Denali - Part 1: Getting There

Strava

All Photos

Denali, the highest mountain in North America, is the third most prominent mountain in the world, the most northern peak over 6000 meters, and the biggest peak in the world that is entirely above sea level (Mauna Kea, mostly under water, is the largest). It is also considered one of the coldest mountains on earth and this is why it is almost entirely climbed in only the months of May and June. Because of its extreme northern latitude, nearly inside the Arctic Circle, its elevation of 20,310 feet is more comparable to a 23,000-foot mountain in the Himalayas. In the Athabaskan language, Denali means "the High One" and indeed it is.

It's a long, expensive journey to get to this mountain and so time-consuming and logistically difficult to climb it from its true base at 2000 feet of elevation, that it is almost always accessed by a ski plane that lands on the Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier at around 7200 feet. This is the approach we took.

Our team met Saturday afternoon at DIA with a titanic mass of gear - enough food, clothing, and shelter to keep us alive for twenty days. Charlie and Tom helped Derek and I carry the gear into the departure counter and we bid farewell to Sheri. Derek and I checked five total bags - all within a few ounces of 50 pounds each. We flew to Seattle where Charlie exhibited one of his three defining personality quirks: coffee obsession. Charlie needs a direct caffeine infusion every few hours. His other characteristics? Making funny faces and trying to get his teammates to join in on ridiculous stunts.

With Charlie properly medicated, we got some dinner before boarding our flight to Anchorage. On the plane Derek busied himself reading Art Davidson's Minus 148, about the first winter ascent of Denali in 1967. He buzzed through the entire book before we flew into the glacier and then started and finished Miracle in the Andes on our climb. At least he was well prepared to survive just about anything. Thankfully starvation wouldn't be one of our problems, as we brought a sizable fraction of a ton of food.

VRBO in Anchorage at 11 p.m. at night with no lights in the room.

We arrived in Anchorage at 9:30 p.m. and had no trouble getting our bags or meeting our shuttle driver, also named Bill. Bill had a 14-passenger van towing a covered trailer. We put all our gear in the trailer and had tons of room for ourselves. We sort of screwed up here in our planning and got a VRBO condo in Anchorage instead of going straight to Talkeetna. When we realized what we'd done it was too late to cancel it. Oh well, it gave us a nice rest between traveling. Tom got even with the VRBO people by inadvertently swiping a napkin, complete with ring, from their table. We're still dumbfounded as to how this occurred, but my money's on Chuck Charlie (C. Charlie Nuttelman).

This was my first experience with perpetual light. It never got dark while we were in Alaska. Never. It made it difficult for C. Charlie Nuttelman to sleep, but Derek and I were working hard enough each day to nod off anyway. We end up caching our headlamps at 11,000 feet on the mountain since you never need them. You could read a book at 2 a.m. in your tent without a light.

Bill, our driver, crashed somewhere that night but was back to pick us up at 7 a.m. and we headed north. We stopped in Wasilla for some last minute groceries (cheese, bagels, and tortillas) and what we hoped was our last hearty breakfast before flying into the glacier (wrong!). We continued directly to Talkeetna Air Taxi (TAT) to check in.  While dropping off our gear at "The Pavillon" I met a fit looking climber packing up his gear and cooking a meal on his stove. He'd just come out from the Kahiltna. I'd talk with him more later. Then Bill took us to the ranger station for our mandatory pre-climb meeting with the rangers. This was only about a mile away and we frequently made the walk to/from TAT into downtown Talkeetna.

TAT offices

We registered our team and noticed the low success rate for climbers on Denali so far this year. May had been a rough month, weather wise. I felt that was a good sign. There was no way they'd have two months in a row of bad weather, right? In fact, they had just had a pretty good stretch and we listened in as six Austrians were interviewed about their successful ascent.

In our ranger meeting they talked about the regulations and strategies that would keep our team safe. They told us that only 10% of the teams that try to summit from 14,000 feet make it. This didn't kill our thoughts of doing this, but it sure sobered them up a bit. The main thrust of the talk was about sanitation. With 1000 climbers per year, 90% of them attempting the West Buttress Route (our route), handling human waste is a big concern. This is much more of an issue than elsewhere because all of our water is obtained by melting snow. Climbers must localize their excretions. At camp on the mountain we'd have to designate for ourselves a single bathroom area. There we'd all pee in exactly the same spot. For us, we'd always re-use an existing campsite and re-use an existing "bathroom." The bathroom would always have at least some semblance of a snow wall around it for a bit of privacy, but at most that would come up to about chest height.

Low success rate upon arrival.

