muir. That group was led by Rob, who was friends with Joe. In fact, they had climbed Denali together. Once the new group had each found a bunk, Joe and Rob called everyone together for a summit briefing. The briefing was equal parts logistics and Real Talk. The logistics was all about when to leave, what to pack, and what to wear. The Real Talk was about the dangers of the mountain, the difficulty of the endeavor, and the fact that we literally held each others’ lives in our hands.
Rob told us that if we reached the top of the Cleaver, then we needed to feel like we have 80% of our energy left, otherwise we may not have enough energy to get up and then back down. Plus, of course, the Cleaver stop was the point of no return. Go on from there, and you’re going to the top. All of this combined to create a massive decision point at the exact moment of a giant leap into the unknown. Above the Cleaver the air got thinner, and there was another 2000 vertical feet to endure. Not 500. Not 1000. Not 1500. 2000 - all of that, or none of that. The summit briefing concluded with a suggestion that we eat and then try and sleep as quickly as possible. Everyone raced to consume as many calories as possible, before jumping into sleeping bags.
Joe then came around to tell us the rope teams for the climb. He did it individually, and not to the group as a whole.. With the rope teams set, we climbed into bed and tried to sleep. Unfortunately, one of the team had a truly voracious snore, which meant that most people got little or no sleep. I snatched a couple of hours due to my last minute packing of my ear plugs, and to be honest I didn’t expect to sleep at all, so that felt ok to me. Jason didn’t sleep at all. Soon enough, the lights were on, and the hot water was brought out. We all crammed down two packets oatmeal and whatever other calories we could stomach at that time (it was more or less midnight), and then geared up. We each found our rope teams, and together we stepped out onto the ice.
|
Interlude Rope Teams Just before we turned in, Joe came around to tell us the rope teams for the following day. Jason and I had been talking about this subject for the last couple of days. When we asked the guides, they said that people that came together would normally climb together, but that the overall most important factor was a well balanced team. Obviously, if you have a strong rope team your chances of getting to the top are higher, compared to a rope team where one member isn’t able to keep or maintain the necessary pace. Remember that the guide sets the pace. Rob the guide explained it to us: we start at minute, and maintain a particular pace, because that enables us to get up and down the mountain as safely as possible. Once the sun comes up, the glaciers start coming alive, and the chance of “objective hazard” (another delightful mountaineering phrase) increases. The more time you spend out there in the sun, the greater the risk. Put simply: you maintain the pace set by the guide, or you have to stop (at the next rest stop - there is no facility for stopping the climb between stops, except in emergencies). No doubt there are some people that could have made it to the top of the mountain if RMI had set a slower pace. But that wouldn’t have been efficient - in that this would have entailed accepting - in RMI’s view - an unacceptable risk. So when Joe came to tell us our rope teams everyone was immediately silent and attentive, because we all understood the importance of the allocation. The Canadians and Colin were to form a team led by Luke. Curtis, Nick and Thomas were to be a team led by Joe. And Jason, myself and J2 were to be a team led by Abby. Jason and I were happy for three reasons. First, because J2 was clearly a strong, experienced climber. Second, because Abby was just no-nonsense, friendly and efficient (of course, all the guides were, but we’d spent some time on Abby’s rope by that point, and enjoyed the experience). Third, J2 would likely take the end knot of the rope. To explain this last point: the end knot of the rope experiences the most “yo-yo-ing” as the people in front speed up and slow down. The last person likely works harder than anyone else on the rope, because they need to be constantly working to make sure the rope is spaced appropriately to the person in front. By contrast, the number 2 or number 3 spot has less oscillation, and more predictability. |
13 August 2019
Walking away from Muir felt like leaving civilization and traveling blind into the unknown. It was another beautiful night, with a bright moon and a glistening glacier. We each had a headlamp, and our train across the Cowlitz Glacier was like a well ordered flight of fireflies. It would have been nice to look around, but that would have distracted from stepping, breathing and the rope. Every now and again we would snatch glimpses of the sky, or the surrounding peaks, or the ice above us. But mostly it was about walking, in silence, and listening for noises uphill. Our rope team was Abby at the front, followed by me, then Jason, then J2.
