Climbing Rainier

My account of climbing Mt. Rainier - my first foray into alpine climbing was originally chronicled in the More Than Just Parks Blog. MTJP seeks to bring awareness and activism for our National Parks through beautiful videography and sparkling storytelling. I'm fortunate to be one of their Adventurers, sharing my own slice of our nation's natural treasures. 

There are two kinds of people in the world – those who can look up to a mountain, stand in wonderment and appreciation, allow their mouths to curl up with a slight smile, and proceed with their lives. And then there’s those who look up at a mountain and feel the welling from deep within their souls to climb it: that’d be me.

I’d never been to Seattle, thus the impetus for the climb was born out of another adventure, rooted in another mountain.

A rainy day in Alaska, we sought refuge and endless refills of hot coffee at the Roadhouse in Talkeetna. A long, communal table sat in the middle of the packed café where we made ourselves home. Men weathered from a place not where we found ourselves became our breakfast mates – their skin chapped from wind, their cheekbones ripe from sun, their eyes marked by sunglasses that likely became appendages themselves over time. That summer had one of the highest success rates of summiting Denali, the high one, and we were witnessing their celebratory sacrament of coffee and cinnamon buns – really, really big cinnamon buns.

So, as I’m sure you would also do if you found yourself here, in this moment, I made a pact with myself: I am going to climb that big, beautiful mountain and once I’ve earned it, I’m going to come right back to this table, weathered face and unshowered body, and eat a ginormous cinnamon bun, washing down the sugary goopy glaze with bottomless mugfulls of gritty coffee.

And here’s where Rainier comes in. I’ve hiked lots, I run up and along mountains for fun, but I’ve never summited anything, never been tethered to a rope with other folks, crampon-clad, crevasse-crossing, stomping up a vertical slope. Rainier, which serves as a backdrop to Seattle can be thought of as a microcosmic mountain to Denali. Where the high one takes up to 3 weeks to climb, the outfitter I went with, (Rockstar) RMI guides trips up Rainier in as few as 3 days.

Rainier became my 14,416’ stepping stone to a bigger dream –

And thus began a summer adventure that started with a mountain in mind and evolved into a story of discovery – of a beautiful, diverse region, dotted with National Parks, whimsical wonders, and hidden gems.

My mother is my best friend, and travel buddy. She showed me the world at a young age, teaching me not only to seek the destinations but savor the journey, fearlessly.

So with my climbing gear and best bud in tow, I set off for Seattle. We skipped around the city for an afternoon, marveling at the teeming lake, the sea planes, sailboats, kayaks, cyclists, stand up paddle boarders, rowers, and runners. We copiously caffeinated, we got funky in Fremont, and then headed east toward the ever-visible mountain in the distance.

Halfway to Rainier, we found our home for the night, a charming old house with a family of small cutie pies, raspberry bushes, pear orchards, and a permaculture farm.  

We sat outside soaking in the cool, Washington night, listening the crackling of the fire as it married in the air with far off sounds of a Native American gathering. The next morning, I ran along farmlands, got chased by dogs, watched red-tail hawks and eagles weave out of abandoned barn windows, all in the shadow of the far-off, yet nearing Mt. Rainier.

I returned from my jog to the most ridiculous, beautiful breakfast I’ve ever seen. Eggs laid a few days prior, baked with fresh peas and herbs from the garden, potatoes pulled from its dirt, piping hot homemade bread with sweet butter and preserves born out of the fruit bushes in the backyard. French press coffee with cream from the animals snoozing in the shade – I actually think we shed tears it was so precious.

I’m still touched by the folks who opened their doors and shared a little bit of their simple, sustainable lifestyle with us: twin boys and a baby girl who are towed around in a little red wagon as their mom pulls a carrot out of the ground for them to snack on cheerfully. They proved it needn’t be hard to live that beautifully.

We packed up and proceeded to the park, making stops at innumerable drive-through coffee huts, winding alongside river bends and past logging festivals.

