Connecting With The Old West

"Those old pilgrims believed stories in which the west was a promise, a far away place where decent people could escape the wreckage of the old world and start over.  Come to me, the dream whispers, and you can have one more chance."

--William Kittredge, Heaven on Earth

This last weekend I was able to make a drive down with my family to spend some time in Boise, Idaho for my sister-in-law's wedding.  Usually we make this trip as a family once or twice per year.  It's an 8 hour trip (each way) through country that is - for the most part - vast and empty.  I always enjoy making this drive.  

After crossing over Snoqualmie Pass and leaving the lush vegetation of home behind, we begin a long trip through the mountains of central Washington.  Passing by old mining communities (hidden from us on the interstate) we eventually arrive in Yakima and pass by the orchards and farmlands of the Columbia plateau.  Once we get to Oregon things get very desolate from Pendleton (just over the Columbia River) all the way to Ontario on the Idaho border.

This is beautiful country that follows the old Oregon Trail.  It is country that - in large measure - appears to be almost unchanged from the time the pioneers began crossing over it with their wagons and handcarts nearly 200 years ago.  Driving along the Columbia River one can easily imagine Lewis and Clark leading their expedition downstream - excited to know that their long-sought destination was only a couple hundred easy miles away.

In my urban life I find that I crave these connections to the past from time to time.  The American West has been a place of myth and legend since even before the first settlers arrived.  There exist enough stories of cowboys and Indians, outlaws and lawmen, prospectors, trappers, explorers, missionaries, and pioneers to fill all the pages of a forest of paper.  These stories captivate me.

Driving through eastern Oregon on I-84, one sees dozens of old abandoned farm buildings and at least one large abandoned cement plant (in Lime) in an advanced state of disrepair.  Each time I pass one of these structures my curiosity is piqued and I long to know its history.  When was this home abandoned?  What were the circumstances?  The people who lived and worked at that now-decrepit, lonely factory - where did they come from and where have they gone?  The old abandoned motel at Farewell Bend - why did it close?  What failed dreams does it represent?

Part of me wants to stop at every historical marker and read every Wikipedia entry about every fold in the topography to get a better sense of this area and the people who came before.  Of course, a car full of kids ensures that the miles don't slow down for such detours.

So many of these places are slipping farther into the past as nature reclaims them.  As I drive through this country I think about my ancestors who heard the whispering of the dream as Kittredge describes it.  In the mid-19th century they longed for a new start on a new frontier in one of the last great (largely) unexplored places on the Earth.  Leaving everything behind they came across oceans and continents and carved their dreams out of the land, coaxing crops out of the hard Utah and Idaho soil in the generations before my grandparents were born.  Eventually my grandparents made their way to Seattle where my parents met and from there the history is mine.

I have so much respect for these pioneers - the ones through whom I trace my lineage and all the others who walked new paths and charted new courses.

In today's world I find that I am constantly considering new paths.  I am trying to navigate my professional and personal life in light of the wisdom of generations before - purchased and passed along at such great cost.  I want to learn the lessons of my history to ensure that my efforts - and all the efforts of those who walked these paths before me - will not be in vain.

As I start my new job next week this whole idea is very heavy on my mind.  I feel like I am forging a new path for myself as I walk out a bit into the unknown.  Practicing law or working in public accounting is all very well and good, but unlike those well-trod professions my new position is one I will largely have to make work for myself.  There is nobody who has walked this particular way before who can show me which way to go.  Although I'm not seeking to fly away from the wreckage of an old world, I do long for the promise of a new start.  I want to explore.  I want to work hard and coax my own success out of a different kind of soil.

I'm so excited for the challenge as I follow these whisperings in pursuit of the same dream of generations past.

The One Where I Climb Rainier, Part IV

This is Part 4 of a 4 part series.  Parts I, II, and III can be found here, here, and here.

Sunday, August 18, 2013

Sunday dawned calm and bright.  Wanting to start our trek back to Paradise by about 8:00, we began to come back to life at 6:30.  It was a little early, but the seven-plus hours of sleep felt amazing compared to the previous two nights.  Our tent was littered with smelly gear, smelly clothing, smelly food, smelly people, and smelly garbage, so we set about getting everything stowed as best we could.

