At the peak of his game
14,411 FEET | Brutal trek of Washington's highest mount ends with writer conquering Rainier
PARADISE, Wash. -- Mount Rainier has many moods, from the sublime to the downright murderous.
The first time I tried to make it to the top of this 14,411-foot, glacier-clad volcano and towering icon of the Northwest, she would have none of it.
(Courtesy International Mountain Guides)
WHEN TO CLIMB: Mount Rainier can be climbed year-round, though summer is the most popular season, when as many as 10,000 people attempt the climb. Conditions can be especially ferocious in the winter, which makes Rainier a good training ground for people headed to other high peaks, such as Alaska's 20,320-foot Denali, also known as Mount McKinley.
GUIDES: International Mountain Guides (IMG) offers at least six different routes on Rainier, ranging from the standard Disappointment Cleaver route to the much more difficult ascent up Liberty Ridge, (360) 569-2609, www.mountainguides.com. Other guides include Rainier Mountaineering Inc., (888) 892-5462, www.rmiguides.com; and Alpine Ascents International, (206) 378-1927, www.alpineascents.com. Three-day summit climbs with these outfitters cost around $1,200. The guides also offer climbs on other Northwest peaks, including Mount Adams (12,276 feet) and craggy Mount Shuksan (9,127 feet), and lead trips to mountains in Alaska, Latin America, Africa, Europe and the Himalayas, among other places.
Four days into a Rainier Mountaineering Inc. winter climbing seminar led by Everest veteran and guide George Dunn, my group of eight hearty souls and instructors was eager to have a go at the summit. It was early February and we were based at the Camp Muir hut, elevation 10,000 feet.
We'd been trudging up and down the ice-covered slopes, learning crucial mountaineering skills like how to "self arrest" with an ice ax to avoid tumbling into crevasses or smashing into rocks after a fall. We also practiced roped glacier travel on crampons (spiked footwear worn over boots), kicking steps, building caves and descending safely.
We'd hiked up Rocky Ridge to the Cowlitz Cleaver, gaining perhaps 2,000 vertical feet and all-important boots-on-the-snow experience.
We also got different views of the mountain, stopping for lunch one day above a craggy outcropping called Little Tahoma, which separates the Emmons and Ingraham glaciers.
While the training days had been sunny, fickle Mother Nature had turned harsh on us during our last night on the mountain, blasting the upper reaches of the volcano with 60-mph winds and bone-chilling, frostbite-inducing temperatures. We were lucky to be inside a solid shelter.
Given the fierce weather, Dunn decided around 1 a.m. that it would be best if we stayed tucked in our sleeping bags that brutal morning. We were disappointed but not suicidal. Besides, with 480-plus ascents of Rainier under his belt, we trusted Dunn's judgment.
Truth be told, I was both frustrated and relieved. Every year, climbers die on these slopes.
During the 1990s, I lived in Olympia, Wash., about 90 miles from Rainier. I'd been looking up at the big peak for five years before deciding to climb it.
I'd spent most of my free time whitewater kayaking the rivers in the Cascades and skiing at resorts up and down the West Coast. But Rainier beckoned, and I'd always figured any outdoorsman worth his salt should climb it. Besides, I was in my early 40s and not getting any younger.
Dunn, who has summited Mount Everest and is an International Mountain Guides (IMG) founder, warned me that an ascent of Mount Rainier is nothing to take lightly. Many who don't prepare properly fail to make it to the top. Even those who are prepared sometimes get sick on the way up.
"It's no slam dunk," said Dunn, a rugged 55-year-old who first climbed Rainier as a teen. He'll likely bag his 500th ascent of the mountain within a year or two. "Only 60 percent of those who try actually achieve the summit because of a lack of conditioning and, of course, weather."
The big volcano is an ideal training ground for both novice mountaineers as well as veterans looking to tackle the more difficult routes, but even the so-called "easier" climbs take a lot of endurance, Dunn said. Hiking from the Paradise visitor center at 6,000 feet to the 14,411-foot summit in two or sometimes three days can certainly tax the legs and lungs if you aren't in shape.
The key to preparing, according to Dunn, is consistent training for several months -- especially for those over 40. This entails hiking or cycling up hills, swimming and other strenuous cardiovascular workouts at least three days a week.
