Chapter 1, Pilgrimage 2014: Strange Rumblings from 36,004 ft.
August 28, 2014
I left my humble but busy law office in Alpharetta at 11:35 for a B757-200 at Hartsfield-Jackson scheduled to board at 12:47. There is nothing Ike traveling through a city of 4 million people at 95 mph with ten minutes to pass through DHS security, at the world’s busiest airport, to really get the travel-jones going.
Mom was always right about pushing myself just to get a rush. Similar things in my youth happened at Vegas, Tahoe, and church every weekend. I still see her on the beach at Sea Pines signaling for me to come back from the shipping lanes on a small, plastic, half inflatable raft that my father was gifted for his 35 years of service as a lubricant executive at Kendall Motor Oil. He always went for the best equipment. Had it not been for the lifeguard jumping on the beach in an obvious panic, I probably would have gone out further just to verify what the shrimpers were catching in the drag nets, always the environmentalist. But, I digress.
I’m traveling to climb an angry volcano that stands 14,000 feet above sea level. Mt Rainier is the third tallest mountain in North America by prominence, being the height from its first contour line (lowest pass in a mountain chain) to its summit. I cannot say what exactly compels me to climb an active volcano other than to say I have always loved mountains; when standing on top, I am alive.
Just as the kingdom of heaven is in our minds, adventure is in books. Reading takes me places; courtrooms in 1950 Tennessee, the South Pole in the 1970s, Jerusalem in 32. But nothing compares to the adrenaline of a good hike, in an uncontrollable environment that changes immediately, without notice. The forced surrender to the elements tests us by letting us know we are alive and actually have no control over anything, a true understanding of reality in its purest natural form.
In surrender, fundamental questions of being run through ones head in contemplation of the vagaries of the soul. If I can define who I am, maybe I can stop asking what is the point. But then, maybe not.
Pilgrimage is defined as a long journey or search, especially one of exalted purpose or moral significance. After all, sometimes you get shone the light in the strangest of places if you look at it right. But then again, maybe not. My pilgrimage is to learn how to walk in the steps of the spiritually enlightened. The Christ, the Buddha, the Lama, Gahndi, and Yogananda, all of which I believe saw what I see in the mountain path.
As long as the man on the flight does not drop the straw Mexican sombrero stowed in the compartment above my head, we are good. What spirituals calling would posses someone to carry a cheap Segundo from Cozumel to Seattle? Probably the same innate drive possessed by one who wishes to climb a mountain. Like mom and dad used to say, it’s all how you look at it. But the again, maybe not. After all, we are free.
Chapter 2, Pilgrimage 2014: Imaginable Scale
August 28, 2014
Descending into Seattle from 30,000 to 10,000 ft., 70 miles out of Seattle, one has to look up at the summit of Rainier. I could never imagine the scale of this mountain compared to the earth below. It is truly a remarkable sight, arguably the most dangerous mountain in the world, should she decide to erupt.
A stout woman from New York, a real bookworm and massively intelligent, left the computer in the lobby for the Rainier shuttle. I could not help believe she was another pilgrim taken in by the majesty of natural beauty.
Seattle is also a remarkable city. Even the homeless -of which are legion- pick up after themselves. This place is clean, probably thanks to the rain that washes the streets into the 48 degree cold, steel blue, dark waters of Puget sound. The city center is perched on a hill that rises above the sea level sound making streets resemble bubbling North Carolina streams, or west Texas gulley washes, depending upon the strength of the storm.
A natural lover of boats, I could not by pass the opportunity to take a pleasure ride around Puget sounds for a righteous 28 bucks and thus washed my councils in the river Ganges or was otherwise was baptized into the northwest, depending upon how you look at it. Seattle was named for Chief Seattle, a Duwamish chieftain known for his wisdom. “Earth does not belong to us; we belong to earth.” Righthouse words from one of the enlightened. Chiefy really lived in the moment, within the shadow of an angry volcano . After looking up at a mountain from an airplane traveling at 10,000 feet, one can really understand the chief’s reasoning and as Greg Allman said, “you don’t need no gypsy to tell you why.”
Pilgrimage 2014, Chapter 3, Fear and Loathing at the Recovery Cafe
August 28, 2014
I am 24 hours in Seattle and can’t leave the city center. I find myself in gratitude for the weather and am slowly realizing that the man made part of my journey is part and parcel of the point.
Cioppino found me last night on Pier 57. The salmon was fresh. It jumped out of Puget sound, through a window at the pier where it landed onto an ice pile at the Pike Place Market and was immediately grabbed by a tattooed 24 year fishmonger who threw it across the deck to a boiling pot of a most delicious tomato concoction and served at my table.
On the way from the space needle to the flagship REI store, I passed the recovery Cafe, an oasis in the middle of heroin central. I found it an interesting concept, a “cafe” that serves homemade, fresh organic vegetables to friends of Bill W. The young girl stopped me as I walked in wearing my obvious unfashionable boot cut Levi’s and Asics. I had the fleeting impression that she thought I was a US Marshall looking for a down and out fugitive. ” Are you a member of the Cafe?” she asked before I made it to the buffet line that was about to start. “A member? Don’t you just pay to go to a cafe?” “No,” she said with a slight smile “we are a center for people recovering from drug, alcohol and mental health issues.” “Well, looks like I am in the right place, I even qualify for the trifecta.” She did not buy it.
I had fun nonetheless explaining to her of my spiritual visit to the Pacific Northwest to climb a volcano. I politely informed her of my approval of such a spiritual establishment and that although we had similar places in Atlanta, we called them missions. The only difference being we did not have a salad bar. Unimpressed, she gave me a schedule of meetings and wished me luck. Indeed, we will intuitively know how to handle situations that used to baffle us.
Alas, the city is not without its republicans. I Ate dinner list night with two drunk, 48 year old high school baseballers from LA who were in town for 24 hours to see a Seattle Mariners game, quite the pilgrimage. I could not help but being impressed in that they had ben to over thirty different ball parks thus far and I had to tell them of my fathers love of the game and how he was 10 minutes away from his first World Series when an earthquake cracked candlestick park and cancelled the battle of the bay. Despite my fathers unfortunate luck, the braves went to the World Series 2 years later during his first sponsorship of MLB. Alas, his first World Series was 20 rows behind home plate at atlanta fulton county, much better seats and not as cold as San Fran. And they say there is no karma.
