Why You Climb a Mountain

8 years ago today my friends led me up to the summit of Mt. Rainier. I say led because I lost both eyes to snow blindness on the way. More importantly, I learned what it means to leave your life in the hands of your friends.

6 April 2010 at 22:19

"Because it is there," said Mallory, but he's been lying frozen on his mountain since 1924, so this is an unsatisfactory answer for a happy, middle-aged father of three.

 

"To prove I am tough enough to do it," would be a more accurate answer for me, if I was honest enough, or maybe if I had a few tumblers of Laphroig, but wasn't yet at the verbose philosopher stage. Yes, I might have said that before I climbed the mountain.

 

"Do not take the mountain lightly," was Bill Vipond's frequent advice. Bill is a slightly older guy whom I met a couple of years ago. Bill is a nearly perfect friend, not just to me, but also to a multitude of others. In fact, he's been like a brother over the last year. Although he has a slight tendency towards pontification, Bill's unusual personal openness, enthusiastic desire to help and the sense that he has a mission in life make him one of the most endearing people I have ever met. It would be hard to exaggerate the respect that I have for him, but this story is about the mountain, so I'll leave my relationship with Bill for another time after just adding that he has climbed in many areas across the world and is one of those who believes strongly in the spiritual aspects of being in danger with guys in exposed places.

 

The rope team, Bill, John Colleran, Rob Coyne, Henry Liebman and I had been training hard for more than three months. We'd meet twice a week to do the Cable Route, an agonizing climb straight up Tiger Mountain, a couple of miles long but with around 2500 feet of vertical gain. We did this with at least 20 lbs on our backs and our times went from about 65 minutes to around 50 minutes at best for me. Some of the other guys were a little faster, but I found that I had let my pack weight creep up to 40 lbs, so maybe we were all at about the same fitness level. As a former pro skier and fitness guru, Bill was a lot faster than any of us and his voice from the top of the steep pitches shouting out "come on boys!" could get very tedious.

 

We quickly added a third day to our routine with a four hour climb on weekends, starting at Alpental, moving to Crystal and later to Granite Mountain as the avalanche danger got manageable. Without a doubt, this routine plus an hour every other day in the gym on weights, I was in the best shape of my adult life.

 

We also planned to climb with Armin Fisher, who is a world-class climber and a long-time friend of Bill's. Armin grew up in Napa, but has been climbing in Italy and around the world for the last 20 years. Armin is a soft-spoken guy with a tremendous aura of authority and knowledge. Just the man you want to follow up a mountain.

 

We met up last weekend at the White River ranger station. Our route to the summit is called the Emmons Glacier route. The Emmons is not considered to be a technical climb. No rock climbing involved. Anyone that says it is easy, though, probably hasn't climbed. Before I climbed it, I told people it was an easy route.

 

The Emmons is one of the longest routes to the summit. The approach is long and since we climbed very early in the season, it was almost all on snow, with some of it soft snow where a lot of your energy is expended in post-holing down through the crust. The guidebooks say that the approach takes 5-10 hours. We took about 6 hours, carrying 40 lbs per man and on a possibly tougher trail than average considering the amount of snow on the route. In this approach we gained about a mile of altitude. The last hour was a little tiring. It got steeper and at 8500-9500 feet of altitude and after 5-6 hours of packing 40 lbs. it was strenuous. Nothing like the Cable Route done fast, though.

 

Camp Shurman is high camp for summit attempts on the Emmons route. It's got an inviting ranger cabin with a sign that reads, "Don't even try to come in unless it's an emergency." For climbers, though there are some attractive camping rings unevenly formed out of 4-5 inch chunks of gravel. If you can call that gravel. We made camp in three tents and settled down to make water and dinner.

 

Making water never ends. Each climber is going through around a gallon of water a day. You start out by getting as hydrated as possible, then you carry three water bottles amounting to around half a gallon of water total. When you get into camp, they are empty. You melt water on your little lightweight stoves, drink a bunch and then refill your bottles. It's a long process. You take a bottle to bed with you and try to camel up all night. Why is this? Your body is working at marathon and sometimes sprint pace for 6-12 hours a day. It burns through a lot of water and if you don't give it what it needs, it might go on strike. Maybe at 14,000 feet.

