Mount Rainier, Washington (14,410 feet) - considered the toughest endurance climb in the lower 48 states. Most climbing injuries and deaths on Mount Rainier result from inexperienced and ill-equipped climbers getting hit by falling rock, ice, or snow; falling down steep slopes or into crevasses; or becoming disoriented due to poor weather conditions. A serious undertaking involving roped travel over glacial terrain.
But the brochure also said that if I went with the Rainier Mountaineering Institute (RMI) I'd get experienced guides, and a cabin and hot water at base camp! How hard could that be?
We joined our group of 23 climbers and six guides at the RMI guide house in August last year. The day was beautiful and fresh after a week of storms. We set out on the Skyline Trail about 9:30. It wasn't long before we'd left behind the paved trails, green meadows, and noisy marmots for the steep Muir Snowfield. The fog started creeping in as we climbed higher and higher, but we could always see the Nisqaully Glacier above us to our left. During this climb to base camp, the guides watched us to determine who to put together for the rope teams on the next days final ascent, and who looked like they might not make it. I laughed at their jokes to prove I had enough breath, and made efforts to keep from being the last person in our line of climbers. I was looking forward to getting to the promised base camp cabin and resting.
We reached Camp Muir (10,080') by mid-afternoon. What a lovely cabin awaited us! Just like Stalag 13. It was a wooden box into which 23 of us crammed. Our comfy beds were three rows of plywood platforms. I may have kicked someone in the head in my haste up the ladder to claim two spots on the top platform. If an avalanche came, no way was I going to get crushed by the other bunk beds. While the others ate their stiff Power Bars and reconstituted soup, my husband and I enjoyed hot chocolate and day old pizza. I highly recommend pizza, it's perfect for carbo loading and it's fun to watch others drool with envy. Three people dropped their soup in the cabin. I hoped I wouldn't be assigned to their rope team.
Our guides announced that spouses and friends would be assigned to different rope teams. During the stress of the climb, they didn't want people who "loved" each other yelling and fighting. I was the only woman on my team. I didn't end up with any of the soup spillers, but my team did include the one guy who barely made it to base camp. Murph, our guide, was an old crotchety guy who had been cracking jokes about weak women the whole trip up. The pressure was on. He checked our glacier-climbing paraphernalia: harnesses, crampons, helmets, headlamps. And reminded us to put our extra batteries in a pocket close to our body to keep them warm.
Around 6:00 or so, we all retired to bed. Why to bed so early? Because we'd be getting up at midnight to start the ascent. It was difficult for everyone to get to sleep. It was only 6:00, the wind was blowing outside, we were nervous about the upcoming climb, and there were 23 people in the cabin, fidgeting in their sleeping bags, farting, and taking turns doing clog dances on the wooden floor as they headed for the outhouse. At best I fell asleep for a few minutes at a time.
It was pitch dark when our lead guide came to wake us. It wasn't very easy to eat breakfast, get our packs organized, put on our helmets and crampons, and report to our rope teams. In fact, my husband and I were the last people ready, mostly due to my desperate attempts to do something in the outhouse. Nothing doing. I was totally stopped up. Oh, nothing a strenuous climb couldn't loosen along the way. Oh, joy.
At around 1:30 a.m., we turned on our headlamps and headed out from camp, one rope team at a time, taking the Disappointment Cleaver route. We had seen the first section of the route from camp before it got dark: a traverse across the snowfield at the top of the Cowlitz Glacier, then over the rocks of Cathedral Gap. In the dark long before dawn, the many climbers were like rows of tiny fireflies heading up the black bulk of the glacier.
Crossing over Cathedral Gap, there was a breeze blowing fine bits of rock dust into our eyes. Thankfully we reached the Ingraham Glacier on the other side relatively soon. Ingraham Flats was our first rest stop. We had been hiking for an hour and a half already, but it had gone by quickly. Three climbers had already decided they weren't going to make it. Mr. Barely Made it to Base Camp from our team was wheezing and slowing down, but wouldn't give up.
The next section, our guides told us, was the crux of the climb: passing under the Ingraham Headwall icefall, then up the rocks of Disappointment Cleaver.