Once we made it to our abode on the outskirts of the park, housed within a hidden forest in wooden, yurt-like cabins, we cracked open a couple bottles of cider and sat by the creek, which carried glacial run off down the hillside, creating nature’s own air conditioner.

After a trailrun in the park, along waterfalls and under rainbows, I met up with my guides and fellow climbers – geared up and ready to get crankin.

Day 1: Our first full day together, we hiked through the aptly-named Paradise, bursting with wildflowers at the base of Mt Rainier. We went up as far as we needed to in order to find some snow to practice walking somewhat gracefully in our climbing attire and hone safety measures for the climb ahead. With Mt. Baker, Hood, and St. Helens along the horizon, our post made for quite the office view.

Day 2: Breakfast, Coffee, and two Nalgene bottles of water down, we shuttled up to the base of Rainier to begin the first leg of our journey up –

It’s a fairly short day, the crew walks up dirt trails that eventually turn to snowfields until we reach 10,000 feet and camp Muir. A wooden hut with bunks would be our home for a portion of the night. We goofed around and went to sleep around 6:00 PM with the promise of a 10:30 PM alarm clock.

Day 3: Right on time, I poured my instant coffee and hot cocoa into what I’ve dubbed the Mountain Mocha? twisted on my headlamp, clasped on my crampons, and tied into my rope. High Ho – off we go (I actually sang that song, which I suspect every bleary eyed person along the mountain appreciated fully). 

We stopped a few times to grab snacks, force-feeding ourselves treats and liquids. At each juncture, some of our team would decide to forfeit the climb, an act of selflessness that allowed the rest of us to keep going at a steady eddie pace. The full moon lit the trail, reflecting off deep, powdery snow. It caught the undulating waves of the glaciers alongside and above us, these giants made over thousands of years and still in the making, as we all are. Metal ladders with wooden beams created makeshift bridges over seemingly bottomless crevasses, because of the mild summer, there were approximately 8 crevasses we had to cross – in each direction. I happen to be deathly afraid of heights – a small twist of irony for a woman who stands at 6’0 tall and has a propensity for going up. Spoiler alert: climbing mountains involves high places. So with a timid step and an audible prayer, I’d make my way across the ladders, lingering my gaze to look down, because sometimes curiosity trumps fear.

When you climb one of these peaks, it’s a discovery as much into the character of the mountain as into the character of yourself. Only a slice of the magnificence and intricacy of a mountain, or the endless views as you ascend can be captured with camera, the perspective of it all – the grandeur and infinitesimal beauty - are best-chronicled through what we aptly call “eyeball photography;” soaking it in the old fashion way and posting images to our memory.

As we continued up Rainier nearing the summit, the light shifted from the deepest, darkest night to a translucent gold – the full moon that guided our steps better than any headlamp we were wearing, seemed to draw even closer to the earth, though I couldn’t quite touch the smiling old man on its surface (to be sure, I tried).

As the slope grew another 15 degrees steeper, our steps became more deliberate, our breath purposeful. And just as we hit the ridge of the crater the alpen glow lit the world ablaze. It’s a magic moment, one when the world holds its breath, when everything radiates from within and throughout – it’s brief, but lingers long enough to soak it in, to smile, to take the focus off our path and place it wholly on our surroundings.

When we reached the summit and descended into the crater, the sun peaked just above the eastern edge and opposite, the low-hanging full moon sat suspended atop the western side. I imagine every moment on that mountain is special, but that one, when the whole world and its celestial onlookers were in sync was one for the history books of my heart.  

Here’s a thing I’ve learned about climbing: you never conquer a mountain. The summit is a gift bestowed by a mountain that evolves as you move up and around it, as the light shifts and weather changes, it’s a living breathing thing, bigger than you, older than you, and wiser than you.

The trek down was difficult as the adrenaline subsided slightly and the snow turned slushy. But when it was all said and done – when we peeled off our layers and detached our crampons to carelessly shoe ski down the remainder of the snowy mountainside, I was happy. Tired, yet full of life. I knew I’d found a new love, and while my climbing mates passed out on our shuttle ride off Rainier, I day dreamed of future mountains to climb, and morning views atop the world from far-off peaks.