Mt. Rainier - Part II

Matt and Pat gearing up at the National Park Inn

Mt. Rainier National Park - July 6th, 2008

I think it was Matt and Marco who came up with the idea first.  Sitting in their tent on the morning of our abandoned summit drive, they started scheming a way to extend their flights home and give Rainier another shot while we were still fit and ready to take it on.  The word spread throughout our collective crew, and while everyone wanted to, only the 3 teachers and one unemployed dude were able to fully take advantage of the trip extension.  On July 6th, Matt, Marco, Chris, and Pat made the drive from Seattle to Ashford for the 3rd time in a week to prepare for a 2 day attempt on Mt. Rainier - this time via the highly popular, yet uber classic Disappointment Cleaver route.  We would start climbing on the morning of the 7th, set up camp at the historic Camp Muir, nap, eat, sleep, and then begin our summit attempt at 1:30 a.m. on the 8th.  Sounds simple enough, right?  We figured we could make it work, seeing as we had made it to 11,300 only days prior, so acclimatization shouldn't be that much of an issue.

The morning of the 7th started off perfectly.  Sunny skies, cool air temperature, and a half of a blackberry pie for breakfast.

With bags packed and spirits high, we set off again with hopes of reaching the summit.  This time had a little more importance for us.  We were once again climbing in the name of all those afflicted with cancer at the Marshall L. and Susan Gibson Pavilion at Portland's Maine Medical Center - both patient and family member.  For our second attempt, names like Troy, Rich, Adam, and Aaron were at the forefront of our minds also.  Climbing for our teammates who couldn't stay out with us for the second attempt was just as important in this case as those who we came to climb for initially.  With all this spinning through my head, I found it very difficult to find my focus that morning: my mind could not stop wandering.  

The hike up to Camp Muir was spectacular.  Fields of endless snow were interrupted by beautiful alpine gardens and breathtaking vistas.  The stone structures of Camp Muir began revealing themselves over the crest as if one were approaching a snowy Camelot.  Taking in all of the vast beauty around me started to shift my mind in the right direction, and I started drawing strength from the mountain, though it still seemed to pale in comparison to that possessed by Matt, Marco, and Chris, who were at least 100 yards ahead of me.

I finally caught them at the top of the crest, where all of Camp Muir awaited for me to take in.  It was a Monday, and still there were multiple bright colored dome tents scattered along the great snow field.  We found 2 campsites right next to each other and began setting up our tents for what would prove to be the last time.  

Going to bed that evening was difficult.  Part in partial because the sun was still out and bright at 9 p.m., but I couldn't seem to turn my head off this time.  I was listening to my iPod, hoping that music would lull me to sleep, but every song seemed to trigger a memory.  At one point, I felt that getting up and prepping was the only smart thing to do.  I checked the time: 10:15 p.m.  I had been "sleeping" for 45 minutes and still had another 2+ hours to kill before the alarm would roust the others (who, might I add, were sleeping well).  Music and memories continued to overtake me until the alarm finally went off.  At last, I was able to get up, swallow instant oatmeal and coffee, gear up, and set out to finish this project.

The early climbing took us through a rock field, occasionally highlighted by sparks caused by our crampons striking the volcanic rock.  I saw the crowd in front of us: about 20 individual beams of light from other climbers seemed to make a biolumiscent catepillar slowly working their way up the hill.  Once over the rock pile, we were able to pass two of these parties, which made for better conditions ahead of us as we approached an 80 foot fixed-line rock traverse.  It was slow going, a narrow footpath of 5-6 inches, with a solid 400 foot fall beneath us and loose rock above.  This was not a place I wanted to be waiting for others in front of us.  We continued through this stretch without incident and made it to the snow slopes at 11,500'.  From here on out, it would be non-stop snow climbing up 45 degree slopes.

The longer we went, the stronger I felt.  Perhaps nothing made me feel any stronger than seeing the sun beginning to rise from the eastern horizon.  13,600' and the sun was fully out.  We had roughly an hour's climb left to the summit, and the mountain clearly was going to let us touch the top.  Winds were strong and gusty, and other climbers were coming down - some successfully, some disheartened.  This difference between success and failure made me think about the constant similarities between this climb and cancer itself.  Full of mystery and anxiety, hope and bewilderment, our climb on some level closely resembled a patient's journey.  I found a great deal of strength within this idea, and thought of the words of Rich.  He had said, "just think how many patients would love to be up and out of their beds to have the chance to do something like this."  Thinking of that, and Rich, Aaron, Adam, and Troy rejuventated me when I should have been dragging.  The end of this endless snowslope was in sight.  15 minutes and we would be at the top...or so it would appear.

The top of the snowslope was reached, which did not bring us to the summit.  It brought us inside the crater of the great volcano itself.  A half mile walk across the windswept, flat caldera stood between us and the last short section of vertical gain to the summit.  Pending any freakish weather glitches or a sign of the apocolypse, we would be on the summit in 15 minutes.  If I was emotional thinking of my teammates and patients, I was truly digging deep inside myself to name what I was feeling on my way to the summit.  Thoughts of my uncle Rod and family came rushing through me, and as I stepped on the summit and kneeled with head resting on my ice axe, I began to sob uncontrollably.  Memories, fueled by fatigue and accomplishment reduced me to a level of tears uncommonly released.  After embracing my mates, the classic summit pictures were taken, capturing the elation of the moment, the effort of the accomplishment, and the bond which afforded us the summit.

After stepping off of the summit, we sat near the steam vents for a while, warming and eating in the early sun of the day.  We would each take a turn writing in the summit register and re-lock in the metal box protecting it from the elements.  As the others were having their own moments and individual time, I withdrew the large and heavy 24 oz. Miller High Life from my backpack, an infant tradition I had started on the summit of Mt. Hood in 2006.  The Miller High Life was reminiscent of the last beer I had with my uncle, in his hospital room on the Gibson floor, days before his passing.  After having a few sips and sharing with Matt, Marco, and Chris, I stashed it behind a rock, leaving the last half for him to finish.

With our summit secured, we made a few phone calls to friends and family to tell of our successes.  All that was left was to return back to camp.  I wish there was some exciting, death-defying story to share, but all was straight forward (unless you count the 5 minutes I spent excavating myself out of thigh-high deep snow, yet I hardly consider that death-defying...).  We returned to camp by 11:30 a.m., 10 hours after departing.  A brief nap and snack passed a few hours of our time before breaking down camp, packing up, and beginning the 3.5 hour hike back down to Paradise.  Taking the scenery for the last time, we returned to Paradise just 33 hours after having left.  Truly a beautiful mountain that brought out the best of all who chose to Climb for Cancer Care in 2008.