For poop, we had to carry a Clean Mountain Can (CMC). Every time a climber goes poop on this mountain, they do it into one of these cans, with one exception. Above Camp IV at 17,200 feet climbers don't have to carry this can. Ideally, they were supposed to poop in a bag and carry it back down to their can. We did spot a few transgressions above Camp IV, but this mountain is amazingly clean, especially considering the density of climbers. We didn't have to carry all our poop for the entire trip, though. There were three places on the route - at Camps I, II, and III where there was a designated crevasse where you could throw away your poop. These were very deep holes in the glacier, which is hundreds to thousands of feet thick. We designated these crapvasses.

Charlie putting a pin on the map designating where he's from. Most are from the USA, but tons are from Europe, South Korea, and Japan.

We walked back to TAT, hoping to fly in, and got the bad news that it was highly unlikely. We went back over the Pavillon to organize our gear a bit and the same climber was still there. This time I noticed his name written on all his gear boxes: Colin Haley. Cool. Colin was a member of the climbing team that did the first Torre Traverse in Patagonia. In fact, that traverse has now been done three times, all by Colin Haley and another partner. He's done it in both directions, including in a single day with Alex Honnold. He was in Alaska to solo the Infinite Spur on Sultana (AKA Mt. Foraker - 17,400 feet). The Infinite Spur is rated WI4/M5/5.9 and is 9000 feet long. That's right - 9000 feet long! Three times the height of El Cap. It hadn't been climbed in seven years or so and had never seen a solo ascent. Colin first did it with his partner in 18 hours ('schrund to summit) and then came back and did it in 12.5 hours solo. He experienced the most desperate epic of his climbing career on the descent and wrote a great piece on it here. I got my photo with him. :-) Colin told us that he never ropes up on the West Buttress route and he never buries his caches - he just sets them next to other climbers' tents. He also does a lot of double carries, so that he isn't carrying huge loads. He said, "That just makes for more climbing and more vertical, which is a good thing."

Me with Colin Haley after his dual blitz of the Infinite Spur.

All gear flying had to be weighed. The base fee gives each climber 125 pounds of gear and our total was 505 pounds, so we had to pay an extra fee of $5 ($1/pound). The next day a pair of Argentines checked in with an astounding total weight of 151 pounds - 75.5 pounds each. We became friends with these guys and saw them a lot on the mountain.

We went back into town to check out the climber hostel provided by TAT, which we didn't like, and elected to stay at the Pavilion, which was only a two-story structure with no light, electricity, or water. Scratch that. It did have light, since it had a couple of uncovered windows, which meant it had light 24-hours a day. We ate a pizza dinner in town before returning to sleep. We kept our phones with us in case the weather cleared. It did not.

 The next morning, Monday, I was up around 6:30 and went over to the TAT office to check on things. The weather didn't look good and they didn't think we'd be flying that day. I hung out and had numerous cups of coffee and ate the snacks they had in the office. Charlie soon joined me for his fix of coffee and then Tom. We were there so long that Derek did eventually get up. He didn't know where we were and didn't call or text me. Instead he headed into town, didn't find us, came back to the Pavilion and read his book. When I went to go get him, that's where I found him. We headed into town for breakfast at the jack-of-all-trades eatery called The Roadhouse, which made Derek and I think of the Family Guy take on the movie Road House.

Doing the Talkeetna Hang.

At the Roadhouse we got a huge breakfast - The Standard - which included endless cups of coffee (see: what makes C. Charlie Nuttelman happy). We stayed there for four hours, moving from our table to the couches and chairs to read and jam on the community acoustic guitar, thus fulfilling one of Tom's dreams of playing guitar in a coffee house. We then walked around town a bit, seeing the Tokositna and Talkeetna rivers and generally doing what is known as the "Talkeetna Hang", where you wait for the weather to fly into the mountains.

On the way back we checked out the planes at the airfield, at least before they kicked us off. Turns out they don't like you walking around the tarmac at the airport. Once again inside the TAT offices we had a pull-up contest on their hangboard. I barely made the podium in third place (10), with Charlie taking the silver (12), and Tom the title (15). Derek was a conscientious objector.

The inside of our plane.

Our planes are equipped to land/take-off on either tarmac or glaciers.

The outside of our plane - a Canadian-built DeHavilland Otter

Charlie displaying one of his vast repertoire of funny faces.

Derek showing Tom some of the finer points of shredding and Travis picking at the Roadhouse.

Charlie...oh, Charlie...

 We had burgers for dinner and went to bed hopeful for better weather. The next morning I repeated my routine and headed to the TAT office for some coffee. Things were looking much better and after the pilot's meeting at 9 a.m. we were told to "get dressed", which means get into your mountain climbing clothes. An hour later, we were loading the plane with three other climbers.

