How I Accidentally Became A Mountain Climber

Of course, I grew up hiking. It seems we went camping every summer weekend at Mount Rainier national park. I grew up listening to stories of Rainier and hearing of the climbers who made it to the summit in what seemed then and still now an amazing feat, and those who didn’t and became legends in their failed attempt.

Perhaps, because we could see Mount Rainier rising 14,411 feet into the sky so clearly from where we lived in Gig Harbor and I grew up with the iconic mountain seemingly always in sight it seems natural that years later I would stand on its peak and look out over the entire state. Yet, I never once thought I would ever climb Rainier, not even a single thought devoted to it, hope or dream. It was, afterall, a big challenge that seemed too daunting even for someone who doesn’t easily balk at a challenge.

I’m a runner, who doesn’t flinch at running 26.2 miles once a year in a marathon the weekend of my birthday. That pain only lasts a few hours. Climbing a mountain is slow, long, endless. Then, there’s the heavy backpack, equipment and, well, the danger. I suppose there is danger in running, too – getting hit by a car, spraining an ankle. The thought of falling into a crevasse, getting buried alive in an avalanche or freezing to death in a sudden storm seems far more serious. So, you can see why “because it’s there” just never seemed like a good enough reason to climb it.

May, 2009.

A friend of mine, a well-known local mountain climber who’d attempted to summit Everest a few years earlier asked if I knew anyone who would want to join his annual charity climb on Mount Rainier that July. I told him I certainly knew people who would want to do it, but when I actually couldn’t deliver on my promise I said, perhaps, I would do it. A part of me didn’t think it would really happen and I regretted it the instant I sent the e-mail. The next day I was signing a form, promising not to sue if something stupid, like dying, happened up on the mountain. It was official. I was going to do something I never thought I’d do, climb a mountain.

It seemed impossible. It still does as I look at the pictures and know if I’d known then, I would never have done it. I would have been perfectly fine to pass up what will certainly be some of my life’s greatest memories. It was terrifying at times, brilliant, emotional, exhausting, breathtaking, surreal, painful - so many feelings all at once I can’t put them into a single word. I never really did train for Rainier. I climbed a 4,500 elevation mountain twice, but with no backpack and counted on the fact that being in marathon shape meant I could tackle a 14,411 foot mountain on my first try.

For most of the weeks leading up to the climb it was terrifying, beginning with the three-paged two-column list of climbing equipment and supplies I’d have to carry up. A 60-pound backpack. You don’t have to carry 60 extra pounds when you run a marathon! Then, there were the plastic climbing boots. Unforgiveable, with no flexibility. I wore rented boots, strapped on a massive backpack nearly half my weight, hiked four miles to a glacier and then climbed for what felt three-hours straight. That was just the first day. We wouldn’t be making our summit attempt until two days later.

It was hot, the hottest weekend so far of the summer and even though Rainier is blanketed in snow year-round we wore short sleeves and shorts, dripped with sweat and welcomed a break with a breeze giving instant air conditioning as it swept off the Emmons Glacier. The first night, camping on the side of a glacier in a group of 14 people who only knew each other vicariously, we slowly got to know those we’d depend on over the next few days. As the sun set we went to bed.

I’d never even held an ice axe before, didn’t know how to put on crampons and had never heard of a carabiner. These are among the most crucial pieces of equipment for climbing a mountain. Our second day, 10,000 feet up the side of Rainier, I learned more than I ever thought I’d know about them

The reality, if it hadn’t already, along with the blisters that made themselves home about an hour into the first day, was starting to set in and as the sun began to dip on the second day, so did my confidence. As I looked up at the summit, seemingly so close, yet I knew still so far away, I wondered, if I failed, how I could face anyone I’d told I was climbing Rainier or the people who donated on my behalf to the Mitrata Nepal Orphanage. Then, there was the issue of the weather, something completely out of my control which is utterly frustrating. It was starting to get windy. Too much wind, it would be too dangerous and our attempts would be fruitless.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. I doubt any of us did, whether from nerves or excitement. The wind whipped at the side of the tent and the smell from the outhouse wafted into the tent on the breeze, leaving me with a nauseous, pounding headache that never really went away.

Midnight. That was our wakeup call. Not only are we climbing a mountain, but we have to get up in the middle of the night to do it. It’s so the snow is still solid enough that you don’t fall through into crevasses and can make it down early enough before it gets too dangerous.

I’d set the alarm on my iphone to go off at midnight. I didn’t really need it. I hadn’t slept and I kept checking the time, that went by so slowly as it always does when you can't sleep. Plus, I could hear other climbers who wanted to leave even earlier as they shuffled by our tents and a part of me just wanted to get going.