 

Before a climb, you obsess about weather. Mainly because of the danger of avalanches. Avalanches are one of the major ways you get killed on a mountain. You go climbing partly to show that you are ready to get killed, or maybe that you're not scared of getting killed, but then you do everything you can to avoid it. The normal way that you think about weather doesn't really apply in this kind of climbing. We trained all winter in pelting rain, freezing sleet, heavy snow, you name it. We never got cold. You are working way too hard to get cold until you stop, or until you get hurt. Then all of a sudden, it is a survival issue, not a comfort issue.

 

The weather on our approach was fantastic. Full sun reflecting off the glacier, warm temps, we started out stripped down to one or two layers and stayed that way, dripping with sweat at the end. This day's sun will play a role later. At the time we got to Camp Shurman it seemed great.

 

The wind started to blow as we arrived at Shurman. Probably 20-30 knots. Not bad when it's sunny, but cold when it got dark. We had a date with the climbing rope at about 1:30 the next morning so we all tried to get some sleep in the tents, but that blowing wind was flogging the fabric and kept us awake. Possibly the windspeed rose a little during the evening. For me, a sailor, it wasn't an unfamiliar or ominous thing. In fact, I was reflecting on the pleasant fact that I wasn't in a sailboat worried about the helmsman's judgment or at anchor worried about dragging onto the rocks. No sleep, but I will take worry-free wakefulness over the worry of bilging in the breakers any day!

 

Summit day was announced by Armin's headlamp in our door and Rob's voice informing Armin that he wasn't going out in that storm! Armin said that we were and Robby made his peace with the idea. We ate a quick breakfast, refilled our bottles and roped up. We could see a few other groups lit up by their lamps ahead of us on the slope of the Emmons. We fell in behind Armin and quickly adjusted to the steady step of the roped team, all of us doing our best to keep the rope taut and untangled by our cramponed feet.

 

It's true that this kind of climbing, on this kind of route is really a long, long hike. Any one that says it is only a hike is either supremely fit and competent or a poser. Maybe on a perfect day, that could be a true statement, but the real mountaineers know that there are lots of problems lurking around the corner at 14,000 feet.

 

We climbed steadily with breaks every hour for about three hours. We gained perhaps 3000 feet. After the Vipond training regimen of the last three months, we were all strong and confident and felt very good about our progress. Around 12,000 feet, though, we all started to understand what Bill meant when he had so tiresomely cautioned us against overconfidence about how we would do on summit day. 12,000 feet is way, way, up the mountain. We were all sea-level people and now we were at well over two miles higher than our bodies were accustomed to function.

 

When you are climbing hard, at altitude and in the dark, you have a very compact world. Your ears aren't doing much, unless you are listening for avalanches and in this case, the 30 knots of wind was pretty impenetrable as far as sound goes. Your eyes are focused on your next step. Your mind has adopted a kind of mantra: "Left, keep off the rope, Right, keep your balance, Left, right, keep going...."

 

At 12,000 feet, all of the inexperienced climbers (everyone except Bill and Armin) started to feel some level of distress. Nausea, for some of the climbers was quite strong. Much less strength and endurance was in evidence. Stops got more frequent.

 

I was feeling quite strong still. In fact, my arrogance and hubris was such that at one point I saw fit to make a comment, which I now greatly regret, regarding climbers on the rope behind holding me back.

 

God or karma or fate, doesn't appreciate comments of this kind and I soon learned that at high altitudes, payback is much worse than the proverbial b----.

 

As the sun rose, it became apparent to me that I wasn't seeing as well as I should. At first, it was a minor issue, just some cloudiness that I attributed to the high wind and the contact I wear in my right eye. Soon, though, it became serious. My right eye's vision was so foggy that I began to lose my depth perception and started to stumble. At altitude and with a pack, a single stumble seems to take as much energy as ten regular steps. Even worse, it breaks the cadence and the mental mantra that keep you climbing. At first, I kept up by scrambling whenever I miss-stepped. The cost of the miss-step was exhaustion because uncoordinated movement at altitude is like sprinting up steps. Soon, instead of being the strong climber that I expected to be, I was a weak link on the rope. I tried closing one eye to see if that helped, but in this kind of climbing, you have to step with precision. I was stepping blindly.

 

This early in the year, the trail up the mountain is all ice and snow. You climb early so that you won't sink into the deep snow. You also climb early because the avalanches mostly hit later in the day. What happens is that you then have a frozen trail that is just a serious of holes. Some of the holes fit your feet and your step length, some of them don't. If you can't step with precision, then you catch your crampons on the rim of the holes, find yourself crashing into the deep holes or simply tripping on a high step and landing on your face. In any case, this would not be an easy hike even at sea level.

