June 30th. We knew this was a volcano, but we didn't think much about it. For me at least, this was a 14er and an opportunity for glacial travel experience. This was a climb in the pacific northwest where the magnitude of this mountain is a product of its prominence not from the fact that it could erupt at any moment. Mt Rainier rises directly out of the ocean, from zero elevation to 14,000 feet in 164 miles as the crow flies. The next most prominent peak is probably Mt Elbert, which is almost 1,000 miles from the ocean; or Denali which is not in the Contiguous U.S. From the Paradise Parking lot, we would gain ~10,000 feet of elevation in roughly 5 miles of the overall ascent; 8.7 miles to the top, but only 5 of those miles are up. Which meant we were climbing almost 2,000 feet per mile. 

We snapped some pictures and discussed our route. Honestly, at that point, I could have cared less about the actual summit of the Mountain. Standing on the edge of the opening of a volcano and essentially daring each other to step out into the crater, was more than satisfying to mark the completion of our ascent. We sort of huddled as a team and I don't remember exactly what was said, but it was somewhere close to, "We need to walk directly across this crater" even if it didn't take us to the summit right away. So we did. 

Straight to the Ocean

I hadn't anticipated just how breathtaking the views would be every single time I turned around on this expedition. We'd stair at white, bright snow, our rope, our boots and crampons for hours on end and when we took breaks we'd turn around and look at the vast landscape below us. From the Crater we could see Mt Adams, Mt St Helen, and even as far as Mt Hood in Northern Oregon. I'll probably say it several times, if I haven't already, but we were lucky, particularly in the weather we received. It's true that any venture, even life itself depends on some large amount of luck. I don't know the pacific northwest too well. I know enough to say that snow pack, avalanche danger and weather can be very different than the Rockies of Colorado. In Colorado, particularly from May through early August, if you're going to climb a mountain of any elevation, you want to be at the peak by noon (at the latest) and then down below tree line again shortly there after.  Storms tend to come in fairly predictably in the afternoon, so by hitting the summit early and heading down at or before noon, you can thoroughly mitigate the risks of cold, wet storms (even in the summer), white outs (from snow or fog), and lightning strikes. That means that depending on the 13er or 14er, a hiker is starting their climb in the early morning, sometimes 12 or 1am to ensure they're off the summit by noon. 

I won't pretend that Toby's condition was the only thing that kept me in a warm sleeping bag until 7am. Whatever the reason, we very much got ourselves moving too late every day. We weren't actually moving upward each day until almost 10am; and i'll admit whole heartedly this is bad practice for high altitude mountaineer. We knew we were lucky. I knew everyday that the weather seemed to be on our side. I've not always been in that position on my mountaineering adventures.   

The Summit 

        I imagined all of the people below in Seattle. I had this thought that I often have on airplanes that everyone below the clouds is having a gloomy day. People are going about their day with the clouds, thick and grey, above them. The sunlight is completely obscured for them. They’re drinking coffee or taking their kids to school, they’re going to work or getting in their cars, and Seattle is grey and cloudy much of the time, so they’re used to it, maybe. We wake up in the morning. We shower, maybe, we get dressed and maybe head out the door. Some people look out the window, right away. some people check the weather at some point in their mid morning routine. Other’s want it to be a surprise; they don’t look until they’re headed somewhere. At some point, they know there is no avoiding it. Unless you never leave your house, which I suppose is true for some, you classified that day as cloudy. Clouds don’t just sit over our heads, they’re not static, immovable, however massively depressing they can be. Sometimes they start high in the morning and move lower down as the sun comes up. Or the opposite; sometimes they sit low in the evening and rise as the day goes on. Some days they go whipping by and their speed is tough to determine because they're so high up in the sky. Sometimes they build slowly as they pass over us, lumbering from all directions and none. They breath, in and out, up and down and for the most part we can’t tell, or we aren’t paying much attention. But on the mountain we become acutely aware of this quality of inhale and exhale. 

       About a million people in Seattle and towns that surround mount Rainier woke up that morning and for them the day was gray and dreary. We rarely stop to think about the fact that at some elevation above us, it’s still a brilliantly clear, bluebird, sunny day. But when you’re above, the clouds are a sea, with mountaintops jutting up from their depths like islands. They shimmer from the bright sun above. they pillow and wisp with the gentle wind that skirts along the top. They rise and fall with the temperature changes. They roll gently over cliff bands, seracs, and rocky outcroppings.

On June 30th, we reached the highest point of Mt. Rainier. We had been above the cloud ceiling for the entire three days of our ascent.