© Peter Tremayne 2009

Northwest Climbing Chronicles 1996

Most of the people who climb Rainier are guided by Rainier Mountaineering Inc (RMI), Jim and Lou Whitaker's top class operation and largest concession holder for guiding on the mountain.  For a summit attempt, they require a two day introductory course in glacier travel, crevasse rescue etc.  Clients are then subjected to a 12 - 15 hour ordeal that begins at midnight, dragged and bullied up the 'dog route', reaching the summit shortly after dawn, roped in groups of four to six and given little choice but to remain clothed in their extreme weather gear, including helmet, regardless of temperature.  RMI say that it’s all in the interest of safety, but I would suggest that liability is what it's all about.  The price for the three day adventure is in the $300 - 400 range.

For the those of us who wish to climb unguided, the rules are: No solo climbers above 10,000', previous experience of glacier travel and suitably equipped.  I'm not sure how they police the previous experience clause but there's Park Rangers wandering the slopes each day to check on equipment and climbing permits ($15 per head).  Lucy and I refrained from tackling any of the difficult routes, many of which are closed for the season because of open crevasses and rock/ice fall.  We planned to climb the dog route which begins at Camp Muir, crosses the top of two glaciers, ascends a rotten piece of rock called  Disappointment Cleaver up onto the crater dome which is riddled with crevasses and ice-falls of all sizes and shapes.  Like many of the Cascade volcanoes late in the summer, Rainier presents a rather nasty climbing environment, and this one is on a grand scale.  We crossed snow bridges that were in their last days, in locations that offered few alternatives once the bridge gave way.  Fortunately RMI maintains the route, with fixed ropes in a couple of steep sections and a narrow ladder across a yawning crevasse.

Our climb started late from the trailhead at Paradise - 5,400', so we camped the first night at 8,600', seemingly alone on the mountain.  That all changed the next morning as we hauled into Camp Muir at 10,100'.  Situated on a col, the place is reminiscent of a high pass in Nepal but without the prayer flags.  There's a collection of small stone structures with flat roofs, a solar toilet and hoards of climbers.  We pitched our tent in preference to sleeping in one of the stone shelters and used the afternoon for a short recce of the summit route and practiced roping for glacier travel.  With so many RMI professionals around, I wanted us to look reasonably experienced on the route the next day.

The guided groups all moved off before 1:30 am, waking us with the sounds of preparation, leaving us little choice but to begin the climb ourselves.   I'm not good at 'alpine starts' but on this mountain my real concern was moving across heavily crevassed glaciers in the dark for at least three hours.  In the event, we simply followed the yellow brick road and the string of lights twinkling above us on the well trodden RMI route.  The slopes were lit up like a bloody Christmas tree.  We moved off at 2:40 am, reaching the base of the Cleaver just before dawn. There, I made some bad decisions on using crampons on the rock and wasted time and energy removing/replacing the damn things.  Toward the top of the Cleaver, Lucy went into a sleep mode (it's happened at altitude before) and our progress slowed down to a crawl, finally reaching the summit at 12:40 ... a very long time (normal is 6 -8 hours).  However, at this time of year, the route is considerably longer (at least a mile) because of crevasse openings across the more direct line of approach towards the summit.  Also, we remained roped throughout the climb and descent ... not always necessary in my opinion, but that's what RMI do and they certainly know the mountain better than me.

The descent was almost as bad as the climb ... hot afternoon sun, no wind, Lucy having trouble with the altitude and me nursing a giant blister in new boots.  We stumbled into Camp Muir at 6:30 pm ... almost 16 hours on the go.  I was ready to collapse, but Lucy amazed me by suddenly coming back to life, melting snow, preparing hot drinks and food and generally getting us back into the land of the living.  We descended to the trailhead the next morning, in agony for me with the blister, but Lucy showing few signs of her ordeal the day before.  I have to admit she does a good job in the mountains. She weighs in at 112 lbs and I normally load her up with a 50 lb pack so I shouldn't be surprised that she sometimes runs out of steam at the higher altitudes.  She sure has the guts to hang in there.

In summary:  I never expected Rainier to be easy, but was suitably humbled by the effort and potential danger inherent in the climb, even on the dog route.  If nothing else, it's damn hard work ... particularly being roped for the duration.  Technically there's nothing to it, but the ever-present crevasse danger requires constant vigilance and plenty of good luck.