Dressed for the glacier and taking our gear over to the plane.

The plane, packed with 1000 pounds of gear, ready to load people.

 I got the co-pilot seat on the flight into the range and was thankful for the generosity of the others. We flew in a Canadian-built DeHavilland Otter and one of the defining characteristics of this plane is its ability to take-off and land with very short runways. Hence, it is an ideal bush and glacier plane, though the biggest buyers of this plane (and its smaller predecessor, the Beaver) was the US military. I hadn't flown in a small plane for a long time and when it lifted off the runway at 65 mph I thought we were doing about 30 mph. It just floated on up into the air as if it was filled with helium instead of eight people and a 1000 pounds of gear.

For safety reasons, I was unanimously elected co-pilot by our passengers.

Charlie and Derek ready to accept any instructions from the co-pilot.

 The views were surreal at the start, with only a few peaks seen above a sea of clouds. Denali dominated the scene, of course, being 3000 feet higher than the second highest peak (Foraker) and 6000 feet higher than the third highest peak (Hunter). The views became truly spectacular as we approached and then flew over the Kahiltna glacier. These mountains are awesome, especially to a climber's eye.

Heading up the Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier to land. Dead ahead is Denali with Mt. Hunter on the right and Mt. Frances on the left.

 We lined up for a landing on the Southeast Fork of the Kahiltna Glacier. We approached the landing and when we touched down I was amazed how slow we were moving. It hardly felt like anything when we landed and we stopped just moments afterwards. Our pilot, Clay, told me that this plane can take off and land at 45 mph.

As soon as we landed, we hopped out and formed a fire brigade to get all the gear out of the plane and off the runway. As we moved our gear towards camp, others frantically pulled their gear towards the plane. When the weather is good here, the moving of people and gear onto and off of the Kahiltna is serious business.

Our landing field is on the right - only two hundred feet long. The take-off is about 1000 feet long. The path is the start of the West Buttress route.

 Lisa, the basecamp manager, was fully occupied organizing the teams leaving, but we found a stack of TAT sleds - we had rented them for the expedition - and got our four gallons of white gas from one of Lisa's assistants. We had pre-purchased our fuel from TAT as well.

Our pilot Clay and C. Charlie Nuttelman.

 We dug a cache and stowed our ski bag and two days worth of food, in case we got stuck waiting for a flight out. We then loaded up our sleds with our duffel bags, clipped into our skis and were soon heading toward Camp I. Our climb had finally started.

Basecamp on the Kahiltna Glacier with Mt. Crosson in the background.

Road to Denali, part 19: We're Off!

The Colorado Buffs (our team name) are off to Denali this Saturday. We plan to fly into the glacier on the 6th, though weather could delay us. It's also possible, though not very likely, to fly in on the 5th. Our total trip is planned for 3 weeks, but hopefully we get the summit in around ten days. Weather should be the determining factor, though fitness, an injury, or an accident could delay us as well.

This trip happened because I offered my 18-year-old son Derek a climbing trip as a high school graduation present (he graduated summa cum laude). He chose The High One. Denali had been on my list of mountains to climb for 25 years, but it took my son to get me there. Thanks, Derek.

We have to get all this gear into our packs...

On such a big, serious mountain I wanted a strong team and felt just the two of us wasn't safe enough. A fall into a crevasse with a 2-man team is a serious predicament. Hence, I recruited two of the strongest guys I know: Charlie Nuttelman and Tom Karpeichik. You might think I'd want partners that would never quit on the goal, but I chose these guys because they WOULD quit on the goal. ....???

If Derek or I were in trouble and the summit was in reach, both of these guys would turn around immediately and help us. It wouldn't even be a decision for them. They would see only one path.

And all this food!

I guess they aren't quitting on the goal, because the number one goal of this trip is to come back safe and with all our body parts. The number two goal is to have a great time together and be good partners, friends, fathers, and sons to each other. Number three is to get the summit of Denali.

I couldn't imagine a better team.  I will, and have, trusted my life to these guys many times. I know they will take care of me and I'll do the same for them.

This is an entirely different trip than I've ever done before and I'm a bit apprehensive about it. I'm going into it very humble and very cautious, knowing where I'm ignorant and what are my limitations. I think I'm prepared, physically, mentally, emotionally, equipment-wise, and food-wise. I hope I'm right.

You can follow our progress by monitoring this page:

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0oq57BqUZM9uixMPjprspEnVzBUBCsXxT

If you care to, send us good wishes for a safe trip.

See you in July.