The morning after

Packing up gear

At one point I put on my boots to make a trip up to the bathrooms.  The previous evening I had been too tired to realize the full extent of the thrashing my feet had endured.  After my first two steps with those shoes I nearly crumpled to the ground in pain.  Each step made me feel like my feet were being flayed alive.  I knew that each step down the mountain (we still had 4.2 miles to go!) was going to be pure agony and demand a supreme force of willpower.

Figuring I'd better get a head start, I gulped down some Advil and set out on my own once my gear was all packed.  It didn't take long for the rest of the group to catch up.  I stumbled down as best I could and tried to glissade a bit on the snowfield where that was possible.  Conditions for sliding weren't great though, so that approach didn't save my feet from very much pain.

Returning to Earth

I slid when I could...

Over the last half-mile the soft snow ultimately gives way to hard asphalt; as this happened, the pain in my feet shifted a forward bit to my toes.  Each hard step on the hard surface sent jolts of pain through both of my big toes.  When I took off my socks in my living room several hours later I wasn't too surprised to find swelling, blisters, lots of chafing, and two purple toenails that appeared ready to fall off.  (I'm writing this post three weeks after the fact and they still look about the same).

We made it back to the parking lot at about 11:00.  We were elated, relieved, exhausted, and very satisfied with our experience.

Victory formation

Final Thoughts

Climbing this mountain was a hard, hard thing.  Physically, mentally, and emotionally.  The physical toll was pretty obvious.  I wasn't in the best shape of my life going into this experience, but I was in decent shape compared with how I've been in recent years.  The biking this year has really helped, though it didn't necessarily put me in great climbing shape.  I experienced all of the exhaustion that I expected to feel.  Several times I had to dig deep to find the strength to keep powering forward rather than requesting a break.  We maintained a steady, slow pace - which helped - but the path seemed endless over the last few hours to the top and it felt that way again over the last few hours back to Camp Muir.  It required a real mental push to get through those moments.

The unexpected physical challenge had everything to do with my boots.  While I expected not to enjoy optimum comfort with a pair of rented mountaineering boots, I did not expect the excruciation that this pair would ultimately dish out.  It made for some very painful climbing and some even more painful descending.

I was grateful to not feel any kind of altitude sickness.  Other than the thin air, I was able to think clearly and not suffer from any real physical discomfort due to our elevation.

I found myself in a strange emotional place during the entire climb.  I watched as some of my climbing mates struggled with (what I would later learn was) self doubt and fear during the climb.  I never felt those things.  Despite the extreme nature of the environment I was in, I felt at all times peaceful and confident in our team and in our surroundings.  It was easy to tell myself that this was a place where dozens of people pass up and down - safely - every weekend and consequently to feel safe about the route.  I also felt confident in our team (especially Mike).  I was comfortable believing that his skills would be adequate to handle any situation we found ourselves in, and that his judgment would help us to avoid any bad situations altogether.  Emotionally I was stable and positive and I was able to provide support to my mates through their struggles.

In the end, it was simply tremendously satisfying to make it to the top of that mountain.  Our family motto over the last couple of years has become "I can do hard things."  More than once during our climb I thought of Maryn who one year prior to our climb had completed a 20-mile backpacking trip with our family.  I remember watching her struggle mightily over the course of a 10-mile day and needing to provide her lots of encouragement so she could make it to our destination.  Having watched my four-year-old display such grit I knew there was no way I was going to back down in the face of the difficult obstacles ahead of me.

And so it goes with life.  An experience like this is such a great metaphor for the rest of life.  As I move on to new and unknown challenges, this is an experience that I will forever be able to look back on and draw strength from.

Following our climb, Mike sent out an email to our group congratulating us and in it he said something I found quite appropriate.  He wrote:

"Climbing Rainier is a hard thing, but there are future challenges that can and will be equally difficult.  Remember that you can do hard things.  Put your face towards those 30-45 mph winds and keep climbing.  At some point the winds will change, the difficulties will fade into distant memories and the experience of the journey with trusted friends will be the real reward."

One thing I told Heather when I was speaking with her on the summit was that I never wanted to go back to that place again.  It was so difficult to reach and exacted such a toll - and at that moment wanted nothing more than my warm bed.  From three weeks later, however, I find that Mike's words are true.  The difficulties are starting to fade and the memory is becoming a treasure to me.  It is a treasure that I hope never fades.

There and back again - together

"We are now in the mountains and they are in us, kindling enthusiasm, making every nerve quiver, filling every pore and cell of us." - John Muir

The One Where I Climb Rainier, Part III

This is Part 3 of a 4 part series.  Parts I and II can be found here and here.