 

At some point in this process, I told Armin what was happening. Snow blindness didn't seem to make sense since the sun was barely up. I didn't tell the other guys what was going on. They probably wondered what happened to that cocky farmer who thought he was a strong climber.

 

We got to the top. Still, a good time, even nearly catching up to one of the parties that had started well ahead of us. The top of Rainier is a very desolate plateau with the famous three peaks seeming strangely small and randomly distributed on it. The wind was blowing maybe 40 knots and was really cold, now. We stood in a circle and I took off my glasses. My left eye immediately fogged over. "I'm screwed," was my immediate verbal reaction.

 

There was a little bit of consternation in the group. I was not totally blind to the point of seeing blackness, just robbed of any pretence towards precise vision or depth perception. There was no sense of panic, or even much worry. This was not due to supernatural confidence and bravery on my part. On the contrary, it was due to immense and unquestioning confidence in my friends, especially Bill and Armin's loyalty to me and the group, combined with the supreme mountaineering competence and fitness that they both possess. I had not a moments worth of doubt that I would get down fine.

 

Since my condition was not an emergency, we went about our business, taking pictures at the summit, standing in front of our banners. It was extremely cold in this exposed position just standing around so we all put on our down jackets. I told the other guys I would be fine while they explored the crater etc. After being sure that I was functioning well and oriented, they left to do that. I decided to finish zipping my anorak. My concern about my condition spiked a little when I realized that I was unable to see well enough to get the two sides of the zipper together. I tried for a long time, first handicapped by inadequate vision and then by frozen fingers. Finally, the random attempts I was making to connect the zipper worked out in my favor and I got it done. I then put my heavy gloves on, wondering if I was breaking off my little fingers as I jammed the gloves down my unfeeling hands. All of this in a visual fog that was cold and with a thundering wind in my ears. I lay down with my head resting on a pack. I was wearing possibly $1200 worth of the finest cold weather clothes available, but I was really chilled.

 

The rope team got back very quickly. Armin and Bill were too experienced to trust me to be safe on my own in those conditions. The other guys were likely ready to get down.

 

"I'm going to short-rope you," Armin told me. "Can you see the rope?"

 

I could and without much comment, the rest of the team roped up. Bill led, as the route-finder and Armin was last. In the event of a fall, the last man on the rope going down was the one who held the safety and maybe the lives of all the others in his hands. He was the one who could not fail. As the weakest link, I was right in front of Armin, maybe 8 feet down instead of the normal 15 feet, so Armin could control my motions and I wouldn't build momentum in a fall.

 

For me at least, the slope of the climb is not really a visual factor. It is so important to correctly place feet, hands, poles and maybe ice axe that there is very little looking into space and no vertigo. On the upper part of the Emmons, though, there are many steep slopes. In many place, an unarrested fall would result in a slide of thousands of feet down rough, frozen slopes of 30-60 degrees. The results would not be good and the climbers would likely end up in a crevasse. Like Bill says: "Do not take the mountain lightly"

 

Climbing down the Emmons functionally blind is not what you climb Rainier to do. It doesn't prove that you are tough. In my case, it proved that I was dumb, since the likely cause of my blindness was poor, but new sunglasses purchased at West Marine a day or two before the climb. The bright sun of the approach climb was too much for my eyes, although I felt no strain at the time.

 

Climbing down the Emmons blind teaches you what it is like to be totally helpless and your immediate future, even your life, is in the hands of God and your friends. In my case, that was a supremely comforting thought. It is impossible to imagine better hands at this time than Armin and Bill and my brothers on the rope, Rob, Henry and John.

 

I could see a little, but my eyes were uncoordinated to the point that every step looked like a very steep step up; of course, the opposite was the case. I kept my eyes closed most of the time.

 

It was not a frightening experience. It was more like coming home and finding out that you had four or five wild heifers stuck in the ditch and instead of relaxing that afternoon, you were going to spend all day swimming in the mud, roping their heads and pulling their stupid asses out of the muck. That kind of thing. Not your first choice, but not something you couldn't do.

 

I was generally walking by Braille. Large steps down, hopefully hitting the right steps on the trail, and then tripping, staggering or falling every 10-20 steps. Sometimes I could catch myself, other times Armin caught me on the rope and sometimes I fell flat and staggered back up. I don't have the sense that I slowed the team down that much, but how would I know? Maybe I did.