Bill

Road to Denali, part 18: Final Gear Shakedown on James Peak

Strava

Photos

Summitpost.com tells me that St. Mary’s Glacier isn’t a glacier any longer. Oh well. It certainly hasn’t hurt it’s popularity any. I thought there were a lot of cars in the parking lot when we arrived at 7:45 a.m. but that was nothing compared to the lot when we got back down. It was a beautiful, warm day…down low. My new Mars mountaineering boots hadn’t been in my skis yet and I had a new pair of skins that needed a test run, so I opted for the gentle slopes of James Peak. I figured we could ski clear to the summit and get in a good test. We’d also get another weekend above 13,000 feet as James tops out at 13,300.

Beautiful in the parking lot.

We had to carry our skis up to the glacier, so that meant that I had to carry my boots too, as they don’t rocks. We do crampons. We do skis. Maybe we do some snow, but we do NOT do rocks.  Ah, the trials of speciality, high-strung, flighty gear…

As we booted up (well, Derek booted up) and strapped on our skis to the packs I listened to a Sierra Club outing leader talking to his charges. He asked them to each name their favorite mountain which they’d climbed. The leader said his favorite was the Maroon Bells. Nice choice. The next guy said…Denali! He immediately added that he didn’t summit, but just “hiked on it.” I thought calling the lower parts of Denali “hiking” was pretty modest of this guy. He also mentioned that he’d climbed Hallet Peak recently and did lots of “off trail” stuff. Needless to say I was anxious to chat with him and when we caught their group I asked him about it. It was immediately apparent that he had just hiked a bit in Denali National Park, but, heck, if you’re heading uphill in that park, you probably are hiking on the lower slopes of that beast. Now that we’re on the verge of heading there, we seem to run into so many Denali climbers. I view that as a good sign.

Skinning up the glacier

We got to the top of the “glacier”, at the lake and I booted up and we both clipped into our skis. The snow conditions were just perfect - firm corn. When we topped the glacier we could finally see James Peak. Well some of it. The top 1000 feet or so was shrouded in clouds. I had been telling Derek about how James Peak is infamous for white-out conditions across the flat tundra connecting the top of the glacier with the start of the steeper slopes on James. That section was clear, but the upper part was not. I hoped it wouldn’t be too bad. I was very disappointed.

On the plus side, we’ve had two back-to-back weekends of complete white-out conditions. We’ll get more tired on Denali. Experience colder temperatures and higher winds. But I guarantee you we will not find more pure white-out conditions. As that would be impossible. These conditions, coupled with being on skis and unfamiliar with the area, caused Derek a lot of stress. He had been motoring up the mountain, with me trailing behind, but now he was concerned. He stopped. I urged him on, telling him I was confident I could get us to the summit and back down just using my GPS watch. I did exactly that.

On the summit...we think.

We met two skiers near the top and they gave up on the summit just 200 feet below it. I told them how close it was, but they were freaked out, talking about vertigo, and maybe were more skiers than climbers. Derek hesitated again, but I know how strong his drive for the top is. I have a bit of that myself. Last night when I was making plans, I emphasized that I really just wanted to try out my boots in my skis and then I said, “We don’t need to make the summit.” I was saying that more to assure Derek that it wouldn’t be a long day, as I very much wanted him to join me. I should be way over worry about this. This kid craves adventure and mountains, despite not driving it. He never turns down my suggestions though. Anyway, when I said that about the summit my wife Sheri just burst out laughing, “Yeah, right. You don’t need to reach the summit…” She rolled her eyes, confident that she knows me well. Better than I know myself sometimes, as I was also saying it for myself - to make sure I could turn around if I…what?

Skiing down the lower section, where we can see.

So we headed into the monochromatic world of snow and clouds. I just concentrated on trying to go uphill. Every once in awhile I’d get a glimpse of some rocks to my right and was thankful for the perspective. We hit the top of the Shooting Star couloir and then it was a short bit to the summit make by a rock ring and a metal pole. We stripped off skins and locked down our heels. Both of our hands were very cold at this point and switched to my down mitts. Derek didn’t have his, despite me urging him to throw in the mitts. Maybe he still has a thing or two to learn from me… He’s one tough kid, though. I thought about giving him my mitts, but he’s tougher than me.

Olympus Mons seem to ski just fine.

Derek was worried about the descent, specifically that he’d lose me and be lost, as I’m still a considerably better skier. We traversed and kick-turned our way down, never getting more than thirty feet apart. Heck, if we got 70 feet apart, we’d be out of sight of each other. It was going fine and Derek relaxed, knowing he could follow me down and that I was staying with him. Eight hundred feet down, we could finally see again. Now we could make real turns and Derek made a few, but then took a face-plant fall and that shattered his confidence. He wasn’t hurt, but restricted himself to kick-turns for most of the rest of the descent. This frustrated him and I don’t blame him. I tried to urge more practice, as we were warm and could see now. That was about as helpful as you might imagine advice would be from a day to his 18-year-old son who is already frustrated.