It’s strange to watch people on their different journeys, some sober, some not. For those who imbibe, the journey can’t help but leave them jonesing for something that cannot be found. The grand ol party chairman at the restraint last night tried to pick up the bartender, a 24 year old earthy but nonetheless natural beauty. By the time he was done, she almost called security. But when the going gets tough, the tough turn weird and off they go to the next smiling 24 year old woman who would like nothing more than to be slobbered on by a fat, aging center fielder. But, then again one should not be deprived of boyish fantasies, they keep the microbrew industry in business and no doubt feed this town along with caffeined techies and nerdy clothes stores that sell flannel and skinny jeans. God blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth. The drunk, they will just keep searching and wondering why.
The Pike Place fish market should be a mandatory visit to all urban planners seeking an advanced degree in how to create a city center. The overall open air structure is 4 stories up a slope from the docks and includes a public park overlooking Puget sound and has in its environs original totem poles, sojourners resting in the sun and fat dread-locked Hawaiians selling weed.
At 2:20, I ventured into a bookstore deep in the basement shops, below the open air market, next to Emma Wilson’s Clam House. The used books were the classics: Bradbury, Hemingway, Verne, Fitzgerald, the incomparable Hunter Thompson. Obviously, I felt this place was owned by an enlighten soul, even if it was below a fish shop where sockeye salmon flies through the air so tourists can take pictures.
I picked up a publication devoted to local Bigfoot sightings. The owner surprisingly appeared from behind a stack of books emerging from bibliophile-defoliate and asked with a huge smile, eyebrows raised, if I knew all the fishes of the ocean and all the animals of the earth. If so, “only then will you know the secret of the Sasquatch” he said. “Behold” I said, “one is sometimes better off to know the question of the mystery, then to know the answer to the secret teacher.” “We are everywhere and nowhere” he said.
Indeed teacher, we are everywhere and nowhere and at last I move on to the Temple Mount.
Pilgrimage 2014, Chapter 4: Complicated Simplicity
August 28, 2014
Day 2 finds me sitting in the 18 x 36 ft ice cream parlor, gourmet coffee bar, breakfast cafe, Whitaker bunkhouse lobby and museum dedicated to all things mountaineering. Tibetan prayer flags hang from the hand painted reservation sign that dangles from the 8 ft ceiling above the only analog LED cash register, which keeps all transactions, whether it be for Neapolitan ice cream or a copy of Jim Whitaker’s autobiography on sale for 24.95, an amazing bargain due the fact that it can only be found here. One can justifiably assume that the Whitaker bunkhouse wifi doesn’t have the bandwidth for such an online endeavor yet.
A staff of 3 commands the rush hour breakfast traffic, which is never more than 2 persons deep. This is a stark contrast to the multi-pleased super fuel centers in the traffic mecca of the south in which I more and more begrudgingly call home. I can picture my dad here, sitting with me comparingly commenting “in Atlanta, one employee at 9.25 an hour can average 1.3 seconds per customer and serve 58 people in one hour at the Quick-trip on Old Alabama Road.” My dad was a great business man.
However, in this place one cannot be compelled to begin a didactic lecture on the acumen of profit margins and the finer points of written personnel policies as I thoroughly enjoy watching the three employees attempting to manufacturer tasks to look busy. The senior clerk/office manager, a commanding young lady of 24 with an air of significant importance, scurries around training another young lady in the unwritten policies of keeping the proper ice cream parlor, hotel, coffee house and mountain climbing honorarium, which is no easy task at the rate of a phone call per hour and a customer every 16 minutes. After all, one has to expand on inherited talents and when your hotel has no neon and only a hand painted sign that says Namaste over the front door, one does not need to know profit margins to be considered spiritually successful. All other measures of success seem plastic.
Jim Whitaker was a climber and real deal soul searcher. He was the first American to reach the summit of Mt. Everest in 1963, I assume with the assistance of several Sherpas, the mystical people of Nepal that are born at 10,000 feet above sea level with enough red blood cells to require the center for disease control to hang a no vacancy placard on its neon frontage on Clifton road.
Whitaker is an amazing man with a John Wayne countenance. He was the first full time employee and CEO of the co-op REI. According to his book celebrated his 83 birthday at the 17,000 foot Nepal-Everest based camp. The forward was written by Teddy Kennedy and john Glenn, no lite-weights in their own spheres.
Whitaker’s is a life well lived indeed but nonetheless a considerable intimidating vibe to a pilgrim like myself who finds it compelling to document a simple spiritual journey in the strange and unrealistic hope that someone will actually read this and most importantly get something therefrom. But for the grace if god, there Go I, writing like a “dern” city slicker lawyer. Nonetheless, big Jim’s greatest life contribution is no doubt the simplicity of this bunkhouse and the message it sends: all the attachments that come from incessant material needs only cause one to ask what’s the point. Big Jim knew the point and no doubt had found it by stepping with one foot first, in front of the other, knowing that each step was extraordinary in its own significance and reality, especially when dangling over a bottomless crevasse in justifiable reliance on a 5′”2, 120 pound, 56 year old Nepalese man with webbed feet.
Just as I retire my seat to make way for paying customers from the grid, a couple from Colorado in their 60s comes into the lobby eager to talk with anyone who appears to understand pilgrimages. They had summited the day before, but unfortunately wifey only made it to base camp, not simple task for a 65 year old grandmother or a 48 year old lawyer for that matter.
Her eyes shone like blue diamonds when she asked me if I was going to climb.
“Yes sister, I came from Atlanta and will summit Sunday.”
She smiled and said, “I made it to MUIR, but could go no further, but had a great climb.”
“Yes sister, it was a great climb and a great day, I can see it in your eyes, it is not the destination, but the journey that we are grateful for.”
“Yes my brother” she said. ” have a great journey.”
” and peace to you sister.”
As I leave, the manager begins a didactic of the different ice cream cones and profit margins realized. Maybe, if I suggest increasing the price of the more popular sugar cones, we can get that wifi to extend the 24 feet to my room. But then again, maybe not.
Pilgrimage 2014, Chapter 5: The Secret to a Long Life
August 28, 2014
We gathered at 8:00 a.m. Saturday, August 30, in the RMI Base Camp compound, a sprawling space just behind the RMI log cabin office, adjacent to the Whittaker Bunkhouse, next to the RMI equipment store and in front of the RMI bar and grill. The term bar and grill is an over statement as it is more of a three sided, open air, redwood log building with a basement tap system, outdoor girl and pizza oven. Nonetheless, the Washington summers are mild. Most people here would rather not have four walls. At about 3:00 each day, the bar transforms from a parking lot to a place for like minded outdoor enthusiasts during the season from May to around mid September. Although people often climb Rainier during the winter months, the unpredictability of the weather beginning at 7-8,000 ft can make it futile on most days. Otherwise, one drawn to this type of adventure has to rely on a good therapist to get through winter as it is much safer and far more cost effective than an unsuccessful summit attempt.