Saturday, August 17, 2013
 

Although we'd been worried about a dubious weather forecast showing lots of wind and possible precipitation, when I poked my head out of the tent at 2:30 I found a dazzlingly clear sky full of brilliant stars and only a slight breeze blowing. It was one of those rare visions of the Milky Way in all its radiance filling the vast expanse above our heads and seeming to swallow up our little mountain.
 

Rising and. . .Shining

 

We made preparations, secured our gear, and started hiking in the black of night with only our headlamps to light our way. It was about 4:00 am.

The first hour after setting out from camp was one of the most difficult stretches of the trip for me. I am not used to hiking in the dark and I had a hard time warming up after a difficult night's sleep. At that point I had only slept for about 5 hours during the previous two nights and I was starting to really feel the fatigue. On top of that, the visual distances really started to play tricks on my mind that morning. The boot track had been clearly visible the night before and it only looked like a pretty short distance to cover before completing the traverse of the Cowlitz glacier and emerging onto the scree field that would take us up and over the ridge onto Ingraham Glacier. But it seemed to take forever to cross. About one hour after leaving camp, we had not yet crested the ridge (~10,600 feet) we were heading toward.

 

Some miserable hiking through this stretch

 

Finally we made it up and over, and what a sight we saw! Moments before making the ridge I had noticed that the first weak blue light of the dawn was just starting to show off to the east (over the ridge). As we crested, we were met with the deep red and orange glow of an early sunrise. We were over the clouds, and their pale white tops were just visible in the early light. The stars and the Milky Way were still out in all their glory and silhouetted against this brilliant canvas was Little Tahoma - a rugged pyramid of a peak rising to almost 11,200 feet - directly in front of us.

This was for me one of those breathtaking moments - impossible to really capture with a camera - that causes one to forget all of one's current labors and burdens. I felt like I could have stayed right there, in that moment, forever. But even as this vision opened before me, the light was growing and the stars were fading quickly. Fifteen minutes later all but the brightest stars had gone to sleep and the world had changed. We began our foray onto the Ingraham Glacier.

The Ingraham Glacier was one of the more sobering stretches of the climb for me. In 1981 it was the site of the deadliest single mountaineering accident in United States history. On June 21st of that year 10 climbers and their RMI climbing guide were killed in a freak icefall accident as they were swept into a crevasse not far from Ingraham Flats. Their bodies remain entombed in the glacier to this day. I could not help but dwell a bit on this sobering fact as we made our way alongside the towering Cathedral Rock headwall where evidence of snow and icefall was littered all around us.

All things considered it is one of the safest stretches of the entire climb and it proved to be a good spot for our first break. It was here that everyone in the group put their crampons on and got roped up together. From this point forward the crevasse danger would be more pronounced. Everybody took in a bit of food and water and we watched the sun slip up over the horizon and slide through a layer of forest fire haze off to the east. In that land of ice and snow it was immediately time to apply sunscreen and to don our sunglasses.

We split into two rope teams: Mike led Aaron and Dallyn on his rope and Brent led me, Lara, and John on ours.

As we left Ingraham Flats the trail got a bit steeper. From this point we began our long traverse of the glacier, during which we would step or hop over several crevasses. Some of them less than a foot in width, others pushing 3 feet wide. The wider ones appeared to be well over 100 feet deep and gave us all a bit of a pause before crossing.

It was during this traverse that the terrain started to appear particularly inhospitable. As the sun inched higher and we got a better view of our surroundings, it became clear that we were in a place almost altogether devoid of life and that certainly would not sustain our lives if we spent too much time there. The terrain was brutally rugged, with evidence of avalanches and rockfall all around us. It appeared like we were navigating a choppy sea with endless impenetrable waves of crevasses punctuating the landscape.
 

An overview of Ingraham Flats

Ingraham Glacier - Heavily Crevassed

In roughly an hour's time from Ingraham Flats we made it to Disappointment Cleaver. The DC, as everyone calls it, is a prominent rock outcropping - the last significant rock exposure on the way to the summit (via this route). Climbers typically leave their crampons on as they traverse this ridge of crumbly loose rock. It's a pretty miserable stretch of trail. There were lots of slips and wobbles through this section as I found myself frequently reaching out to brace or catch myself by grabbing onto some jagged piece of rock. Finally though we approached the top of the cleaver.