Hiking back to the car by noon.

I enjoyed the ski back down and Derek tolerated it. I’m sure he enjoyed the nice glide across the tundra, versus the trudge everyone else was doing, but he kept any joy strictly to himself. Once we had the skis off and back on our packs, his spirits brightened and we motored the 0.6 miles back to the car, passing, no exaggeration, hundreds of people and scores of dogs. I love seeing people out enjoying our wonderful mountains. We met a guy on the way up who had just moved to Denver from Seattle. This was his first try at a Colorado mountain and he didn’t make it. He wisely turned back when he couldn’t see anything. We talked to him again on our way down.

The boots worked well. The skins held fast. That’s it. We’re done with training. The hay is in the barn. It’s time to start packing our gear. Game on, Denali.

Road to Denali, part 17: Mt. Rainier

Photos

Strava - approach and climb

Strava - descent from hut

In order to be as prepared as possible for our trip to Denali, this past weekend Derek and I practiced flying into Seattle, as we’ll connect there en route to Denali via Anchorage and Talkeetna. Actually, we bought tickets a month ago for a quick shot at climbing Rainier as a final tune-up for the High One. The day before we left the weather report was dismal and would stay that way throughout the weekend. We were sure, well 95% sure, that we wouldn’t go above Camp Muir at 10,200 feet and probably not get that far.

Mt. Rainier is an awe-inspiring mountain. It’s absolutely massive. There is nothing remotely close to this mountain in Colorado or anywhere else in the lower 48 states. It harbors more glaciers than the rest of the country, minus Alaska, combined. The highest you can drive on this mountain is Paradise at 5400 feet. Rainier is 14,410 feet high. Mount Rainier has a prominence of 13,211 ft.  This makes it the most prominent peak in the contiguous United States, and the 21st most prominent peak in the world, beating out K2.

Despite all this, Rainier is a baby brother to Denali. Denali is the 3rd most prominent peak in the world, behind only Everest and Aconcagua. Denali almost beyond imagining, but Rainier offers similar climbing, albeit on a smaller, lower scale. But the mountains and the weather decide who gains the top, much more so than the climbers themselves, and we appeared to be out of luck.

It wasn’t just the allure of Rainier, though. We had an ace in the hole: The Loobster. My longtime partner lived in Portland just 2.5 hours south of Rainier and he was game to act as our chauffeur  and guide. The fact that the Loobster was just a couple days short of 73 years old didn’t concern us in the slightest. As you’ll see, if you don’t already know, the Loobster is a bad ass.

I’ve been climbing with the Loobster for nearly 30 years. He was in my wedding. I love this guy. Many of my most significant climbs have been with him and certainly many of my favorite outings. He’s unflappable, always positive, and a great story teller. Most of all, he embodies what I value most in a partner: he’s all about the team. Once you leave the car, there is no “your food” or “my water”. Everything is ours. Everything. If a team member has screwed up and not brought enough food or clothes, that sucks and he can be chided, but now the team has less food or clothes, not that member.

The day before we flew out was Derek’s high school graduation. Derek graduated summa cum laude with a GPA of 4.7 and was voted Male Athlete of the Year. His sport? Tennis. Here's the text of the Athletic Director's announcement at the award ceremony:

I get the honor of announcing our next award: The Female and Male Monarch Athletes of The Year. This award goes to the seniors who had excellent senior seasons, exceptional athletic accomplishments while at Monarch combined a high level of integrity and strong academic achievement. This award is voted on by the head coaches from our 23 athletic programs. Our Male Athlete of the Year was named a National Merit Finalist and Boettcher scholarship semifinalist this year. He is a 4 year varsity tennis letter winner and a four time state tennis tournament qualifier. Competing at the very tough #1 singles position he finished in the top 6 at state and earned 1st team all league honors his senior season. He earned 1st Team All State All Academic honors his sophomore, junior and senior seasons plus was named Most Valuable Player by the tennis team his sophomore, junior and senior years. He is a member of the National Honor Society and was awarded the prestigious Freemason Best Junior Scholar Award. He will graduate with a glaring 4.7 GPA and attend the University of Colorado in the Fall. Our 2016 Male Athlete of the Year is Derek Wright.

The Athletic Director/Assistant Principal also wrote us this email:

I was thrilled that Derek won this award. You have done a great job raising such a wonderful young man. He is a just the type of student athlete we love representing our school and community. 