Our team consisted of 8 people. During breakfast that morning, prepared by the incomparable Jenny, someone suggested the team was a “rather eclectic” group. I always thought of my musical taste as being eclectic; Grateful Dead, REM, Black Eyed Peas, the Dubliners and of course the Chanting Monks of Deprung Loseling. But, again, I digress. I would come to believe that this group was indeed eclectic, but had in common a belief that we were about to embark on the greatest adventure of our lives and may have to rely on each other, to what extent we could have never imagined.Our senior team member Dave, a farmer from Illinois with the energy of a seventeen year old varsity footballer and probably the most physically fit of the team, is a competitive stair runner having raced up the Sears Tower in Chicago.
Two team members were Ironman training partners, Craig and Brian. Craig is a lawyer from Sacramento, California, and Brian is his best friend from Seattle. Dawn, a 37 year old Air Force Academy graduate and war veteran working as a physical therapist who had summited before through mutual friends of Dave the guide and Dave the farmer. The remaining three team members, Brian, Kyle and Jake were college friends who wrestled at the University of Iowa. In summary, a semi professional stair runner, two ironmen, a former Air Force Special Operations SAR veteran, three Iowa wrestlers, and I, a simple monk, a 48 year old lawyer who found Jesus after a 30 year countenance of being “one toke over the line.” Eclectic? Yes, but not bad company at 12,000ft and 70 mile wind, except for the Jesus lawyer, only because by the time you need him, it may be too late.
Each one of us had 40-50 pound backpacks and all the equipment on the list with refinement suggested by Dave two days before at equipment check. Despite the fact that I had printed the RMI equipment list, made three trips to my local outfitter and purchased all the relevant accoutrement, I would’ve failed, had it been pass fail test. Our final list: packs, sleeping bag, long underwear, dry wick shirt, base layer, soft shell, hard shell, rain pants, parka, climbing pants, trekking pants, gaters, three types of gloves including light, medium and heavy, two pair of prime fit hiking socks, helmet, trekking poles, crampons, crampon capable plastic hiking boots, a bag of dry food, goggles, glacier glasses, two water bottles, and an avalanche transceiver. But the only equipment that worried me was the avalanche transceiver only because it stored no oxygen.
We loaded up with Dave and two other guides, Mike and Robbie, both right out of an advertisement from Outdoor magazine. Tanned, fit and best of friends, Mike and Robbie would prove to be our anchors. They both, like Dave, had an easy countenance about them, never walking or moving in a hurry, but always seemingly ahead of the game, the game being the direct presence of mind to keep your equipment always in check and moving in time.
Because the weather can be violent above 8000,’ a successful summit attempt is all about timing. You have to remember that your on foot, traveling vertical feet either up or down, the equivalent of traversing a 5 mile ladder, covered in ice, with a 50 lb pack. You have to know when to move as it can be the difference between living or dying. There is no quick way off a 10 degree mountain with a -30 wind in an absolute whiteout. Even the most intrepid chopper pilot would have to wait for a clearing.
A sign of any successful enterprise is a tendency to over-communicate. At our constant team meetings and weather briefings, 3 came within 12 hours, Dave said repeatedly, you have to put yourself in a place to get lucky. I found this great advice and a constant theme for the next 48 hours. When one is on the path to discover bodhichitta, the enlightened mind, one must put one self in a place to get lucky. After all as Michelle Shocked said: the secret to a long life is knowing when it is time to go.
Dave, Robbie and Mike knew when it was time to go. By 8:15, the incomparable Jenny had our packs loaded on the bus trailer and ready to drop us at Paradise for a long hike up an angry volcano.
FINAL EQUIPMENT CHECK:
Coleman waterproof matches, Kopplin’s compass whistle and thermometer, vapur collapsible water bottle, 4 in 1 keychain screwdriver tool with led non working flashlight, three working flashlights, julbo glacier glasses, one size fits all rain poncho durable hooded, reusable. Orion suffer nitrate search and rescue signal flares, Buff gator, black Northface wool hat, Blackdiamond headlamp as recommended by my good friend Stewart at high country outfitters Atlanta Georgia, reef flip-flops from inner light surf shop San Fernando Beach Florida, two pair of FITS wool specialty hiking socks, one camouflaged Field & Stream headlamp just in case we have enough time for elk hunting, Northface trail running socks, campo pants with multi pocket, Runners World plastic running bottle with velcro handle given to me for my various published letters to the editor, Nike dry fit running shirt black, Calvin Klein underwear also black (just in case I get into a traffic accident and the hospital personnel don’t think bad of my mom), Contra grip Solomon 4 chassis Alpine hiking boots, Blackdiamond walking poles also recommended by my good friend Stuart and one Marmot mummy sleeping bag with two zippers. But the only thing that worries me are the flares, they expired in 1997.
Pilgrimage 2014, Chapter 6: No Zimmer at the Bunkhouse
August 29, 2014
I stopped in at the Highlander bar and grill for a quick burger in backcountry Washington. Stevie Ray Vaughan played on a jukebox to the break of a cue ball under a neon Budweiser sign. These recognizable sights were welcome after leaving the original Starbucks for the country. One can’t help but think Charlie Daniels was a regular back in the day were I not in Washington, or Warshington as the Urgonians say. Although, the Coke gun had not been used in quite some time they were generally nice folks as most country folks are, but not big believers in soft drinks. In fact, my request for Asa Candlers magical elixir sans alcohol drew a suspicious eye from the biker playing pool next to the old drunk chic with green teeth.
The road from Seattle forces a transformation similar to the feeling one gets when leaving the east coast for the Big Walker Mountain tunnel on the West Virginia border or when trading in the Shreveport bayou for the plains of east Texas. You not only travel back in time, you leave behind the masses and material that can be vexatious to the spirit. The most cleansing sight of all are the trees. The wood is big, dark green and red in the Pacific Northwest.
I traded a smelly Sleep Inn hotel at the Seatac airport for a 24 room indie bunkhouse 4 miles from Mnt Rainier National Park. There is nothing like a cheap, continental breakfast serving hotel chain unit at an airport, except for perhaps sleeping in a park.
The Whitaker Bunkhouse is very different. A significant effort was made to Alpanize the 1950s era country notel albeit with great success. I asked Lori to call ahead to ensure a room, or zimmer, pronounced “zeema” by Jacque Clauseu, the greatest law enforcement mind since Herr Hoover. I was surprised to learn that if you arrive after 8, Jenny who has to be at her job at the ranger station, puts the key in an envelope taped to the front door, which of course seemed copacetic to Lori, but raised some significant security concerns with myself as I am well read in the ways of premises liability and suffer from an over abundance of big city, late- breaking-Action-News at 5 mentality. But then again, you buy your ticket, you take the ride.