Each of us had left Muir with deep-seated doubts about our ability to complete the climb. For me, I physically felt good, but I had developed a large blister on one heel, which I had bandaged but didn’t know if it would get worse or not as I took the thousands upon thousands of steps up the mountain. Plus, although the altitude hadn’t hit me hard yet, we hadn’t got high enough to really know whether or not it would. For Jason, he was feeling tingling in his hands and face. He told Joe, who came over and said it was just a symptom of the climbing meds, and that he shouldn’t be worried. But who could know for sure? Afterwards, Jason told me that he fully intended to bail out if he didn’t feel good at either of the first two rest stops.
To be honest, I was just generally questioning the wisdom of what we were doing. Why was I striding out onto an ice sheet in the dead of night, to get to the top of a mountain that certainly wouldn’t care whether or not it was scaled by me. Was it an efficient decision? Part of me certainly didn’t think so, and wished that I’d just stayed in my sleeping bag on the plywood bunk, or better yet never engaged in this crazy plan in the first place. So many things could go wrong. My body could fail. My rope mates could fail. Rocks could fall. The weather could change. My gear could be the wrong gear. And for what? Climbing a mountain? Nevertheless, as I was thinking all of these thoughts I was still stepping, breathing, and watching the rope. Moving forward. Step. Breath. Step. Breath.
It took us an hour to cross the Cowlitz Glacier, scale the Cathedral Gap, cross the ice field and reach our first break at the Ingraham Flats. I was reminded of the team from two days previous that had failed, in the rain, to make it that far. I looked up, and there wasn’t a cloud about me. There were shooting stars, and the stars were all visible. But against that backdrop loomed the Cleaver. A giant wall of black against the night sky with a top that disappeared beyond view. The hardest part. The worst part.
The
Cleaver
At the first break, the Canadians decided not to continue. I was not surprised, and Joe didn’t try and talk them out of it. They had burned most of the fuel that they had just getting up to Muir, and the looming Cleaver was likely the final straw for them. The departure of the Canadians meant that we needed to change rope teams. Abby took the Canadians back to Muir, and Luke hooked in as the leader of our rope. Colin, the third member of Abby’s rope, was reassigned to one of the ropes managed by Rob and his assistant guides. Luckily for us, two of their climbers had not been able to make the climb up to Muir due to food poisoning, which means that they had capacity for two more climbers on their ropes.
With the teams reallocated, we started once again. In order to step onto the Cleaver proper, we first needed to ascend the Cowlitz Glacier, and get above a big crack system, before traversing across to the Cleaver. Approximately half of that traverse was in a high rock and ice fall zone - the highest objective danger of the climb. For that portion, efficient movement meant fast movement. No running - not that that would have been possible at that altitude and wearing all of our gear - but a brisk walk with very sharp ears. We were probably only on that portion for 3-4 minutes, but my heart rate definitely spiked at the point, and I wasn’t able to bring my breath back under control until we were on the Cleaver.
At the Cleaver we stopped to pull off our crampons. Joe had made the decision that the most efficient way up the Cleaver was without crampons, meaning that the time to take off / put back on was outweighed by the time gained by not needing to walk on rock in crampons. I was very glad about that. I didn’t need the Cleaver to be any harder than it already was.
Luke was an incredible leader up the Cleaver. He was a mountain goat with boundless fitness, who seemingly didn’t notice or care about the slope, the surface or the altitude. He would point out steps up, hand holds (where necessary) and loose rocks, all without breaking stride. It was easy just to slip into a fugue state, where the only existing things were Luke’s voice, my breath, the rocks, and my feet and hands. Step. Breath. Step. Breath.