A few months after my thwarted bid for the summit, I was back on the second-highest mountain in the Lower 48. (Only California's 14,505-foot Mount Whitney is taller.)
Once again, I was trudging up to Camp Muir from Paradise, roughly 4,000 feet below and a four-plus-hour hike away.
This time, I was part of a two-day American Lung Association-sponsored summit attempt with climbing legend Lou Whittaker. Sherpa Nawang Gombu came along, too.
Whittaker was part of the 1963 expedition that put the first American -- Lou's twin, Jim Whittaker of Seattle -- on top of 29,029-foot Mount Everest. Gombu also summited, but Lou didn't make it to the top.
For our climb, the amiable Sherpa was now in his 60s. But he was as nimble as a mountain goat. While the rest of us sucked down the air after every few steps higher, Gombu seemed to be barely breathing. He was light on his toes and always smiling. In a word, inspiring. Then again, he'd spent his life climbing and guiding in the Himalayas.
For him, Rainier probably wasn't much more taxing than a walk in the woods. For the rest of us, though, it was a grunt. And then some.
We'd arrived at Camp Muir early in the afternoon. Our guides gave us for basic instructions for the climb. Lou Whittaker wished us luck before heading back down to RMI's office in Paradise.
We ate our sandwiches and chatted with fellow climbers before turning in early that night in hopes of catching a few hours sleep.
Around 1:30 a.m., we woke to the sound of the guides telling us "it's time to climb."
This time around, Mother Nature was on our side. The weather was balmy without even a hint of wind for our summit push.
Less than an hour later, we were roped up -- those crevasses can be hundreds of feet deep -- walking toward Disappointment Cleaver. We crossed Cowlitz Glacier, marched through the gap in Cathedral Ridge and then gained the flats of the Ingraham Glacier around 11,000 feet.
We stopped for water and some granola bars and GORP in the half light of a full, golden moon that seemed to fill much of the sky. The scene, as we began walking again, was surreal.
My group wasn't alone on the east side of mountain. Far ahead were another 50 or so climbers strung out in groups or six or more. They wore helmets and head lamps.
With each step, the lights bobbed a bit like so many dancing fireflies. It's a magical image permanently etched in my brain.
We hiked upward past huge chunks of ice, eventually reaching a slope that had a foreboding angle of about 35 degrees. Because we were now at roughly 13,000 feet, each step was followed by a deep breath, then another step and another breath.
Bit by bit, weary climbers peeled off from groups and found safe places on the mountainside to wait for their comrades to reach the summit and then return for them. The guides had told them -- in no uncertain terms -- to stay put. Wandering off on their own could be fatal.
Onward we trudged, gaining a bit of elevation with each step. Then, about six hours after starting, we reached the big crater that forms the top of the mountain.
We slapped backs and shook hands all around. Some people even made cell phone calls to loved ones to tell them we'd made it.
But at 14,211 feet, we hadn't quite hit the tippy top. The true summit was across the glacier on the west side. So off hiked several companions and I with legs that felt like they were made of lead. It was anything but easy, despite the crater being as flat as a Midwest cornfield.
About 20 minutes later, three of us walked up the final 200 feet. We stood on top of Columbia Crest, giving each other high fives.
I called my son, who was 7 years old at the time, to let him know where I was: standing at the highest point in the state. Alas, all I got was his mother's answering machine.
"I had to walk up to the real summit," I told one of my climbing companions as we snapped each other's pictures.
Out to the west, I could see the sun glinting off a silvery Puget Sound. Mount Shuksan, not far from the Canadian border, was to the north. In the opposite direction loomed Mount Adams, the blown-out remnant of Mount St. Helens and Mount Hood down in Oregon.
The descent was, well, a bit easier. But we still had to be careful about where we stepped. Because we were roped up, our climbing partners would have been able stop our fall by digging their ice axes in the slope. But we preferred they didn't have to try.
Within three hours we were back at Camp Muir. We gathered our gear and made the trudge down to Paradise, where I got in my car and drove home to Olympia.
Now, whenever I see Mount Rainier, I can't help but think of how the Cascades looked from my perch on Columbia Crest.
And if anyone's around, I show them just where I stood.
"See that little bump up there..."
Brian E. Clark is a Madison-based free-lance writer.