The proprietor can blissfully avoid all manner of concession favored by some of the highest innkeepers at the finest motels on Buford highway. At the “haus,” there is no pool, no remote control, no free HBO, hell, there is no TV. The rooms gleefully have no air conditioning, although the parking lot does have fresh gravel. There is a bouldering wall and each room comes with a 11″ x 11″ fan that can be removed from the top of the shelf where you hang your pack (no closets) and placed near the open window that leads to the wrap around porch. There exists no illumination of the hotel sign frontage whatsoever keeping the pristine darkness from the piercing electricity as all manner of guadie advertising is strictly verboten. If the inn is at capacity, Jenny has to walk to the wooden sign and nail a placard that reads “no” in front a painted vacancy script. Nonetheless, I knew I was in the right place when I saw the wood carved sign over the office door that said “Namaste” which means have a nice day in Sanskrit, I think.
Jenny, whom I’ve never met, was even nice enough to draw a map for me on the envelope showing the path from the office door to room number 2, some 24 feet away. I will have to thank her profusely for not letting me fail in the last 24 feet of my journey from Atlanta to Ashford, Washington, as the last 30 miles found me desperately without GPS. After all, 3000 miles is 15,800,000 feet.
There is a vibratory code of spiritual principles here. Somehow, one gets the feeling in this place that respects tranquility. The room key has a plastic triangle fastened by a metal ring and can be dropped in any US mailbox for prompt delivery should one forget to turn it in. The rooms are the freshest I’ve ever seen indoors, more than likely as a result of no AC. This ingenious marketing system, or lack thereof, brings serenity to the soul, as nothing more is needed and nothing expected. Except perhaps for a map to the ice maker, but then again, there is no ice maker.
Pilgrimage 2014, Chapter 7: Wanderers are not Always Lost
August 30, 2014
The grounds of the Rainier Base Camp are situated on Washington 706, a long road that bee lines through the Cascade mountains from the cold blue waters of Puget Sound. The vibe, like the rest of the state, is laid back and quiet. Granola kids work the grounds while a seemingly endless trail of people stop to walk in between the wooden buildings that form a climbers paradise and a rest stop for tourists that drive from Seattle to the Rainier National Park.
I am in the Mecca of Mountaineering in the continental United States. All equipment for world wide expeditions is stored here. Wandering pilgrims seem to meander in and out, trying to take it all in, but quickly losing focus to dreams of being at high altitude.”Are you climbing today?” An earthly woman says from behind me in the equipment rental building where I am incessantly asking questions of the young kid polishing an ice pick.
“No, I am climbing Saturday. I’m here for the four day summit climb.” I said. “Are you climbing?”
“No, I already climbed several years ago.” “I just came out today with my daughter to absorb the mountain.” A faint smile coming to her face.
This mountain draws you in. One can’t help but draw strength from it. The same strength that comes from seeing a child’s endless energy.
Our guide is Dave Hahn, a rock star in the world of mountain climbing with 270 climbs on Rainier. He has 14 ascents on Everest, the most of any non Sherpa. According to Wikipedia, Hahn was awarded the Citizen’s Award for Bravery from the U.S. Department of the Interior. The award was bestowed on him for a rescue he made of an injured climber on Mount Rainier in 2002. The rescue received additional attention because the helicopter that Hahn was in crashed upon descent. Hahn helped evacuate the pilot before making his way to the injured climber. Tall, fit and handsome, Hahn has an endless smile and confident gait. Several of our team recognized him prior to the start of orientation. I never imagined mountaineering had the following it does. I simply stuck out my hand and introduced myself figuring he was just part of the team and early to the meeting. Bodhisattvas are never obvious.
Later in the evening, another climber was on the porch eating cereal and asked where I was from. He had moved from Marietta to Seattle 2 years ago having felt the pull of the Northwest mountains and the appeal of the emerald city. Here, in the middle of Ashford Washington, 3000 miles from home, I share a front porch dinner with a lawyer from Georgia. Having met Brett Reed, esq. and having been enlightened by his love of this place, I realized that my idea to test myself on this mountain is starting to make more sense.
Our team consists of 8 people. A farmer from Illinois, a divorce lawyer from California, a physical therapist and former Air Force meteorologist who went to jr high with Tiger Woods, two tri guys from Cali, and a couple of salesman from LA. Something tells me we will all know each other’s names after tomorrow as we have already survived orientation together.
Orientation was a wake up call to the hazards of this endeavor. I’m still not sure about the efficacy of the avalanche transceiver and according to Dave, there are only three ladders covering the crevasses this year which apparently is a good thing because they are low enough to have warranted blocks so you don’t have to look through the ladders to the never ending depth of the glacier. This is no joke. We will be tied to each other after leaving from Camp Muir at 5600 ft. At 1:00 a.m. Sunday we will attempt a summit climb weather permitting.
We are all concerned about fitness but my team is incredibly healthy. I am concerned about my health and wether I trained appropriately or enough. I guess we will find out. After all, like the saying on the wall of the coffee house/lobby attributed to Lou Whittaker, you don’t conquer the mountain, you conquer yourself. Wise insight for a fellow wanderer. Wise insight indeed my brother.
6500 ft Classroom:
We geared up today for mountaineering school in the Rainier National Park. The ride from Ashland to the park takes about 40 minutes. You cannot see Mnt Rainier from the road, it’d just too dam big and your too dam close.
You can feel its presence though. The same way you can feel when someone is watching over you from above. You can’t see them, but you know they are there, silent and still, watching you approach and smiling at your ego that they know creates obstacles your mind, silly obstacles.
We entered the the trail at a place called paradise, a stopping point on Horne lower slopes that accommodates day hikers and park visitors. A small Alpine style hotel run by the park service stands to the east. Paradise is a suitable name as it is naturally one of the most beautiful places on earth. At a height of about 4500 feet above sea level, it is within 2000 feet higher than the highest mountain east of the Mississippi and only 1500 ft higher than the highest point on the Appalachian Trail. Tomorrow, this is where we start.
We will hike to camp Muir at around 9:00 am Saturday. Our schedule is dictated by the weather, but we hope to reach the camp at around4:00 pm west coast, sleep until 1:00 am, then begin our summit push to the top of Rainier returning Sunday.