Soon,
however, it became obvious that Joe’s rope in front of us was having some
issues. We were traveling slower than Joe wanted to travel, in fact, NEEDED to
travel. From the brief glimpses out of the corner of my eye I could see that
Thomas was in trouble. He was right behind Joe, and the rope between Joe and
Thomas was taunt, which is a sign that the person behind is not able to manage
the rope efficiently. This, in turn, puts stress on the person in front, and
makes it harder to walk. This continued for some time - Joe encouraging Thomas
to walk faster. Thomas trying, and succeeding for a few steps. And then
dropping back again.
Fortunately, it turned out we were fairly near to the top of the Cleaver, and the silver lining for our rope team, which was behind Joe’s team, was that our pace was likely gentler than it would have otherwise been. As a consequence, I emerged from the Cleaver feeling good. With a crampons back on, it was a short walk uphill to our next break. We had now reached 12,000 feet, and the crucial decision point. Go ahead to the top, or turn back now?
The
Decision
We had now spent almost 3 hours walking uphill. I grabbed some water, ate a bar, swallowed something sugary, and put on a layer of clothing. It was colder up higher, and we were now going to ascend into the upper mountain. My blister hadn’t gotten worse, and my breath still felt ok. My body also seemed to be ok, and I had no problem eating and drinking, which was a good sign. So when Joe turned to the group and asked if we were ok, I didn’t hesitate before saying yes, even though internally I there was still a part of me screaming out that I was being an idiot and I needed to get out of this situation as soon as possible.
At that point, I truly understood why some people turn back because they’re not “feeling it”. The primordial impulse to run away is almost overpowering, and it takes a conscious effort to push it back down. On another day, if the wind had started howling, or my blister had gotten worse, or any of a thousand different reasons, I would have listened to that impulse and decided not to go ahead. And that would have been the right decision. Pushing ahead in a state of fear is likely to become a self-fulfilling prophecy - fear breeds bad decisions, and the high mountain environment is inherently hostile.
Joe then turned to the rest of the party. The Texans were all good to go, and so was J2. Jason spent some time mulling over his decision. The tingling had continued but hadn’t gotten worse. Overall, his body felt really good, and he felt confident he had the energy, even if he was leaping into the unknown. After a few seconds, he gave Joe the thumbs up. This time, Joe asked him if he was sure. After another few seconds, he said he was. And that was that.
For Thomas, his climb was clearly over. He had barely made it to the top of the Cleaver, and the fatigue and distress on his face was obvious. This meant that the guides needed to figure out a safe way to get Thomas down, which meant Luke unhooking from our rope, and guiding Thomas down the Cleaver. In the dark. Of course, Luke being Luke he brought his inherent cheerfulness and energy to the situation, which hopefully made the long walk down at least a little bit less bad for Thomas.
Those of us that remained were redistributed. Jason and I went to Joe’s rope, which was now Joe, followed by Nick, then Curtis, then me, then Jason. J2 went to one of Rob’s rope teams. Of the 9 of us that had started, only 6 of us remained.
To
High Break
We stood up, stuffed our parkas back into our bags, put our backpacks on, and got ready to walk. The outer layer was generally only for use at rest stops, to maintain the body heat generated by climbing. As part of the tradition of breaks our first move would be to don the parka, before grabbing food and water, and our last move would be to stuff the parker into the pack before we started moving. It was now colder again, and still pitch black, which meant I added another layer. I was now wearing two base layers and a mid level puffy jacket.
We then started trudging up the hill. Luke’s parting words to us had been that from here to the top it was all in the mind. I struggled not to retort that he was forgetting the thousands of uphill steps in thinning air. Soon, we settled into a rhythm. Step, breath, watch the rope. The proper rope position going uphill is like a smiling face. Down. Touch the snow. Back up. Too much slack is bad, because if you fall then there’s a lot of slack before you can be arrested. Too little slack is bad, because then the person in front is towing you up the hill. It’s hard enough to maintain this position walking across flat ground. Uphill, in switchbacks, it’s a nightmare, because the distance between you and the person in front is growing and shrinking all the time. Breath. Step. Watch the rope.