We walked to the base of the icefall, then turned right and skirted its lower edge, stepping over crevasses, the edges glowing blue under our headlamps. Suddenly, there was a loud crack overhead, then the hissing of ice sliding over ice. We stopped dead and turned our measly lamps to the dark icefall in a lame attempt to see what was coming down on us. Couldn't see a thing. Murph yelled at us to turn our backs. I was thinking, "I wonder if it'll be like a hard push when I'm knocked down and squashed." Pieces of ice pelted our packs, and I tensed, getting ready. Then Murph yelled, "Move!" and we scrambled to the safety of the rocks.
It seemed to be getting dimmer as we continued to climb, and I was really having to peer when stepping over crevasses in the dark. Suddenly I couldn't see a thing. Jiminy Christmas! "My headlamp's out!" I called out to Murph at the head of our rope team. He yelled back, "It's too dangerous to stop here." And it wasn't a problem for me to slide into a crevasse?! No way was I attempting it. I balked like a mule and leaned back when the rope pulled in front of me. Thankfully, my ropemate let the rope between us go slack and moved up to share his lamplight. Murph soon stopped us in the dark on the edge of an icy precipice and yelled at me to hurry. I pulled off my gloves and the cold wind bit my fingers as I got new batteries from my chest pocket. It was wonderful to have my lamp light up again. (Lesson learned - make sure you have brand new batteries in your lamp before going out.)
Disappointment Cleaver is a steep rock formation. It would be a hard climb under the best of circumstances, but it was especially hard in the dark while wearing sharp metal crampons on my boots. About halfway up we moved back onto the snow, climbing along the edge of the Cleaver. By this time, Mr. Barely Made it to Base Camp was staggering and stopping often for water breaks. Two other guys on my rope team became increasingly frustrated and began to yell. I was in the middle, not sure which side to take and more concerned with my awakened bowel, which was insisting on its morning constitutional.
We reached the last turn-back opportunity at the top of Disappointment Cleaver. Murph told our weak link that it would be safer for all if he quit and returned to base camp. The man whined and grumbled, and I desperately announced I really had to "go." Murph pushed a plastic bag into my hands and pointed out a large slab of rock, the only flat surface on the steep snowy slope. I unhooked my rope and kept my head down as I stepped up onto that rocky stage, and tried really hard to imagine I was all alone. I dropped my three layers of pants, and squatted. My lower extremity resounded impressively in the icy chill as dawn broke behind me. Kindly, most of the thirty or so resting hikers turned their heads away to hide their smiles.
We soldiered on. From here, it was a clear shot to the summit, but the slope got steeper, crevasses became more common, and the altitude made breathing harder.
We trudged onwards and upwards for an hour and a half. We took our final break sitting unsheltered on a tiny ledge quickly dug out by one of the guides. The drill at this break was the same as it was for all the others. We had fifteen minutes at most. In that time, we were supposed to get our parkas out of our packs, put them on, eat a snack, drink some water, reapply our sunscreen, drink some more water, listen to the guide's instructions, put everything back in the pack, and don't forget to breathe! At the last break I had brilliantly placed my peanut butter crackers in my pockets to save time; I realized my error when I heard a crunch as I tightened the belt on my pack. It was difficult picking the fleece off my tongue after surreptitiously nibbling from my pockets.
It was an hour more to the summit. There was an incredibly chill wind blowing at this high, exposed elevation. Snow stung our faces as we struggled up the final slope in a slow-moving traffic jam of climbers. As usual when approaching a summit, we kept looking up at what appeared to be the top only to see it keep moving farther away. Finally, I could see climbers looking back towards us, smiling and whooping. The summit!
Mount Rainier's summit is a volcanic crater. Once we dropped inside the crater, its rim protected us from the wind. With the sun out and no clouds in sight, the weather couldn't have been better. We dropped our packs, untied from our ropes, and I went to find my husband to see how he had fared. I have to say that everyone seemed a bit lethargic, but I was thrilled to have summited.
The climb down was in some ways more difficult than the climb up. First of all, the guides kept us moving quickly, maybe too quickly; on some of the switchbacks the rope went taut and nearly pulled me off my feet. Second, it was daylight now, so we could see how steep and dangerous everything looked. (We climbed up that?!) Third, we were exhausted. We reached the summit at about 8:45 a.m. (just over seven hours) and got back to Camp Muir around noon (12 hours after we woke up). We spent an hour and a half at Camp Muir packing up the stuff we'd left behind then continued down. We didn't reach the car until 4:30. I have never been so exhausted in my whole life. It was an awesome experience.