We trained after hiking for an hour and a half where we stopped on an ice field overlooking a glacial waterfall that seemingly appeared from nowhere. The snow is soft and pebbly, more like frozen rain/ice. Training went well f me, at least better than I anticipated, learning how to step, breath, dig with our feet, zig zag, ice arrest, rope line, urinate in -50 degree wind ( simulated), put on cramp ons, gaters, rain paints, shell in less than 5 minutes. We slid in the ice, learned how to dig in, stop, get up, stand, and breathe, again.
Our guides are incredible. Robbie, a 20 something professional climber joined Dave Hahn today. Both have keen eyes and a sense for meticulousness. After today,I learned that the need for significant scrutiny of our team is a basis for survival. The smallest detail can magnify a significant problem by 1000, a loose shoelace, the improper way to hold an ice pick, too much slack in a belay line. For ten hours, in the dark, with wind blowing hard and possible rain and snow fall, there is no room for error at 10,000′ or 7000′ for that matter. We will all be tied together.
Hahn is humble and sarcastic with a easy, laid back wit. The team awe grew overnight when several team members, myself included, went to Wikipedia to verify the story.
We were also joined by an older gentleman from Texas making his second climb of the year. Nice enough fellow from Midland who also knew Dave and was excited when he learned we would be climbing with him.
I can’t help but feeling we gelled today as I trust each and every one of our team. All paid attention and were genuinely concerned for each other. On the way down, as we entered the asphalt path to the visitors center, a young girl approached us, he trailing behind her parents. As Hahn lead the group down the foot path, the 6 year old looked up and said, “hiking is not fun.” Little did she know that she was only speaking with the best American hiker in the world. Dave just kind of smiled and shrugged it off saying yea, maybe your right. The fun part comes only when you look at the pictures. The fun is the reward of being closer to god.
Indeed, tomorrow will be a great day for pictures. Tomorrow will be a Great Day, no matter the outcome.
Pilgrimage 2014, Chapter 8: The Muir Blur
September 11, 2014
The path from Paradise through the rolling mountain prairie quickly leads to a rock and ice landscape known as the Muir snowfield. Named after environmentalist John Muir, who also obviously knew that the secret to a long life is knowing when it’s time to go, is characterized by rocky points that form triangles from above and finger out into the snow and ice. After about 7000′ feet in elevation, nothing lives but rock, ice and water, which seems to cause shallow rock creeks in the low points between the sediment and the snowfield.
We would take four breaks on the hike from Paradise to Camp Muir about an hour and a half apart, thus making the trip with 50lb packs last most of the day. This day was wet, very wet, once we entered the snowfield. One can tell the hikers who were returning from the summit the night before, their faces drawn, eyes weary and legs cramped. They had a Cheshire-cat smile like they had just done something miraculous but wanted to savor it by keeping it to themselves. Dave asked one about the summit. His friend behind said “wet.” Not good news for a summit climb. Wet means cloudy and at above 9000′ blowing ice.
The air really thins out at 6000, but at 7-8000 you know something is not right. Each foot becomes concrete and your anaerobic threshold seems to dip to a heart rate 20 beats below a usual 6.0 mph pace. We took our first break just before the rain hit hard. Somehow Dave Hahn could predict the weather to within 3 minutes. He knew when the rain would pick up, when the wind would blow hard and when the temperature would drop. He would time our breaks with his 3 minute windows telling us to always stay busy, never just sitting, eat, drink water, eat more. A fit body is an incredible machine and being in tune allows one to read their body as if it has a fuel gage and warning lights. An endorphin high is far greater than using any drug or alcohol. But the toll the altitude, heavy pack, and constant aerobic exercise take on the cardiovascular, muscular-skeletal and digestive systems is intense. Being in good shape, running an ironman or training for 9 months is “just the entry fee.” The whole game consists of a significant strategy involving clothing, gear, lack of mistakes, laser like focus, timing and fuel. According to the RMI website, the average Rainier summit attempt burns 9,000 calories per day.
At our second break, Dave informed us to gear up in top and bottom rain shell. Three minutes later, in came the rain and the wind, sideways, at about 20 knots, that’s mountain lingo for about 30 mile per hour, I think. The rain was warm but the air cold. At about 3 hours into the rain and wind, I began to suffer, falling behind the group by about 45 seconds. My glacier glasses began to fog and not being able to see the foot path, I stumbled, causing a hesitation before taking each step. Behind me was Rob, the Texas gentleman who joined our group after mountaineering school. He was having a tough time as well. It seemed as if the group one step was three to ours, causing us to scurry. Robbie lagged with me saying, “you have got to be able to keep up” in a peaceful way, but with an air of concern. By the time we reached our third break, I caught the group determined to keep up. Dave informed us that Rob was turning back, he just wasn’t feeling it. Farmer Dave said he was the smartest man in the group. “When your body says it is not your day, it is not your day.” This development was not lost in my mind. Not only was my body talking to me already saying that I was at a limit just trying to keep up, but the news of one of our team already turning back caused a cascading questions through my mind like an avalanche, which is the last thing one needs when stomping around on a ladder that spans the bottomless divide between two glaciers. At the end of the break, after Dave and Mike huddled I assume to asses skills, Dave came back, looked at me and with a determined voice said “Tom, fall in behind me.”
Dave walked in a peculiar way with his left hand in his left front pocket and his right hand holding a ski pole. He ambled up the mountain but moved quickly, like a swimmer that glides, moving faster than anyone else who madly slaps the water. I had to almost lunge a few times to walk in his footsteps, but soon found that he had a certain cadence that made his stride exact each time, a timing that resembled a British garrison in slow step, with a pause after extending one leg, but also in a continuous movement constantly scanning the ground briefly before looking up the mountain. Dave could tell without looking back where each and every one of us stood on that trail as if he had eyes in the back of his head, something beyond a sixth sense, more like a connectedness that I have never seen. Here was a man living completely in the moment, all senses on alert, hot as a pistol but cool inside. Finally, I was walking in the steps of one of the enlightened and at that time if I walked no further, my pilgrimage would be complete. I determined at that moment, that I should walk in the footsteps of this man for as long as I could as I may never have the chance again, realizing that there would continue to be no ordinary step, each step above the glaciers being significant in that each step was a step in the greatest absolute reality. In the near future, each step would be the difference between living and dying.