We had now entered a part of the mountain that was all about switchbacks. One after another after another. As it got steeper, my technique changed. Sidestep. Breath. Sidestep. Breath. I must have done thousands and thousands side steps, getting up those switchbacks. We were climbing the Emmons Glacier, and as it got steeper it got harder and harder. Once again time ceased to have any meaning. There was nothing but the repeated motion. Over and over again. I was watching Curtis in front me. Jason was watching me. All of us stepping. And breathing. And watching the rope.
As
time passed we began to see features in mountain.
Giant walls of ice. Bottomless caverns. The ice in crevasses shining a bright
blue in the light of the headlamp. Possibility ice that hadn’t
been revealed in centuries. In some snow banks it was
possible to see layers showing an ash fall. Possibly when Mt St Helens had
erupted.
After a meaningless number of steps, and breaths, we reached High Break. We knew that from High Break we would be making the final push to the crater, which at this point was closer to us than the Cleaver. At some point along the way all doubt had left my mind. I knew I would make it to the top, if I was prepared to do the work. Once again we all shrugged off our packs, donned our parkas, and then ate and drank. I think the stop was actually meant to be about the sunrise, which was now peaking about the horizon. For my part, I really didn’t care. That’s not why I was there. I could admire the beauty, but in that moment I cared more about drinking and eating and staying warm.
And then I pulled the zipper off my parka. It half broke, and then it all broke. Some culmination of the hundreds of mountaineers that had rented it before me must have created a defect that became obvious right at that moment in time. It was still cold, and I only had a parka that could keep shut with the straps of my backpack. Fortunately the rising sun started to warm the air, and the conditions were otherwise benign. It’s not worth dwelling on any alternate scenario.
As we got up to march, parkas stayed on this time, and sunglasses came out. Everyone appeared to have reached the same point of quiet confidence that I had reached. And so we marched out.
To
the Crater
From High Break there was one more challenge that we had to overcome, before we had an unimpeded march to the top. At some point in the recent past an ice wall had formed on the route. With no feasible way of going around, the guides had installed a double ladder as the means to ascend and descend the wall. The process for ascending the ladders was: the first person - the guide - would ascend, and then clip in to an anchor. The next person would then climb the ladders. And so on. As each person climbed, we would maintain rope spacing, so that if the person fell off a ladder, or the ladder failed, the team could arrest that person.
When it came my turn to climb, I realized that the ladders actually flexed quite a bit, which didn’t fill me with confidence. The crampons also caught a little on the steps, which was disconcerting, and made it hard to maintain balance. And, at the top, it was necessary to climb out 3 or 4 steps using the ice axe and the hand rope that had been installed for that purpose. It was just like we practiced, except this time above a 2 ladder drop. Once again, the only way to treat it was as if the only direction was forward. Step. Breath. Step. Breath. And you’re done.
After that ladder we once again started walking, or more accurately side-stepping, up the mountain. High break was 13,000 feet, but I was still feeling good. Behind me, Jason was feeling the altitude more acutely, but could still maintain the pace. In front, Curtis and Nick were stomping out the pace like a well oiled machine. Soon, the terrain flatted out a bit. But when I looked up, all I could see was more switchbacks and mountain. So I just put my head back down and stepped, and breathed, and watched the rope.
And then something amazing happened. A group came down the hill and passed us. I imagined this was like a sailor in the ocean that sees a land bird. Land must be close by! So I looked up, and sure enough there was a rounded part of the hill. After a few more steps we walked through a gap in what was now clearly a crater rim, and I realized that we had made it.
The crater itself had the appearance of a tilted oval snowfield. It didn’t seem particularly large, and by itself it wasn’t particularly impressive. It was, however, clearly the top of the mountain, which turned it from ordinary to extraordinary. Steam was coming out of a series of vents around the edge of the crater, and the guides told us that one of the first teams to summit Rainier had actually jumped into the hot pools that you could reach through the vents, in order to wait out a storm. Joe described that as a “one way option”, since obviously once you’re wet, you’re wet, so you’re in the pool until the weather clears. All in all, strictly only when it’s the last available option.
