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Mountaineering/Historical (Mt. Rainier,
Washington State)
Venture Magazine |
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Just past midnight, I was stirred into
consciousness by the sound of crampons
biting into glacial ice. The noise reminded
me of people walking over spilled popcorn
on a barroom floor. I felt around in
the dark for my headlamp. Outside our
tent, at 10,000 feet, I could hear whispered
voices. I jiggled my climbing companion
awake. We stumbled out of the tent and
stuffed our feet into frozen climbing
boots. I zipped my parka up to my ears
and peered around in the moonlight. There
was a string of headlamps moving past
our tent. Their faceless heads were bobbing
to the rhythm of step-rest-step, step-rest-step.
Rising in front them was the bulky frame
of a mountaintop: Mt. Rainier. A tribute
to Pacific Coast volcanism. Icon of northwest
mountaineering. King of the Ring of Fire.
A few weeks earlier, while at home in Sandpoint, Idaho, I was in the process
of prepping my truck for a two-week rock climbing road trip to the Oregon desert,
when the phone rang. It was Mark. "Have you ever climbed Mt. Rainier?" he
asked. I hadn't. "Well, I need someone to help me guide a few folks up it
this summer. Interested?" I was. There would be five paid clients — men
who were willing to squeeze enough money from their midwest careers to tackle
Washington State's biggest peak, and most glaciated in the lower 48. They would
require two experienced mountain guides — Mark and myself, who were willing
to squeeze money and careers from the mountain itself.
Back in the moonlight beneath Rainier, I could see a long glowing strip, which
blended Olympia, Tacoma and Seattle into one massive blur of light far below.
A broad sheet of celestial glitter was bending down to meet it. Mark was trying
to uncoil the frozen ropes. His fingers were turning to wooden dowels the moment
he ungloved his hands to do so. I approached the clients' tents, two dark and
suspiciously quiet domes just visible in the dimness and summoned, "Anyone
in there want to go climb a mountain?" There was a forced, almost measured
silence. Then came a calm, well-timed response, "If you know what's best
for you, you'll leave us all alone."
A few seconds came and went, and then the tents began to buckle with the force
of midwestern laughter. I stuffed my head into the vestibule and cast the ray
of my headlamp across their laughing faces. We had established an immediate bond
the moment we met. Mark and I were accused of being pot-smoking, tofu-eating,
scraggly little dudes who aspired to be Nepalese porters. We retaliated by accusing
them of being grown-up twelve-year-olds from Anytown, USA who had serious difficulties
with politeness.
I have taken many inexperienced people climbing before. And some I simply wanted
to crack over the head and stuff into my backpack. This way, I would simply prop
them up on the summit for hero shots and later explain that altitude was to blame
for not remembering a lick of it. But these guys were different. These guys were
willing to put every effort into doing whatever it took; trusting a stranger
to drag their butts up a vast and unpredictable mountain. This fraternal bond
brought enjoyment to the process. The boys roused, dressed themselves and then
dumped out into the relentless chill of midnight.
The night before, while making preparations for bed, Mark had told me of the
first ascent of Mt. Rainier. Back in 1870, a Union Civil War General and his
private secretary decided to conquer what the natives called Takhoma. All Mark
really knew was that these men had started out in Olympia (some fifty linear
miles southwest), dragged firewood up the lower slopes for warmth and had relied
mostly on their hunting skills for food. The men got stranded near the summit
but managed to find shelter in some sulphur vents, which slice into the belly
of the mountain's upper rim. After an uncomfortable night passed, the men slogged
back to Olympia victorious.
What Mark didn't tell me was that these men not only had to overcome this challenging
terrain, they also had a Yakama Indian guide named Sluiskin, who did his best
to dissuade them with thousands of years of pent-up mythology. This instantly
intrigued me. The Yakamas had been living in the shadow of Takhoma for 10,000
years. During that time, the mountain had burped and grumbled and dumped snow
onto their villages, and the natives took all this as signs of evil. Sluiskin
was convinced that Takhoma was a dangerous place, inhabited by evil spirits that
lived in a fiery lake on its summit, and any attempt to climb Takhoma would end
in disaster.