I focused on the back of Dave’s heels and stepped when he stepped, clearing my lungs every fourth stride, taking in clean oxygen. In this cadence, I could finally breath and felt the endorphins stand the hair on the back of my neck. Behind me came words of encouragement from the team. “Looking strong” “keep going” as I was the underdog and everyone knew it. I felt great as my body began to stop fighting and accept the pain. At that moment, something peculiar happened. Not once was there a doubtful look from anyone, that look you get when you make eye contact with someone and they quickly look away, down and to the left. These people were winners with an unbridled optimism not only in themselves but in their teammates. What made them winners was their willingness to encourage someone else, a perfect stranger 24 hours earlier, to be their best despite the fact that soon enough they would be tied to that person on top of an ice field in 40 mph wind. A lesser person would encourage a weak member to quit so they would not have to ice arrest a fall. But not these guys, we all bought our ticket, we all take the ride, each and every one.
Finally, at around 4:45 Saturday, we made it to where the clouds hung at Camp Muir. We would bunk in one of the three wooden shacks built on rock foundations. The camp was abuzz with several teams of climbers coming up and going down. A constant biting wind was present that almost made you want to crawl up the stairs to the first bunkhouse on an outcropping of rock above the Muir snowfield. To the right of the buildings where a series of yellow tents where the 5 day summit skills team was embedded for the night near the beginning of the Cowlitz glacier, the first expanse of ice north of camp. Once inside, we all scrambled to find our place amongst two stories of plywood bunks that spanned one wall of the building and could fit four climbers on each tier. To the right of the bunks was a shelf with two water coolers and three hot water dispensers. Socks, hats, and gloves were all soaked with water from the rain or sweat from being under layers. Mike and Robbie gave us a tip to place the wet items in our sleeping bags. Our body heat would dry them out. Strange thing this environment, nothing dries in the clouds. I could only manage to dry my gloves in my sleeping bag as it was just too uncomfortable to have three wet items in the mummy as I slept. Soon, I would be asleep, exhausted.
Pilgrimage 2014, Chapter 9: Conquering Yourself
September 27, 2014
Climbers dead on Mount Rainier by Seattle Times staff reporters CORAL GARNICK, MIKE LINDBLOM AND HAL BERNTO
May 31, 2014. Six climbers were killed in a fall on Mount Rainier, officials say, the worst disaster there in more than 30 years. The two guides and four clients were from Seattle-based Alpine Ascents International, the company that lost five Sherpas at Mount Everest this spring.May 2104 -Six climbers were killed in a 3,300-foot fall along the steep north slope of Mount Rainier, officials said Saturday, in the worst disaster on the mountain in more than three decades. Searchers found tents and clothes, mixed with rock and ice, in a debris field along the Carbon Glacier at 9,500 feet, according to the National Park Service. The group’s climbing route, to Liberty Peak, is prone to slides and among the more advanced on the mountain.
Such a fall leaves no real chance of survival, and the location is so perilous, the Park Service said in a statement, “there is no certainty that recovery is possible.”
So went my thoughts as I awoke at 11:00 pm in an 11,000 ft bunk bed above the MUIR Snowfield and below the Cowlitz glacier, trying to sleep next to farmer Dave and Brian from Craig’s list, two guys who were perfect strangers not 48 hours ago that would soon be tethered to a short, aging, cartilage-less, lawyer/ professional email reader who they may have to rely on in an ice arrest. As with most men north of 45, nature calls at the most inopportune time not caring for the regency of a spiritual journey or the fact that one may walk to an out house and never be heard from again. I placed my left foot in Dave’s mouth and left hand on Brian’s shoulder to strategically lift myself in the dark and gently lower my torso to the ground 4 feet bellow. Farmer Dave had prayed to Mary for me the night before when a pounding headache gripped by forehead. I emphasized”pray for us sinners. Mary, pray for us sinners!” Which startled Dave. Now I was praying for Dave that I did not wake him up as he was possibly our strongest climber and would be our anchor.
I found my headlamp and boots and started for the door when I noticed my left leg had a significant bruise. I had tied my left boot too tight on the hike the day before and suffered boot bruise that had gone unnoticed. It felt as if someone had hit my leg with a pool cue in an old fashioned pier sixer, as Gordon Solie used to say about an alley fight. I walked out of the bunkhouse in obvious pain when I became overwhelmed by the stars outside. The clouds had not lifted, but sank, to below 10,000 ft and the sky was clear. I had never seen stars that close, as if you could jump up and pull them down, truly a miracle. At that altitude, one could think you are among them, not below them, more around you than above you. My doubts as to a creator were cast aside as I determined that nothing so beautiful could be the result of random gases and combined elements transformed by chance.
I hobbled to the outhouse up a slight slope from the bunkhouse and was atomically reminded of the benefits of plumbing. Obviously digging a latrine hole with a backpack shovel into rock is an exercise in futility. I humbled back to the bunk where thank god, Dave was asleep. I crawled into my Marmot, -20, mummy sleeping bag with two zippers. My leg began to pulse and thoughts of the climb entered my head. 6 climbers were killed here in May. I had read in the newspaper a few days prior to arriving here that the national park service had recently recovered two of the bodies from a debris field by using a ranger helicopter fitted with a mechanical claw device on loan from Denali National Park in Alaska. Apparently, it was too dangerous to land a climbing ranger and they had just plucked the bodies with a claw, kind of like stuffed animals at the bowling alley. No need for padding,
The altitude does strange things to the thought process. I could not help but think of the gentleman from Texas who turned back, the fact that we were to be tied together on a living glacier -the first one I had ever seen- combined with the fact that I had not calculated the depth of commitment nor the level of fitness necessary to support this type of challenge. I was in pain and started to rationalize a way out: Never eat freeze dried mac and cheese at 11,000 feet. I could explain to my family that I had tried, tried my best, but this was too much. They would understand. “Hey, there is the mountain my dad tried to climb.” I was done. I convinced myself that when I told Dave I was done, he would surely say, “maybe mountain climbing is not for you, good choice, I’ll send you down with Robbie.”
At 12:34 he came in through the only door. I saw his headlamp light up the entire front of the outside of the bunkhouse like an old UFO movie where the light is emitting from the space craft as the black door is the only thing standing between you and the aliens inside. The door slammed open and Dave Hahn came in signing that old 60s tune from the loving spoonful, “c’mon people now, smile on your brother, everybody get together try to love one another right now.” Everyone was out of their bags covering their eyes to adjust to the light. None of us were asleep, but we were not ready for the light. With a big smile on his face, Dave said the weather had cleared and we had a window of opportunity to attempt a summit climb.
“Everyone at 100%?”
“No, Dave, I’m in bad shape.” I said. “I’m at about 80, don’t think I could make it and do not want to jeopardize the team. I’m done.”
To my surprise a forlorn look came upon his face as he looked to the right puzzled and said ” well you certainly earned the right to try for the summit today Tom.” Holy, shit, I thought, this guy actually thinks I can do this. “Here is what we are going to do, get up, move around, get something to drink and start getting it together, I’ll be back in five minutes, then let’s see where you are at.” Said Dave.