Three weeks before our Alaskan departure, I got cold feet. Literally. I had huge down mitts and chemical heaters for my hands. I had a monstrous down jacket and even down bibs. I was confident I could keep everything warm, except my feet. My feet are a problem. They have the toughness of a first grade girl. Yet, I needed them to take me to the summit of Denali. In my panic I decided to buy the La Sportiva Olympus Mons - widely considered the warmest mountaineering boots on the planet. Actually, the solar system, since they are named after the highest peak in the solar system - the 70,000-foot giant volcano of Mars, where it gets to -200 degrees. Heck, if they can protect climbers on Olympus Mons they should be able to take care of my sissy feet in mere -40 temperatures. Right? I’m sure I’m not drawing incorrect conclusions from the name of the boot. In fact, I think Matt Damon was wearing these in his latest movie.

Learning how to set up a 3:1 pulley

These boots have one very significant drawback (besides their exorbitant cost). In order to keep the boot warm and light, they have very soft soles. So soft that they cannot be used on rocks. They need to have a crampon or a ski on the bottom of the boot. This makes it a very impractical boot for most of the climbing I do in Colorado, even in winter. Alas, I wanted the extra insurance on Denali. La Sportiva was kind enough to give me a deal on the boots, but I needed to test them out before heading to Alaska. Where can you do that?

Driving to Rainier

Loobster picked us up at the Sea-Tac airport and, after getting a humungous breakfast at McDonald's, we drove out to Mt. Rainier National Park. The weather on the drive and at the park was overcast and drizzling. Rainier once held the record for most snow in a 12-month period, 97 feet! You don't get that much snow and have many clear days. The weather report at the climbing ranger station was just as bleak as we expected. Motivation was pretty low for slogging around in the fog and not climbing anything, but that isn't a surprise. I'm never very motivated for that.

We decided to practice our crevasse rescue techniques and, using this great book, we worked things out in the lobby of the visitor center. We were quite the sight with our ropes, pulleys, ascenders, prussiks. We "anchored" our rope to a table leg and tried to hoist a chair across the floor. Once we thought we knew what we were doing we geared up and headed out into the mist and snow.

In order to get at least some exercise I decided we'd randomly hike up 1000 feet before trying our techniques. We wouldn't be on a glacier and just be out in the snow, but at least we'd have our gloves on, using a full-length rope, and our pickets. We "belayed" ourselves with our ascenders as we moved up to prepare the lip of the crevasse and set up our 3:1 pulley system. I ran through it a couple of times and then Derek did as well. Sufficiently wet and hungry, we packed up and headed down the mountain, just making it to the cafeteria there before it closed.

Afterwards we were going to put up a tent in the rain in the soggy campground, but it just didn't appeal to us. We decided to head to the Whittacker Bunkhouse outside the park, but then, on the spur of the moment, stopped at the lodge directly outside the park boundary. They had a room for us with two beds, a big TV, wifi, etc. We stopped there and relaxed. Our plan was to go up to Camp Muir tomorrow and just get in some exercise. Loobster was even more tired than Derek and I and he went to bed at 7:30 p.m.. I fell asleep around 8:30 and Derek at 9:30.

The next morning we were up at 5 a.m. and packing for Camp Muir. We had some coffee and breakfast in the room, packed the car, and headed back into the Park. At the ranger station we learned that it was blue skis above 10,000 feet at Camp Muir and we decided to buy climbing passes ($46/each to go above Camp Muir) just in case it was nice the following day as well. Heavily loaded, we headed up into the soup around 8 a.m.

Heading up to Camp Muir

We followed a heavily beaten track of footprints in the snow. I was in the lead, though the Loobster should have been for after an hour or so, we seemed to be lost. The tracks headed off to the left and down, but there was a couple of crossed wands that seemed to indicate that wasn't the way. A couple of young guys had passed a bit earlier and they stopped here, as confused as us. Loobster consulted his GPS and said we were already too far to the left. We followed tracks that went steeply uphill and then disappeared, probably because they came back down, like we did. We had two choices reverse further or follow the tracks left and down. We chose the latter and it was wrong and it sucked to descend.

A rare instant when we could see some rocks.

Pretty soon, though, we came across a huge group of climbers with all their ropes laid out. It was the RMG (Rainier Mountain Guides) mountaineering training class. They were about to head out onto the Nisqually Glacier and practice crevasse rescue. They pointed us toward the steep snow covered ridge back to our right. We caught a glimpse of it before we were enveloped is a 100% pure white-out. The only indication I had that I was going uphill was effort. It was disorienting. I'd been in those conditions before, but maybe only once is such a pure white-out. There was no change in whiteness from sky to snow. We could see each other and our boots, but absolutely nothing else.