Finally, it was time. I opened the tent flaps and, for the first time on the mountain, was cold as the icy wind blasted against me without the sun to lessen some of its bite. I shivered and stepped outside, with only my head lamp to find the gear I’d laid out the night before.

For a few moments as I got ready I stopped and stared, awed by a beauty I couldn’t imagine. As others around me busily geared up, Tacoma - I think it was Tacoma - glowed in the distance. The orange lights looked calm, easy and safe. I imagined my friends were still at their favorite watering holes, carefree and probably not giving a thought to me, up on the mountain, nervous and dry-mouthed. Up in the sky the Milky Way was more clear than I’ve ever seen it. A million – no, a billion! – stars freckled the sky. Mount Rainier, our goal, was invisible in the darkness, except for a slow, winding trail of glowing lights from headlamps that made its way up the side. It was like a trail of fire, leading the way. Just follow the trail and you're there.

I was ready before everyone else and I started to shiver and shake standing in my climbing boots. Partly, I was cold. Mostly, I was just scared. We roped up in four teams of three people attached to each other and got in line. So many people try to summit Rainier you get in line and the first few hours are an agonizingly slow process of one step at a time as you wait for the rope team in front of you to move.

I was exhausted almost instantly because of the elevation and in pain from the blisters on almost every part of my feet. My head pounded from not drinking enough water, the sickly sweet stench of the outhouse that seemed to have become absorbed in my clothes and the elevation.

For hours we were in interminable darkness and then the first, magical glimmers of daylight began to appear from behind the Cascade Mountains. We'd been climbing for four hours with the distance hardly seeming to close between us and the summit. So, we stopped and we sat, digging our crampons in so we could gratefully collapse into a mountain that gave us no sympathy. Finally, I could reach for a drink of water, afraid while climbing to take my hand off the rope or ice axe long enough to grab my bottle. We ate M&Ms and cashew nuts and watched the most glorious sunrise I think I'll ever see.

From where we sat it's as if we could see forever, truly see forever. The sky is endless and only my limited vision prevented me from seeing beyond a hundred miles. Above the clouds with the tips of the Cascade range jutting through the puffy, white blanket, the curvature of the earth gave the sunrise the appearance of a gigantic, glowing fishbowl, rising into the sky. My eyes hurt. It was time to put on the glacier goggles.

We climbed and climbed, along ridges I couldn't fathom ever surviving with my fear of heights and sheer, terrifying drops that make me shudder even now, almost a year later. We passed by crevasses that were horrifyingly beautiful, wide deep and like caves of crystal. Then, there it was, the summit, unassuming, almost disappointing in the way it just appeared and was there, waiting for us.

Just a few more feet and we were finally there, too exhausted to appreciate we'd achieved our goal, at 10:19am, 11 minutes before our turnaround time. We were only there ten minutes and then it was time to go down. We'd gone so far only to stay such a short time.

It felt as if I fell nearly the entire way down the mountain, my legs like jelly, the snow so soft my crampons filled up with almost every step making them useless, but still too dangerous to come off. Back at base camp, just below 10,000 feet I was too exhausted to pack up my sleeping back. How could I hike back down the final four or five miles to the car? I'd accomplished already what I thought was impossible, yet it seemed even more impossible what was ahead.

Somehow we did it, climbing down Emmons Glacier, sliding thousands of feet to make up time and hiking the last miles through the woods in complete darkness. The tears ran down my face from exhaustion, pain and gratefulness that it was finally over. Almost 11pm when we got back to the cars. I'd been up for more than 40 hours yet my mind raced, my body ached and I couldn't possibly fall asleep now.

Three more hours driving in the car back to Seattle and I collapsed in my bed. Somehow, I only slept a few hours. When I woke, the effects of the climb on my body were just starting to take shape. Soreness I've never felt before made it painful to move my legs just to walk. My lips were swollen from wind and sun and my skin felt raw. My eyes were dry and aching and the blisters on my feet made wearing even just sandals unbearable. Yet, there was an elation that returns everytime I think of Rainier and look at the pictures.

I never thought I wanted to climb a mountain, and even in the first few days after coming back down I said "never again." Almost a year later, I'll be climbing Mount St. Helens in just a few days, on my birthday. No marathon this year.

Perhaps, I am a mountain climber. I'm not someone who aspires to climb higher, more dangerous peaks. Everest isn't in my future. But, then again, I never thought Rainier was, either.