Farmer Dave gave me a tums, and said “I prayed for you last night and I prayed for good weather, now we have good weather and now we summit. My prayers always work.” Everyone started getting ready and gearing up. Chugging a Gatorade, my electrolytes replenished, with Dave’s attitude and framer Dave’s prayers, I started feeling better. Dam, these guys think I can do this, maybe I can. I realized at that point what Lou Whitaker was saying when he said to conquer the mountain, you first have to conquer yourself. Dave came in 4 minutes later and asked how I felt. I said I felt a bit better and would go on. At that moment, 7 perfect strangers smiled in unison. I’ve never been so high with a single group of people.
“We are going to start on the Cowlitz glacier, then take a break, then on to the Ingraham flats where we will take another break before Disappointment Clever at Cathedral Pass. At the the flats, I want a frank assessment of wether you can go on.” Once a rope team gets past Disappointment Clever, the entire team must turn back if one turns back or gets injured. It is simply too dangerous.
We fastened our crampons and leaving the sleeping bags and other gear behind were able to lighten our packs by ten pounds. These factors made a significant difference in mobility. The weather conditions were perfect as the crampons slid easily into the crunchy ice, allowing me to take some of the pressure off the boot bruise and fall into a rhythm behind Dave. In front was Dave Hahn followed by myself, Dawn and then Farmer Dave, our anchor. I found myself far too focused on following Dave’s lead in everything he did to count who was on the other two teams, plus it was dark beyond the four foot circle that was illuminated by the headlamps.
We started for the Cowlitz Glacier, walking quietly in a straight line, holding our ropes so as to keep them taught in case one of use happened to fall and start sliding or a crevasse decides to simply open. This was living in the moment, complete surrender to the elements. A journey that required full focus on the reality at hand. Nothing else mattered at that point, ego flew out the window. I felt comfort on my way to physical and spiritual levels one only sees when living in the calmness of an absolute reality. Finally, I was high and alive.
Pilgrimage 2014, Chapter 10: Fear of Fear
October 21, 2014
From the all knowing, all good, all encompassing, Wikipedia:
GLACIER
A glacier (US /ˈɡleɪʃər/ or UK /ˈɡlæsiə/) is a persistent body of dense ice that is constantly moving under its own weight; it forms where the accumulation of snow exceeds its ablation (melting and sublimation) over many years, often centuries. Glaciers slowly deform and flow due to stresses induced by their weight, creating crevasses, seracs, and other distinguishing features. They also abrade rock and debris from their substrate to create landforms such as cirques and moraines. Glaciers form only on land and are distinct from the much thinner sea ice and lake ice that form on the surface of bodies of water.
The forces of nature at work in a glacier are incredibly immense. One can imagine the devastating effect of an earthquake on a large city, flattened buildings, piles of rubble, twisted rebar bent into huge concrete blocks 8 stories high. Imagine four square miles of sky scrapers brought to the ground by an earthquake, then frozen, and moving down an incline. Thus the power of the glacier and rock being transported and formed over several years.
A glacier is basically a very large, flat, thick iceberg on land that moves slowly under its own weight, thus causing large plates of ice to break apart tectonically and develop bottomless cracks called crevasses. In high altitude mountaineering, heavy snowfall can cover the crevasses thus resulting in an unforeseen free fall into the direct body of a glacier, a point of which there is no return nor recovery, the belly of the beast.
But for the grace of god, there go I at 1:30 a.m. across a frozen moonscape, following one of the top three mountaineers in the world and tied to an Air Force Academy graduate and a farmer from Illinois who runs the Sears tower in Chicago as a warm up. I began to think of the pervious days mountaineering school where we learned to ice arrest with our axes and could have used another week or so of training should the Cowlitz glacier decide to cast me into its bowels or I simply miss a ladder rung. In that case, the general purpose of a rope team is to arrest the fall with the three remaining members immediately dropping to the ice, sprawling on all fours, placing the ice axe from its resting position as a walking stick to a point directly next to the opposite ear with the axe point being slammed as hard as possible into the ice, crampons digging in creating more leverage and weight on the axe digging into the snow while holding on for dear life. In a perfect ice arrest, the fallen team member would suspend 5 feet into the crevasse. A series of ropes and anchors would then be established to retrieve the doomed climber. If two are swept into the crevasse, the odds of the other two arresting the fall of the entire team diminish exponentially.
Despite my addiction to velocity and pushing my mind and body to as close to the edge as possible for the love of adrenaline, I have always been scared of heights and plagued by night terrors of falling endlessly into a void. This dream recurring since childhood usually ends with me wide awake, a heart rate of well over 180 and pillows and covers wrapped around my legs from incessant turning and screaming. Sleeping with me is more dangerous than climbing everest, all for the incessant fear of falling into the unknown.
It was against this backdrop that we approached our first crevasse crossing using a 16 foot aluminum rung ladder with two plank boards and a fixed rope to the right. The wind picked up as I started with my left foot on the plank, grasping the fixed rope in my right hand and the ice axe with my left, I slowly breached the start of the ladder when half way through my head lamp began to dim, or it was just the vastness of the height I was crossing in which the beam was not strong enough to see the bottom. The edges of the crevasse were a light blue translucent from the stars reflection and became bluer as the sides of the walls went down into total blackness. Frozen, halfway above and over the deepest black whole in the universe, 8 feet across the ladder and 8 feet from the other side, I couldn’t move, convinced if I took a step, anything had to go wrong. I imagined the call to my family from the guide service owner, Peter Whitaker, nephew of Lou and a great climber himself: “I am sorry to tell you that Tom fell into a crevasse on the Cowlitz glacier and was last seen at 3:37 a.m. this morning.”At that moment, I thought the end was near, it’s been a great life, my family and friends the best people I know. I thought of the story of a climber a hanging from a rope telling his fellow climbers to save themselves and cut the rope before they were pulled into the abyss. I thought.
The wind suddenly stopped and having seen my stop, Dave’s voice came through from somewhere across the other side of the crevasse, “just focus on the end of the ladder” not yelling or scolding, his voice calm, almost introspective, like a voice in your own mind. My attention withdrew to the end of the walk and my legs started to magically move, slowly, with a smooth gate like a paso fino carrying a heavy rider. I gracefully made it across only thinking of the end of the ride, strict focus on the task. Dave had seen this before. A simpleton, frozen on top of a ladder, from the other side of the continent, not having had the slightest clue as to the natural forces at work in an endeavor of this type, but nonetheless willing to push outside his own limitations.