 

The constant miss-steps took a toll and a few hours into the descent, my left ankle was weakened so that it was very difficult to hold the proper crampon angle on the slopes, especially, on a traverse to the right.

 

There were comical moments. We crossed maybe three crevasses. The whole team talked me over them. "Two steps right, one step forward, right two more, NO left! Now, Jump"

 

These moments never worried me. I couldn't see the crevasse and I was in the hands of my friends. What was there to worry about?

 

The last two hours, I was able to butt-glissade down the more gentle slopes. Armin controlled me on the rope, but it was hard on Henry since I was pulling him sideways a lot of the time.

 

Eventually we were within several hundred yards of camp. Appearing to be totally out of crevasse country, we unroped. It was a gentle slope of soft snow, but not too deep. I'd been sliding on my ass for 2 hours and felt ready to do some walking. I asked the guys to point me towards camp. I just started plunge-stepping down. Every hundred yards I'd shout for new directions.

 

Apparently, I had a lot of moral turpitude to make up for because I had one more piece of bad karma stored up for me. Maybe 50 yards from camp, there was an audible crack, and I fell through a crevasse to my waist. Again, no real alarm. The fall happened too quickly for reaction and there I was with my upper body above the surface. I arranged my poles so that they would help support me and waited for the guys to come up. My only fear was that they wouldn't see me, but I was in plain sight so that wasn't really a problem. No doubt wondering how his friend could be such a Jonah, Bill lay down flat to spread his weight, had Rob hold onto his ankles and extended two poles to me. The first pull made me fall through a little more, but I was soon eased out.

 

The next day we uneventfully returned home. My eyes were painful but functional and they are almost back to normal, now.

 

So, why did I climb a mountain?

 

As I said above, I thought it was because I wanted to prove that I was tough and unafraid. Maybe also to get in shape.

 

It turns out, though, that there were reasons that were much, much better than those. It took fate, my brothers on the rope and my mentor, Linda Thomas to teach me that, though.

 

Although I'm not an adventurer like Armin, I've had a varied life. I started managing irrigation crews during the summer on the farm when I was 14. I've managed many processing plants and business units, in good times and in crisis times. I've skippered big sailboats in tough weather and in races. Most of the time I've been in charge of the immediate situation.

 

Usually, I've been able to live up to my inner image of a self-reliant man who doesn't need much help. In fact, a guy that everybody else needs help from. A guy that has a faint, but sometimes openly apparent sneer for the people that aren't as self-reliant and need some help. A guy that maybe wants others to know they aren't quite as good.

 

Of course, this ugliness isn't operational all the time and maybe even not that much of the time, but it's there and under stress, it gets a little obvious.

 

On top of Mt. Rainier, I was as helpless as a baby. No phone, no evacuation and a very hostile environment. An environment that kills people every year. I was struck down by something that seemed like an act of God. I could actually name the moment when my second eye was struck blind. At the time, I was humiliated by my weakness.

 

The helpless part I could fully understand the day I got down.

 

A few days later, I was relating this to Linda when a few trenchant comments by her helped make the rest apparent.

 

"JT, this was your chance to see what it feels like to need help in conditions where help was not a luxury. It was also your chance to see how it felt to receive help from people giving it to you freely without any attempt to make you feel diminished by it."

I was thunderstruck by what she said. In fact, we both got emotional as we thought about it.

 

I'm probably too strongly addicted to my sense of control and self-confidence for this lesson to make the kind of impact that it should make on me. Probably my "struck blind by the light on the road to Damascus" moment will make a strong impact now and slowly fade into the pattern of other significant moments that make up one's life.

 

What I now know I learned from climbing the mountain is this, though: I can be struck down at any time. If I am very lucky, it will be around friends who are loyal and competent and will help me because that is the way they are made. They won't be doing it because it makes them feel superior to me and they won't be making me feel inferior. They'll be doing it out of a sense of duty and love, and I will be a much more complete and knowledgeable man because I was fortunate to be offered their help.

If I am any kind of a man at all, I will be able to do the same for my friends or maybe strangers in the future.

 

JT

 

I want to make the point, I am just a beginning climber and I would hate to leave the impression that I am somehow posing to be any kind of authority at all. The only valid opinions I have are the ones that I formed on this one trip and the training leading up to it and the things I’ve learned from Bill and Armin.