On top of the world (well, o.k., Washington State)

With any true adventure, there are as many different ways to tell the story as there are participants. Here you see George and me setting out on our Mt. Rainier climb. Let's start with George's take (or Mom's take on George's take, since I'm trying to quote things he's said to me about the experience.)

People don't realize just how difficult it really is to climb Mt. Rainier. The guides have an incredibly tough job. Our lead guide was telling me he takes a summit team up Mt. Rainier (a three day stint--to train, go up, and come back down), then he gets a day off, then he takes up another one, all summer long. And it's so strenuous: He led us up at the pace of about 1,000 vertical feet per hour! 

 

From Camp Muir, we hiked 4.5 miles to the summit, and we did it all in the dark, before the sun even came up. It didn't matter that I couldn't see anything--I was spending every last ounce of focus on pressure-breathing and rest-stepping and scrambling up snow with crampons on my feet. Some parts were rocky, and with crampons on, it was like scraping nails on a blackboard.

 

Since Rainier is a volcano, the top of the mountain is this big crater, and anywhere on the rim is considered the summit. But the true summit, from where we arrived at the rim, was another quarter mile away.

 

It was clouded in when we got there, with a 40 mph wind and 60 mph gusts, so you couldn't see much and you could hardly stand. Then there was the windchill. Some people in my group chose not to do the extra 45-minute hike to the summit registry and back, but I went over there.

 

Once the sun came up and we headed back down, it cleared up, and I was amazed by how dangerous it actually was--all the sheer drop-offs and rock and icefall. There were incredible views.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Claire's version of events:

At least one of us made it!!! 

 

I have to say, this experience is not for everyone. I did my best to be prepared, to get in shape, to keep an open mind. But let's face it--Mt. Rainier is a big, steep, glaciated mountain. Still, I was prepared to have a blast. George and I stayed in the Whittaker Bunkhouse in Ashford. There were four single beds in this one little attic room with a sloped ceiling. One of our bunkmates the first night came in after we'd gone to bed. He had a full-blown head cold and coughed and hacked all night, then abruptly packed up and left at 5 am. I still don't even know what he looked like. The next day we went out to Paradise for a day-long training for how to hike on a rope team, how to self-arrest with an ice ax, how to operate an avalanche transceiver.

 

Still, I was having a blast. We set out at 8 a.m. on a shuttle bus to Paradise. We hiked up with 45-lb. packs from 6,600 feet to Camp Muir at 10,000 feet. Once we got up there at 3:30 in the afternoon, we ate dinner, got briefed about the summit climb, repacked our gear, and went to bed, which meant lying in this bunkhouse stacked in three tiers in rows 4-5 across. We went to bed at 6 p.m., the sun still blaring in the window. The guy next to me got altitude sickness in the middle of the "night" and barfed into a plastic bag.

 

Still, I was having a blast. At midnight, our guides woke us up. We gulped down oatmeal and hot chocolate, roped together like lamplit beads on a string and struck out for the summit by one in the morning. There were lots of enthusiastic weather reports from the guides--very little wind, perfect night, gorgeous weather, all systems go, this-is-going-to-be-awesome, etc., etc. An hour and fifteen minutes later, I was sitting on my pack in a two-inch down parka, choking down a Reese's peanut butter cup with gatorade. The wind was strong and biting:  When I took off my gloves, my hands were so instantly cold I couldn't get the wrapper off the chocolate. We were at 11,000 feet, on something called "the flats."

Still, I was having a blast. After a  ten minute break and a hasty change into warmer clothes, we set out again for what the guides had warned us would be the toughest part of the climb: Disappointment Cleaver.  With every step, I had to breathe harder, and every step was practically vertical. It was dark out. Sometimes the slope at my feet was snow, sometimes it was crumbling rock. It was very very steep. I was roped tightly to the guide in front of me, with two more climbers behind me. The pace was relentless, we were moving fast, faster than I could go. As I had more and more trouble breathing, when I picked up a foot to take a step, I couldn't control where it landed. I began to stagger. I begged the guide:  "Wait, wait, I can't breathe," but he just kept going, and the rope yanked me forward, sometimes bringing me to my hands and knees against the vertical wall of mountain. Still, I was desperate to pull it together, to rest-step, to pressure-breathe, to stand upright, but my body dictated otherwise. I kept apologizing to Walter, my guide, for having to rope-tow me up the mountain. "Sorry. Sorry. I can't breathe. I'm sorry." Above me the slope rose like a huge white cape to the skyline, the lamps of the climbers ahead dotting the darkness. It always went up, and up, like it would never end.

 

I wasn't having a blast anymore. I couldn't get enough oxygen to lift my legs. I couldn't keep my balance and wavered precariously along the sheer, inky-black drop-offs. Somehow, I kept going forward. Finally, we made it to the breakpoint and I slumped on my pack, my entire body shaking violently. Walter and I talked. The lead guide Brent and I talked. I wouldn't be going on. Walter would remain behind and take me back down to Camp Muir. They roped up George and Michael to different leaders. A few minutes later, in the gradually softening light, the others marched away toward the summit, still 2,000 vertical feet away. It was 3:30 a.m. Walter and I sat a few moments longer. The edge of the sky to the left grew lighter. I stood shakily when Walter told me to and started back down that hellish dragon-spine of a ridge, me leading the way this time at my own pace. A couple of hundred feet down, Walter pointed out a spot where I could rest out of the wind. While he repaired the trail, I gazed out over the vast, cloud-coated world, the sun rising, lighting up first Mt. Hood, then Mt. St. Helens, then Mt. Adams. Around me, the snowfields turned from rose to pale gray to white.

And I was perfectly happy. 12,300 feet up Mt. Rainier, I had my own personal summit, and it was enough.

Thanks, everyone, for your good thoughts, for lifting us up the mountain. It was awesome!