We
put down our packs and high-fived. Again, I felt surprisingly good - I ate, and
then drank, and then cursed the zipper on my defective parker. I then took
stock of my surroundings. We were surrounded by backpacks, and there was a
clear trail to the Columbia Crest. It was across the crater and up a small
hill. We could leave our packs and take nothing but our ice axes. I was definitely doing it.
Joe
asked Jason if he was going to come. Jason’s response was no. The last stretch
had taken it out of him, and he was feeling tired. Plus
what was the point of climbing a stupid little hill anyway? The crater was the
top of Rainier, as far as he was concerned. Joe wasn’t
having a bar of it, though. He told Jason he had to do it, with the implication
that someone who grew up 50 miles away shouldn’t be
stopping at the crater. Joe said that Jason was in good shape, and he would
regret it if he didn’t. What could you say to that?
Obviously, the only thing to do was to join the walk across to the rim.
We walked across the snow, and climbed a little path. There was a metal box, containing a book signed by Rainier summiteers. Jason added our names, and then we climbed the remaining few steps to the crest. More high fives, and lots of photos, and a glorious view looking over what felt like a good portion of the State of Washington. At the time, I think my initial emotion was incredulity. I was amazed that I had actually made it to the top. And for me, in that moment, the effort was all worth it. I learned that I was capable of doing this thing that was really hard, and I felt the deep satisfaction of achieving a goal that requires months of discipline, preparation and effort, which could all have been for nothing - but wasn’t.
The
Descent
Soon enough a cloud blew in, and that was enough to spark the guides into action. The weather can change quickly at the top of the mountain, and in any case we were on a schedule. It took us something like 6 hours to get to the top, and now we were going to spend at least 5 hours getting down. We all stuffed our parkas back in our bags, put our bags on our bags, and grabbed our ice axes, before marching out of the crater rim.
Downhill travel on the mountain is a different kind of hard. The crampons will grip on just about any surface, but rope management becomes more important, because you are responsible for not letting rope pool at the feet of the person in front of you, which could cause them to trip. You are also moving at a fast pace, which means your toes are slamming into the ends of your boots. Soon, my heel blister had lots of brothers and sisters.
From the crater we descended to the ladders, made the even scarier downward descent of the ladders, and then continued on. We skipped High Break, and headed straight to the Cleaver. Of this part of the descent nothing stands out in my memory, except for those parts of the mountain that I could now glimpse that were previously in the dark. We had a job to do, and that job was to get off the mountain.
For much of this portion our rope order was reversed. Jason was leading, followed by me, and then Curtis, Nick and Joe. In the snow part, this was a relatively easy job for Jason, although Joe kept asking him to speed up so we could catch Rob’s ropes, which were now several hundred feet in front of us. Once again efficiency was the most important concept. How fast could we go, with tired legs and plunging our feet downhill? It was a constant balance, although gravity was now on our side.
We took a break at the top of the Cleaver. More food. More water. Took a layer off. I don’t think I can look an energy bar in the face for months at this point. We also took off our crampons, and then came face to face what we had scrambled up in the dark. The darkness had hidden the fact that Cleaver was basically a big pile of rocks, with a cliff on each side. Luke knew the Cleaver intimately, and had navigated by instinct. Jason was now leading us down, and in spots the route was far from certain.
We got into a routine: Jason would look. If he had doubt, he would ask me. If I had doubt, we would shout back to Joe. If we’d gone the wrong way, we would backtrack and go the right way. And step by step by step we made our way down. Once again, the view was spectacular. Or those bits of it that I was able to see out the corner of my eye while I was trying not to step on the wrong rock, or put myself off balance. We were surrounded by glaciers, and the mountain range in front of us was crystal clear.