The rock on the right is DC

Shortly before we made the top a couple of guides were hustling in the opposite direction with a look of urgency about them. They warned us that a helicopter would soon be arriving at the top of the cleaver to extract a member of their party who had been injured. This piqued our interest and reminded us all once again what a dangerous environment we were operating in.

As we made the top of the cleaver we saw where the injured climber had been put inside a bivvy bag atop a litter. I overheard one of the rangers there on the radio reporting that the injured woman was alert and conscious (Mike had heard someone else say at a different point that she had not been conscious). The group huddled around the climber all urged us to leave the area so that the helicopter could operate without worrying about our group interfering. So we climbed on.

From the top of DC we had a clear view of the most formidable obstacle on our path to the summit. For weeks I had been reading about the precarious ice-step that had opened up on this route. This ice step was a series of significant, wide crevasses that were impossible to avoid and could only be crossed by going over a series of aluminum ladders that the guides had lain down and anchored into the snow.

From several hundred vertical feet below we saw groups coming down across these ladders - walking out on these tiny platforms above hundreds of feet of thin air.

Once we had made it a ways past the injured climber we took another 10-minute break. At this point the time was about 9:30 and it was becoming apparent that we were making pretty slow progress on our climb. A couple of members of the group expressed doubt and frustration about their abilities to endure all the way to the top. I was feeling well-fatigued myself (the lack of sleep was really catching up to us all, I think) but I took the opportunity to express confidence that everyone in the group was doing great and had the ability to reach our goal. I don't know whether anyone believed me or not, but no more doubts were expressed and we were soon on our way again.

 

Taking a break - gathering courage

 

A short time later we made it to the dreaded ice step. We were fortunate to arrive at a time when we had the crossings to ourselves. This section is a single-file section where only one party can navigate at a time. Having read about hours-long bottlenecks through this section, I was pretty grateful for our relatively late start and good timing. Mike led his rope team up and across first and our group followed.

At this point I should probably provide a description of the ice step. It really consisted of three sections. The first was a short vertical ice climb. A vertically placed (anchored) ladder provided clearance over a horizontal crevasse opening. From the top of the ~8 foot ladder climbers had to scramble up a nearly-vertical ice wall by relying on the toe-spikes of their crampons. After 15-20 feet of vertical climb the climber comes to the next section, a horizontally-placed ladder with two slats of wood lashed onto it. This ladder spanned an 8-10 foot wide crevasse that was hundreds of feet deep. The ladder had a loose rope running parallel to it for a bit of stability while crossing. The third section was the same as the second, and was another 30 feet beyond the first ladder-bridge. However, this final ladder had a broken rung on the end of it, which made the whole platform awfully unstable.

 

Step 1 - Nearly a vertical scramble

 

Step 2 - Little bridge, huge chasm

To safety - a narrow, steep perch

 

It's hard to describe the feeling of crossing over those bridges. Although I peeked over the edge before venturing out over the chasm, I didn't dare look down while I was walking across. I'm not especially afraid of heights or prone to bouts of vertigo, but then I'd never felt (or been) quite so precariously-placed in all my life. Everyone made it across without incident, although several of us had to summon some serious courage in order to find the will to take those steps (or to crawl) to the other side.

One funny thing about this crossing. As John - the last member of our party - was about to step out onto the last bridge we heard the first deep rumblings of an approaching helicopter. I doubt that I will ever forget hearing and feeling the whump whump of those twin rotors as the Chinook approached Disappointment Cleaver through the Cowlitz glacier valley. The Chinook helicopter is an enormous beast and seeing it approach that desolate, remote place was a sight to behold. I remember feeling strongly that with one of those machines on the way deliverance was at hand for the injured climber and anyone else who should ever have similar need.

 

Look closely - there's a huge helicopter there

But did I mention it was windy? The wind had been blowing steadily all day and started to get pretty serious at elevations above the DC. Consequently, that majestic, impressive helicopter made two passes over the injured climber and then retreated back the way it came. It was obviously too windy for it to attempt a rescue at that time. My heart went out to the injured and the rescue party at that moment. Watching the helicopter fade into the distance must have been a blow to their morale.

After collecting our wits on the far side, we continued our trek up and up and up. From this point the boot track took a long traverse across the upper Emmons Glacier. About a half hour after the helicopter came and went, a second, smaller helicopter came and performed the same exercise as the Chinook - circling twice before retreating back down the valley.