The remarkable thing is that the pioneers refused to take any of this into consideration.
In fact, it seems the men ignored Sluiskin from the beginning, and soon left
him behind. I have only one thought about these pioneers, circa 1870 and the
mountain they called Takhoma. Those boys must have been keen. Those boys must
have been driven. Those boys were possessed by the mountain beneath them.
Looking over at my midwest clients, watching them fiddle with their crampons
in the morning moonlight, I couldn't help but project an image of the general's
party. We had Gore Tex to combat the cold and the wet, climbing boots so advanced
they could be used to stroll around the surface of the moon.
We had lightweight ropes and thin nylon tents that had been machine tested and
designed to outsmart gravity and the elements associated with wind. We had several
guidebooks, and boot tracks already laid into the snow to the summit. Regardless,
the climb still seemed daunting.
By 4 a.m., our tents were tiny bumps reflecting specks of moonlight far below.
We trudged along in two roped teams. The first rays of a new day filled the eastern
horizon with the color of wild salmon meat. The snow suddenly morphed into orange
sorbet. The headlamps were swapped for glacier glasses.
I peeked behind me to see what shape my team was in. Several tired faces did
their best to smile in return.
Five hours after leaving basecamp we staggered onto the Columbia Crest: a vast,
ice-encrusted crater that was formed epochs ago by volcanic force. The true summit — still
400 feet above — seemed unyielding at this point, its angled slopes moving
further away with each step. As we crossed the crater, we stepped around deep
gashes in the mountainside where the hot breath of sulphur gas was seeping through.
I tried to imagine what it would have been like to crawl down and endure a night
on the summit of Takhoma in 1870.
At 14,400 feet, the air began slipping from our lungs. When we reached the summit,
there was a general consensus that we were all bad asses. We were men hardened
by our own realities. It didn't matter that two burly civil war veterans had
pioneered this route when our great grandfathers were alive. For the clients,
the summit of Mt. Rainier was a culmination of countless daydreams, hours at
the gym, and scores of pennies pinched. For me, the summit was a vehicle to something
bigger. To guide a mountain like this was to put a sparkle in my climbing resume.
With this experience, a real career in facilitating trips to harsh environments
could be jumpstarted. The boys were merely going to return home to unpause lives
put on hold for Rainier. I, on the other hand, would be looking toward a higher
plateau of achievement. The signboard suddenly became apparent. For them, Rainier
was a pinnacle moment, a final destination. For me, it was a catalyst for more.
For the pioneers of 1870, a way of life. But none of that really mattered now,
we had all stood proud in the northwest jet stream at one time or another, and
because of this, I realized that anyone willing to climb Takhoma is forever connected
by a common thread: a desire to look past the dangers and march on despite the
battles.
When Sluiskin finally saw his clients coming down from the summit that day in
1870, he ran up to them with open arms screaming, "Skookum tillicum! Skookum
tumtum!," which apparently translates into "Strong men! Brave hearts!" And
while sitting at the pizza bar at 10 p.m., having just come off the summit with
my clients, I remember mumbling something similar to "skookum tillicum,
skookum tumtum." But I was trying to tell them in English that I was proud
of everyone for having just climbed 15,000 vertical feet over the course of 22
straight hours. The words came out deformed due to severe dehydration. In a state
of pure grogginess, I made a stab at absorbing Sluiskin's words within the context
of modern-day mountaineering.
Strength is what allows people to overcome the fact that the human body is not
made for climbing mountains. But bravery is what helps us continue in hopes that
the human heart is.
Before slumping over onto my beer and expiring there for the night, I couldn't
help but have one last thought about the midwest boys who had come all this way
to conquer a mountain. Those boys were keen, driven, possessed by a spirit called
Takhoma.
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