Bivy on Baker - 10,778':  September 9 - 11, 1996

The adventure on Mount Baker began on Saturday, September 7, when Lucy and I drove north to Seattle and Puget Sound. Our intention being a visit to the San Juan Islands and then on to Vancouver, Canada.  We did neither of these things because of rain and fog in the Sound and decided to drive inland to Mount Baker.  After one wet night spent in the truck at the Park Butte trailhead, the weather cleared enough for us to haul up to a base camp, high on the 'Railway Grade' at 6,000'.  The trail meanders through vast fields of blueberries and huckleberries and numerous Marmot colonies with their lime green, smelly poop littering the trail.  No, I didn't try to feed them rocks ... in fact, they seemed quite timid compared with the Marmots at Whitney.

We established camp by mid afternoon with the weather clearing and being within a few steps of the Easton glacier, we practiced crevasse extraction techniques until dusk.  I did my best to survey the route we'd take the following morning, using the recent report from Willie Prittie of AAI.  In late August he'd suggested an easterly route from the 6,000 ft level of the Railway Cleaver, passing below the prominent icefall, turning it to the east and then on a northern heading toward the crater, passing close beneath the gendarmes of Sherman Peak.  From our vantage point the route looked generally feasible except for a heavily crevassed area between 8,000' and 9,000'.  There appeared to be sections that offered no easy passage through, or around, very large crevasses.   Oh well, as Hillary said 'nothing venture, nothing win'.

The next morning at 5:50, in fine cool weather, we set off for the summit.  There was just enough light to see the rims of crevasses on the exposed ice, swept clear of all snow.  This changed as we approached the ramparts of the icefall, but by then, dawn made the task of spotting the snow covered cracks much easier.  Progress for the first few hours was good. I left trail markers at various intervals, noting compass bearings between the markers and felt confident in making the summit if the route would 'go' above 8,000'.  Unfortunately, Lucy went into her sleep mode as the sun came up, wasting valuable time while the snow was still firm.  However, our delay was offset by placing Lucy in the lead for the next few hours.  Not only did she come alive once more, but her pace was faster than I could have lead on the same steep slope.  In the event, the difficult crevasse sections went safely and we made it to the crater by 1:00 pm.  Amazingly, a solo climber strode past us at the crater, his route of ascent through the most perilous area of the Easton glacier.  No doubt he'd been on the mountain before, but climbing without a rope, surrounded with such potential danger, classified the man as a complete idiot.

The crater was very active ... spewing forth large amounts of steam and bubbling water from openings in the crater floor, not visible because of the dense steam.  It smelt and sounded like the biggest geyser in Yellowstone.  The sides of the crater are steep, plunging into the inferno below.  This wouldn't be a good place to fall.  The route from the crater is obvious ... swinging up the western rim onto a slope that steepens to about forty degrees and exposure to open crevasses on the face below.  It wasn't a safe place, so after some procrastination on my part and a fall into a minor crevasse, I elected to continue directly up the slope using ice-ax belays for protection.  This took time, which was becoming critical for a descent in daylight, but the lure of the summit was too strong and we continued, reaching the summit plateau at 4:10 pm.  Ten minutes for photos and then down the slope as fast as safety would allow.

Despite the markers I'd left at various points on the route, I still managed to lose them through the lower section because of the fading light and confusion with the appearance of the terrain.  I believed there was no safe choice but to traverse left off the glacier into a wilderness of rocks, cliffs and snow fields ... but at least safe from crevasses.  Our tent was at the same level, but it may as well have been light-years away, situated somewhere on the far side of the Easton Glacier.  The only plan I could muster was to attempt to intercept the Scott Paul trail which would be approximately 1,500' below and could guarantee a safe crossing of the terminal moraine.  Alas, we made little progress down the rocks before darkness and the rough terrain made further movement too dangerous.  We discovered a small rock enclave that was protected from the wind, put our feet in the packs and settled down for nine hours of darkness ... and cold.

Surprisingly, the time passed much quicker than expected ... the weather stayed fine and relatively warm, but the experience wasn't much fun.  I kept dreaming about the warmth of our sleeping bags, hot food and drink and all the things I should have done differently.  I was also concerned I may have bottled us into an area that would prove difficult to extricate ourselves from ... the known glacier hazards above and unknown rock bluffs below.  But when daylight finally arrived, the surrounding terrain looked easier than I'd expected.  We moved off quickly down through the rocks to the now visible tree line and intercepted the trail I'd hoped to reach the previous night.  Then the long climb back to the tent 2,000 feet above, hot food, a quick nap in the warmth, pack up and get the heck off the darn mountain.

In retrospect, viewing yesterday's descent route from the camp, there were alternatives that could have got us back to the tent the night before, had I been more familiar with the layout of the terrain, but to have continued moving over such dangerous, unknown ground in the dark was just inviting a nasty accident.  I'm content with the choice we made ... a night on cold ground in the open, was a small price to pay for a late season summit victory and a safe return.

Reno, Nevada ... May 20, 2009