Inside the public hut

We tromped up the long climb and eventually hit the ridge. We saw some rocks here, which helped orient us. Then we found a wand and another and another and then nothing. There were no tracks here, but there were the wands. Did wind and snow obliterate the tracks. I stayed at one wand while Derek and Loobster forged ahead looking for the next one. Just then a big group of skiers caught us. They seemed to know the way and we fell in with them for the rest of the way to Camp Muir. Visibility occasionally was better, but it was mostly done in near white-out conditions.

When I showed this photo to my wife she started laughing. I look like a hobbit between these two, despite being the tallest

The skiers were all from the CU alpine club. They were led by a "Big Mountain Skier" coach. They were doing a training day and then would do glacier school and then head up Rainier. We chatted with them quite a bit. The guide had done Denali! Cool.

It was a brutal, tiring slog to Camp Muir - 5000 feet of climbing with heavy packs. A thousand feet before camp, Derek broke his backpack. That sucked, but better here than on Denali in two weeks.
Just two hundred feet below Camp Muir, we burst out of the clouds into brilliant sunshine and clear skis. A slight breeze and cold temperatures kept our jackets on, but the weather was glorious and we prayed it would continue for another day. At Camp Muir there are many buildings. It's like a small town up there. You've got the gated community on the west, where the guides and their clients stay and then a public housing hut, next to the three outhouses, on the east. We found the public hut was mostly empty - everyone was heading down save for three French Canadiens: Sebastian, Leo, and Sebastian. They had summitted today in these perfect conditions and they'd soon be our saviors.

It was around 2 p.m. when we got there and we were soaked with sweat from the conditions and our effort, we all laid down in our bags soon after arriving, to rest and warm ourselves. None of us had brought a change of base layer. We got up an hour or so later and when I went to melt some snow I discovered that we didn't have a pump in our bottle. We brought our stove, but Loobster's spare bottle. We originally planned to bring two stoves and hence, I had to have my pump with me, but I just forgot it, as we keep the pump in our bottle all the time. When Loobster handed me his spare bottle when we were packing up I failed to notice that it had no pump in it. We had no way to melt snow and no therefore no way to get any liquid. We'd survive the night and could probably get down, but there was no way we could go up. At least until Sebastian came to our rescue. He graciously allowed us to use his stove for hours that evening. We ate and drank and filled every container we had, including our pot, so that we'd have enough water for the climb and the descent afterwards.
We packed up our gear for the next day, assuming it would be clear. Derek would just wear the top lid of his pack, which converts into a fanny pack. We set the alarm for 1:20 a.m. and laid down to sleep by 9 p.m. The Loobster got up first and checked the sky. When he reported stars everywhere, Derek and I started getting dressed. I made a cup of hot chocolate and we forced down some food. We fell into line behind three guided groups just after 2 a.m.

At the top of the Cathedral Gap

I thought that the guides might be gruff and possessive of this route, for they were the ones that had scouted it, beaten out the track, wanded it, and even fixed some pickets and stashed rescue rope. Yet, they were all very friendly and very accommodating. One guide told us where we could pass and we went by two of the three parties. Further up a client's crampon fell off and the guide immediately moved the team off the track so that we could easily go by. They even offered friendly advice on the right distance between us up high, even being patronizing and always being helpful.

We were roped together from the Muir Hut to the summit and back as almost all of this terrain is on heavily crevassed glaciers. We first followed a rising traverse across the Cowlitz Glacier to something called Cathedral Gap. This allowed us to breach a rock rib and gain the Ingraham Glacier. From here we climbed up and then right to a flatish area known as Ingraham Flats. This is the high camp for some climbers and indeed a couple of guided groups had camped there. We could now see them ahead of us, high on the Cleaver. The guided parties stop to take a greak here, at 11,200 feet, and they'd take two more breaks at roughly 1000-vertical-foot intervals. We'd put some distance between them, as we continued across the glacier and onto the Disappoinment Cleaver.

The Cleaver is a giant rib of rock that protrudes from the Glacier and allows safer passage up the mountain then the icefall on the Ingraham. The icefall route is called the Ingraham Direct and is frequently climbed as well. We opted to follow the heavily beaten track though.

The climbing on the Cleaver was mostly 2nd and 3rd class rock with some sections of hard snow. We moved slowly here, with too much rope out and the Loobster seemed to be fading a bit. We took a break near the top of the rock section and three guided parties went by us. We fell in behind them, now back on the glacier, and when they took a break at the crest above, we stopped briefly as well. The Loobster felt whipped and said that he was thinking of letting Derek and I continue without him. I knew the only reason he said this was because he felt he was slowing us down. If he was with his normal partners, he'd have been the strongest and stopping would have been the last thing on his mind. The weather was perfect. Conditions were perfect. There was no way we'd leave the Loobster behind.