At the bottom of the Cleaver, we put our crampons back on, and Joe came to the front of the rope. It was now time to move efficiently across the area of high objective hazard on the Cowlitz Glacier. Efficiently in this context meant a walk that was almost a run. After more than 10 hours of cardio, traveling up and down the mountain, we were now pushing our heart rates into the red zone. Whatever energy I had been hoarding was burned in an instant by the 2 minute power walk under the towering glacial cliffs. I couldn’t even listen for rocks or ice, because my breath was too loud. All I could do was keep up with Curtis and hope that it would be over soon. Later, Jason and I chatted, and we agreed that was the hardest burst of the entire climb.
When we reached the break at the Ingraham Flats, it felt like we were done. But of course, we weren’t. We were still an hour from Muir, so once again I reached into my pockets, pulled out some calories, and consumed them joylessly. We then got back on our feet for the final stretch. Across the ice field - using the steps that we had carved the day before - down Cathedral Gap, and then across the Cowlitz Glacier. The walk across the glacier was hard, because you could see Muir the entire time, off in the distance. Once again it was time to just step and breathe, knowing that a rest was close.
Finally,
we stepped off the ice and onto the rock of Muir. David, Christa and Thomas
were waiting for us. I think Thomas was still scheming for another shot at the
mountain. The top of the Cleaver was better than what he had done the last
time, and maybe next time would be the time he made it. The Canadians were
philosophical. They felt that they had done well, made the right decision, and
really enjoyed the trip (and watching the sunrise from comparative comfort
while we were still up on the mountain). Everyone exchanged high-fives, and
then the one hour clock started.
From
Muir back to Paradise (and Ashford)
We had now been awake for 12 hours, and climbing for over 11. The guides knew that if we were given the chance we would all pass out on our feet. But we still had 4500 feet to get down to the shuttle. To keep momentum, we were given 1 hour to get ready to roll. In that time we stuffed all of our gear into our bags - or strapped it to the outside - took our feet out of our boots, and bandaged when necessary. And then, inevitably, we ate and drank. Then, as if only a moment had passed, Abby led us out and onto the Muir snowfield.
On another day, with fresh legs, it might have been pleasant to walk/slide down the snowfield. Parts of it were fun. But most of it was trying to balance with a pack on my back and my feet moving under me. The poles in my hands were helpful, but I still ended up on my backside more than a few times. Again, after an irrelevant number of downward steps we exited the snowfield, and changed our shoes. At that point, there was still another hour to the car park, which meant another irrelevant number of steps, but this time on a hiking path through hordes of hikers and tourists.
Lots of people turned, stared and asked questions as we were walking down the path. They asked if we had been up the mountain. They asked about the snow. The pointed out our gear to each other. One girl even called us Mountain Gangsters to her friends (I’m still unclear what that was intended to mean). We were unshowered, dirty, carrying strange equipment and with dog tired expressions. It all combined to make me feel like an astronaut returning safely to Earth, greeted by those poor Earth-bound souls that had not experienced Space.
We eventually made it to the car park, and the bus, and Ashford. And from there food, and a shower, and a bed. But the one comment that did stick in my mind that I heard on the way down was from a grizzled old man with his family. He shouted out congratulations, and then said “your life will never be the same again, will it?” It seemed like an oddly dramatic statement for one complete stranger to make to another, but I keep thinking about it. There is something about the act of climbing that inspires philosophy, and reflection. Clearly the old man had felt it, and he knew that we were now his brothers and sisters, because we had felt it too. And he was right.
Postscript
22 June 2020
Almost a year has passed since I wrote the story of the climb, and it would be a massive understatement to say that the intervening time has brought many changes. I am typing this as I sit at the desk in my home office, where I have been working now for almost 4 months. When I re-read the story, the pandemic lockdown falls away, and I remember the awe, gratitude, exhaustion and satisfaction that I felt as we entered the Mount Rainier crater.
But even a pandemic does not stop the world from turning, and the near future brings new adventures and challenges for both Jason and myself. Jason has left his job and intends to take the summer off. I am leaving the US, and moving to Queenstown, New Zealand, in September. I don’t know what the future holds, but the memory of Rainier makes we want to try and do things that are amazing and hard, and so I hope and expect that Jason and I have many adventures to come.
Burlingame, California