We continued uphill for another 2+ hours after the ice-step. There wasn't much remarkable about this stretch except for the mental toll it took on everyone. The terrain was fairly featureless. It was steep and was little more than an endless series of switchbacks. The wind picked up considerably as we passed 13,000 feet. From time to time strong gusts would blast us unexpectedly and stop us momentarily in our tracks.

There was very little communication through this stretch. Nobody really had the energy or wherewithal to take any photos. At one point, some time after we'd seen the second helicopter fly away we saw it again with a litter (apparently) successfully attached and suspended below it. Although I have been unable to get any media information about this rescue effort (and my email to the NPS went unanswered), we assumed that the climber was taken away to safety.

We stopped frequently to take small breaks and to catch our breath. It sure felt like the trail was never going to end and that the summit was never going to get closer. As we neared the crater the clouds started doing strange things. The wind was blowing west-to-east (in our direction off the summit) and the thin cloud cover hanging over the summit was blowing rapidly off of the peak in thin tendrils hundreds of feet long over our heads. I have never seen anything quite like it.

 

The upper slopes were pretty featureless.  And steep.

To our enormous relief, we finally crested the summit crater shortly after 2:00. My rope team quickly dissolved into a slobbering mess of emotion. I was surprised at how quickly the tears came out for all of us as we continued on and achieved our goal. We shared hugs and smiles and tears and then we went and found some rocks to sit on.

 

John and Lara making the crater

Me.  Arrived.

Brent resting in the crater

 

Mike, Aaron, and Dallyn walking across the crater

 

Something strange happened at point. The temperature was cold (just a bit below freezing) and it was very windy (45mph?) and we were all a bit delirious. Everyone scattered just a bit to find a place to sit and try to get warm. I went and found John because I knew that he was planning on asking Lara a certain question at this point on the climb and I wanted to make sure he hadn't lost his nerve. I found him sitting alone and I asked him if we was going to "do it." Can I just say? It's a good thing I did. His very curt response was to ask, "do what?" So I gave him a look and I said, "you know what!"

He softened up a little bit at that point and confessed that leading up to that point he was thinking of bailing out because everyone was so cold and miserable. (I don't think it was quite the romantic mountaintop proposal environment he had envisioned.) I told him there was never a better time or place for a proposal and after sitting there for another moment, he grabbed his pack and ambled off to find Lara.

At that point Brent came over and sat down and he really wasn't doing very well. He complained that he had a really bad headache and that he was cold. In fact, shortly after sitting down he began shaking almost uncontrollably. At that moment I had just got Heather on the phone and was telling her that we had reached our destination and that everyone had made it up. Brent tried to leave a voicemail for his wife but was having a hard time speaking very coherently. It quickly became apparent that I needed to do something for Brent.

Thank goodness for hot chocolate. Not only does it cure so many problems here at sea-level, but it also comes in very handy to help cold climbers suffering from a touch of altitude sickness. Brent happily downed as much of the stuff as he could get.

John and Lara came over moments later and Lara took off her glove to reveal a shiny new piece of jewelry she had acquired. We took a moment to congratulate her with some hot chocolate as well.

 



Lara found a ring up there somewhere

 

We didn't want to linger, however. It was quickly becoming apparent that we needed to get off that summit. The temperature wasn't improving and we had a long descent before we would be able to find safety. We pulled the group together and I think we were all feeling a bit vulnerable in that moment. Exhaustion was a factor, the altitude, the temperature, and the demands of the trail waiting below us weighed heavily on our bodies and minds. After a quick prayer for safe travels, we began the long retracing of our steps.

The trip down was long. We left the crater rim behind at about 4:00. There's not much to report about the downward trip except a couple of memorable moments. At one point, while resting on a step section of glacier (which pretty much describes everything above Disappointment Cleaver), Lara lost her grip on a water bottle, which quickly slid right past our group and off down the ice into a crevasse. It was a small thing, but served as a stark reminder to our group of just how quickly one of us might follow the same route if something were to go wrong.

While going down over the ice step, there was one moment where deep beneath us something gave way in the bowels of the glacier and crashed down with a tremendous resounding boom that we both heard and felt. If we hadn't already been anxious to get out of that scary place, we were then even more motivated to do so.