I'd been leading up to this point, but I now urged the Loobster to take the lead and set our pace. He did and lead us clear to the crater rim on the summit. We got in front of the guided parties for good here, so our pace was plenty fast enough. The Loobster is an animal. I used to look up to him as inspiration for my older years - that I too could still be climbing when I was his age. As we've both gotten older, he doesn't seem to slow down, but I'm on a steady slide. I no longer think I'll be able to match is fitness and productivity when I get to his age. He climbed Rainier faster than all the guided 20-somethings and 30-somethings. I thought about this as I took the back end of the rope and knew without any doubt that I was the most medicore athlete on this team. I was humbled to be able to climb with such partners.

The climbing above was steep at times and even had to descend steeply at one point to get around a monstrous crevasse. Derek had never been in such a position before, but he was reveling in it. He wasn't intimidated in the slightest and was loving the position. As the sun started to rise we could see a solid sea of clouds below us. We could see a long way, but couldn't see much but clouds. Mt. Adams (2nd highest peak in Washington) to the south looked impressive and nearly as high as Rainier, though I knew it to be more than 2000 feet lower.

A bit chilly at this point, but it would get very warm.

We finally gained the crater rim at the top and true summit was just two hundred feet higher on the far rim. Loobster told us that most teams unrope for this section and we should have done that, but we just get going, tied together. A short ways over to the summit, the Loobster decided to untie, as he was once again worried about making us climb slower. This time we didn't resist and I led the way to the summit. As I neared the top, I could hear and feel Derek close the gap behind me. He had a lot left and wanted me to know it. I was proud of how strong he was. I couldn't have moved that fast.

Derek on the summit with Liberty Point (one of three summits over 14,000 feet) in the background

We hugged on the summit and a photo frenzy ensued. We even called Sheri and talked with her for quite awhile. My phone only worked on the summit, but it was a nice perk. The Loobster joined us and we took more photos. We coiled the rope here and carried it back down to the other rim. The Loobster laid down here to rest, eat and drink. A guided client was having altitude problems and a female guide was staying with hiim. I told her about our Denali plans and she said she was flying into the Kahiltna just a few days before we were. She also said that the Loobster was the oldest person she'd ever seen on Rainier and was duly impressed with this speed.

The team on the summit

After a good break we started down. The night before we discussed our timetable. We had a flight out that night at 8 p.m. To make that flight I figured we'd have to be driving by 3 p.m. Derek asked that night if we'd have a turn-around time, in order to ensure we made the flight. I said, "No. If the weather is good, we're climbing this peak. We'll deal with the missed flight later." But now, we'd made thes summit and the question was would we make the flight.

On the descent at Ingraham Flats

We got to the top  around 8 a.m. but didn't start down until 8:45 or later. The Loobster once again led the way. With full sun we started to get really warm. The views were so spectacular now that we could see all the crevasses more clearly. We moved steadily with only one brief break at Ingraham Flats to adjust my right boot, which was killing my lower leg. I don't know why and I still don't know why, but it appears to be better now. I'm going with the boots on Denali and will manage.

We got back to the hut at 11:40 a.m. I immediately stripped off my right boot for the pain was significant. Then we all got to work packing up our gear. It had taken us 5.5 hours to get up here and in our current state, with my boot pain, I wondered if we'd make it. We were packed and heading down by 12:25 p.m. My originally plan had us leaving here by noon. I didn't worry about the flight so much as I was more concerned about my pain.

Just a couple hundred feet below the hut, we entered the shite-out conditions once again. Derek and I were moving pretty quickly and after only fifteen minutes or so the Loobster said, "I won't be able to keep up with you two. Here, take my car keys." I responded, "Loobster, we can't see a hundred feet in this soup. We are not splitting up. We'll slow down." And we did. A bit. Derek started to have some knee pain and he descended with increasing pain, as my leg pain subsided somewhat. After an hour the Loobster said we were at 7600 feet. It seemed like we'd come down a lot less than that, so it was a great boost to our spirits. We ended up doing the descent in just under two hours and arrived at the car in the same light rain that we'd left in yesterday.

Once again we were soaked. We took our travel clothes and headed for the visitor center lobby, AKA the crevasse-rescue classroom. We stripped off our drenched layers and changed into dry street clothes. It felt glorious. We were driving out of the parking lot at 2:50 p.m. and easily made our flight.

We arrived thinking we had 5% chance of climbing this mountain and left with the summit. We were elated. At least Derek can say he's climbed Rainier when the climbing rangers on Denali ask about his experience. We leave in twelve days.