 

Something waaay down there went crash

Aside from those couple of moments, the trek down was little more than long and tedious. Hiking down over the rock of DC was painful. My feet began to really suffer at that point and I began to walk more and more gingerly the farther we went. Night had fallen completely about the time we came back onto Ingraham Glacier. A day that had started out being illuminated by nothing more than headlamps was destined to end the same way. The last 90 minutes of the hike we were all shuffling along like zombies, barely able to put one foot in front of the other. The cumulative effort of the previous 48 hours had wrung us out completely. By the time we made it back to our tents at almost 11:00 Saturday night, we had enough energy to throw off our gear, climb into our sleeping bags, and fall dead asleep.

 

You cast a long shadow when you're 14,411 feet tall

Part IV to follow by the end of the weekend. . .

 

The One Where I Climb Mount Rainier, Part II

This is the second post in this series.  For Part I, click here.

Friday, August 16, 2013

By 4:15 everyone had arrived at our house and by 4:45 the gear was packed up and we hit the road. I was a bit bleary-eyed and worried about staying awake for the 2 hour drive up to Paradise but the adrenaline more than compensated for my fatigue. We buzzed along through South Hill, Eatonville, and the smaller towns as the pavement gave way to forests and our excitement grew with every mile that passed. Shortly before 7:00 we rolled into the parking lot and began making final preparations for our hike up to Camp Muir (base camp).

Longhurst Living Room ~4:30am

We checked in with the climbing ranger, got our permits, and finally hit the trail at about 8:00. Each of us had a backpack with 45-55 lbs. of gear and loads and loads of optimism.





                                                                                                     Paradise Steps ~8:00am

The trail from Paradise starts at about 5,500 feet in elevation and in mid-August it follows meadows full of wildflowers and marmots. It heads straight toward the mountain, each step rising through the final stands of scraggly trees until they are left behind completely. It doesn't take long for the views to the south to grow wide and long. Mount Adams and Mount Saint Helens both appear very soon and sometimes look close enough to touch.

Wildflowers above Paradise

Me hiking through a wildflower meadow (Skyline Trail)

Marmot and Squirrel

Mt. St. Helens rising beyond the Tatoosh Range
 

As we left the trees behind, we began to have an amazing view of the heavily-crevassed Nisqually Glacier directly to the north of us. Appearing very dirty this late in the season, the Nisqually Glacier is one of the larger glaciers on the mountain and the trail system north of Paradise offers fantastic views of this impressive monster.
 

We took our first break at Pebble Creek, a bit more than two miles out from Paradise. The creek is at about 7,200 feet, meaning that we had already covered a respectable 1,700 feet in elevation in less than two hours. Pebble Creek is where a lot of the meltoff from the Muir Snowfield runs out and we took the opportunity to filter water to be used later on the climb. Dallyn had been using trail shoes to that point and he took the opportunity to stash them off-trail and trade them for his mountaineering boots. Rested and watered, we got ready to make our way up onto the Muir Snowfield. The next 1.9 miles to Camp Muir would ascend nearly 3,000 feet in elevation.

Me with Nisqually Glacier behind

Trail Signage at Pebble Creek

Looking toward the snowfiled from Pebble Creek

 

After leaving from Pebble Creek we were on snow for the next few hours. The Muir Snowfield is a permanent patch of snow running south from Camp Muir for nearly 2 miles. The pitch gets steeper through this section and the going gets a little slower. We only took one 15 minute break during this section of the climb but it still took us nearly 3 hours to get to Camp Muir from Pebble Creek.

Boot Track on Muir Snowfield

Our climbing party @ Muir Snowfield

Our climbing party.  Posing.

 

When we finally arrived at Camp Muir (sometime between 2 and 3:00), we were pretty tired out. The original plan had been to push beyond Muir (elevation 10,100) and camp out at Ingraham Flats (elevation 11,000) - a relatively flat stretch of ground on the Ingraham Glacier that typically serves as one of the highest camping spots on the mountain. However, after assessing our progress we decided to make camp at Muir. This would mean that summit day would be longer for us but we would have the advantage of being able to leave all of our overnight gear at a lower point on the mountain. Saving ourselves the effort of packing all of that gear up to Ingraham Flats sounded pretty good at that point.

Showing my moves; Cowlitz Glacier in background

A 5-minute nap against the Muir bunkhouse

Getting ready for naps

So we set about making camp and tried to get a bit of rest by taking naps between 6:00 and 8:00. Sleep proved pretty elusive for most of us so at round 8:00 we got up to prepare dinner and melt snow to use for water on the climb. Dinner for most of us was some variety of Mountain House freeze dried nastiness, although Brent was able to enjoy the fruits of the previous night's labor (one of the other reasons he had stayed up late Thursday night was to prepare his quinoa. It looked really good with avocado and sun-dried tomatoes after my noodle and chicken Mountain House.).
 

 Dinner Preparations

We settled down to sleep around 10:30 with a plan to get up and begin our ascent at 2:30. We had set up camp on the snow on the Cowlitz Glacier immediately adjacent to Camp Muir and so we were all grateful for our air mattresses that insulated us from the ice we were sleeping on. At least I was grateful until I woke up at about 12:30 on a deflated mattress, shivering with cold directly on the snow beneath me. As we were lying down, Lara thought she'd be funny and release some air out of my mattress. We both thought she had properly closed the nozzle, but obviously that hadn't been the case. I never really got back to sleep and was very cold for the rest of the night.                                                                            

Part III to follow (probably tomorrow. . .)

**Photo credit (not credited on a photo-by-photo basis) belongs to either Brent Mecham or Lara Nelson**

The One Where I Climb Mount Rainier, Part I

I am a Seattle native and so of course it's been staring at me for 34 years.  It has shown me a great many faces, playing a starring role in dazzling sunsets, towering over me as I have worked long hours at jobs both outdoors and in, and anchoring my internal compass as I've driven or ridden my bike across this great Washington landscape.

Over the course of those 34 years, I've had a great many adventures on its slopes.  Almost every single magical fold of its topography holds memories for me - often very deep and meaningful memories.

I remember countless boy scout trips during my youth with friends I still hold dear.  Campouts in every season and in every weather condition you could imagine.  I have slept in a snow cave at Paradise through the bitter depths of a howling January snowstorm (more than once!).  I'll never forget emerging from a snow cave one crystal clear frozen morning and following my curious feet halfway up to Camp Muir before the weather began to turn.  We hadn't told anyone we were going anywhere - we hadn't planned on going anywhere - and we had to face a scoutmaster's wrath when we moseyed back into camp.

I remember taking my girlfriend Heather on a drive around the park early on in our relationship and coming back to visit time and again after we got engaged and as we began to have children.  Sharing this special place with my dear ones is like sharing a piece of my soul.

I remember 10 wonderful days in August of 2010 when I set out with my best friend and three other people to circumnavigate the mountain on the famous Wonderland Trail.  Ninety-three miles of pristine forest and ridgeline hiking that I will never forget.

Many and more are the times I have ventured into the park and forged a new and deeper connection with nature, friends, family, and myself.  I've learned numerous valuable lessons in Mount Rainier National Park, about the importance of preparation, hard work, teamwork, positive attitude, respect, kindness, food, water,  heat, shelter, friendship, moleskin, Advil, toilet paper, ...............

And yet, I'd never made it to the top.  Never even tried.

That was to change this August as my friend Brent started to lay plans for a summit attempt the weekend of August 17th.  Between the two of us we pulled together 7 people: me, Brent, Mike Jacobsen (a veteran of 14 successful summits of Mount Rainier who would serve as our guide), Mike's son Aaron, Aaron's friend Dallyn, and my friends John and Lara.  Although Brent had lived here in Seattle for over 7 years, he moved to Houston, TX a couple of years ago and would be flying up to make the attempt.

I thought you might like to hear about our experience.

Thursday, August 15, 2013

After making a couple of stops to gear up, I picked Brent up from the airport at about 8:30pm.  We made one last stop at REI (I decided I should get some gaiters after all) and then spent a ridiculous amount of money at Fred Meyer getting food and fuel for the trip.  How or why we ever thought we would need that much food, I have no idea.

Not at all excited at Fred Meyer

After destroying Fred Meyer's inventory, we headed back to our place where the plan was to pound down a spaghetti dinner (quickly dispatched), divide up and pack the gear, and then get as much sleep as possible before heading out at 4:00 am.  Things took a while, as these things do, and we were up well past midnight.  Brent and Lara were spending the night at our place.  I don't know when they finally went to sleep - I guess they only got about 2 hours of rest.  I was able to manage 3 hours from about 12:45 - 3:45. . .

Part II here.