At that moment I understood that this man truly loved what he was doing and knew what he was doing and why he was doing it. He does it for people, to help them be better by realizing that the one true reality occurs in the simplest of tasks in the most extreme conditions of human nature; perfect enlightenment. Upon this realization, my fear of heights was beaten by staring ice cold into the gaping jowls of a roaring grizzly bear inches from my face, unflinching, conceding nothing except the soft inner voice saying let go of what you think will happen and just walk. Dave was our guide and we were his students, to him the most important people in the world. I have not had the falling dream since.
Pilgrimage 2014: Chapter 11, The Banshee Screams for Meat from the East
February 9, 2015
Across the Cowlitz Glacier and into the Ingraham Ice Flats the path leads to a combination of strange landscapes magically formed by the combination of rock, snow and slowly moving ice. Twenty four hours prior I had no idea of what a snow fin was, but having been tethered to our guide and thus being required to follow directly in his foot we crossed a series of single track hills with running water in between and steep rock on both sides. A snow fin is exactly what it sounds like, a great big white sharks fin protruding from the surface as if the shark were under the glacier, exposing his ominous dorsal fin as a single track piece of ice. Interestingly, one can walk straight up the snow fin and down the other side, thus otherwise crossing chasms of large rock piles with razor sharp edges.
We crossed the fins with relative ease since I had gained confidence over the three laddered crevasses. At this point, anything seemed tame. At the bottom of a large rock outcropping, we stopped for a break. This was it, the do or die point. Going up was optional, coming down mandatory. This was the point at which Dave Hahn so graciously and professionally offered me an easy out as we left Camp Muir: Disappointment Clever. I had made it far enough, to make the next step would have been total commitment as there was no going back without the entire team. If one can’t make it after this stop the entire team must turn back. I looked at farmer Dave, Dawn and the rest of the climbers. I thought of my children, my wife and my friends, my reality and said to myself, that if I did not do this now, I may never have the chance again. These people believed in me, even if I did not believe in myself. I snarled two Snickers bars and looked at Dave Hahn realizing that I will never again get the chance to climb with the greatest guide in the world. I realized that Lou Whitaker was right, “in order to conquer the mountain, you first have to conquer yourself.”
In this case conquering yourself meant conquering fear; the fear that comes from not believing. It’s the same fear as the fear of winning, or of losing. The same fear one avoids by staying safely at home with the remote control, a bottle of Grey Goose, and NFL Sunday ticket, dying of combination of clogged arteries and the stress of FOX News. At this moment, realized that the greatest fear, that which transcends athletic ability, physical stamina and bad boot burn, is the fear of not being the person I want to be. This is why I came here, to find out how to be a simple monk walking in the footsteps of an ultimate reality, high above the continent, where every step is extraordinary and the all senses are at optimal function. In order to find out exactly who I wanted to be, one has to confront this fear and must go forward, touching the void in absolute self-realization. I could not be revealed to myself without seeing the summit. I told Dave that I could go on, much to his surprise. “Aight!” he said with a wide grin, “they call this Disappointment Clever because it is endlessly up, stay busy drink up and lets go.”
Cleaver gets its name from the way it resembles a meat cleaver slicing meat into two parts. A cleaver may be thought of as analogous to an island in a river. A common situation has the two flanking glaciers melting to their respective ends before their courses can bring them back together; the exceedingly rare analogy is a situation of the two branches of a river drying up, before the downstream tip of the island, by evaporation or absorption into the ground.-From Wikipedia.
In this case, the rocks of Disappointment Clever are volcanic, each one individually forged at sharp angles as if honed on a large ice cutting wheel driven by a bearded, hungry Viking and tempered by the fires of an angry volcano. They call it Disappointment Clever because the first persons to climb this route were disappointed that at the end of the rock, they still had two thousand feet of glacial climbing at an average slope greater than 45 degrees to reach the summit. It is relentlessly up, like endlessly climbing uneven stairs. Hahn glided over them, as if on ice skates. He paused every step and took a breath, but always in the same consistent rhythm. This rhythm allowed us to keep moving, but to take rest steps.
After an hour and a half of climbing, I caught a single glimpse of the sunrise over my left shoulder to the east. I had never seen sky of orange, black and blue as if I were on the roof of the continent, looking downward on the sunrise. The sun had not yet peeked at us, but the heat was coming. With the heat, came the wind. As I turned a corner facing due west, around a sharp bend in the single track, the wind howled. We were much closer now, having the rope coiled as we walked. The wind roared as nothing I had ever heard before, kind of like high pitched squall, roaring through the rock. It was as if Rainer was pissed that we were walking her rocks without respect. Suddenly I froze, feeling that if I lifted one foot off the ground, I would be suddenly whisked up into the atmosphere, swirling around like a leaf in a hurricane. In Irish legend a banshee is a female spirit whose wail is an omen of death. At sunrise, we heard the banshee scream at about 85 miles per hour. At that moment, Dave looked back and with a huge grin, screamed as if he were trying to lasso a freight train: “SHE IS SHOWING US HER TEETH NOW.” I will never forget the elation with which Dave Hahn stared down the elements. He knew we were safe, that even though violent, the wind was still just the wind. I suddenly realized why he was a mountaineer.
With a brief yank of the rope, we were off again, methodically moving and breathing. At approximately 7:40 a.m. we had reached the end of Disappointment Clever. Up above the rocks and the lower glaciers, the world is different. The snow, although appearing benign, is seductive in its instability. We were now entering the fall out zone, where one misstep would mean an endless slide where maybe they would find your body in the scree. Yes, the scree. Lord should I pass, please don’t leave me in the scree.
Pilgrimage 2014: A Spiritual Journey Into the Greatest Monestary in the World
April 26, 2015
“So…be your name Buxbaum or Bixby or Bray
or Mordecai Ali Van Allen O’Shea,
you’re off to Great Places!
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!”
-Dr. Suess
The world above Disappointment Clever is quiet, still and unearthly. The sun was rising and cast a great orange glow beginning in the east. As I stood next to Dave and Dawn, we suddenly realized that we were high enough and could see far enough to the east to literally see the orange radiant of the great sun spreading across the lowlands like a wave of energy touching the earth.
Tibetan Buddhists call this Great Eastern Sun, Sharchen Nyima; a manner of living in the present, in beauty and simplicity; learning to be genuine in every moment in your life through selfless goodness. At that moment, I witnessed the world of the Great Eastern Sun, a natural source of radiance and brilliance and the innate wakefulness of being human.
We geared up at the first rest stop after the clever and started walking again in formation up the ice switchbacks for several hours until we started getting signs that we were nearing the summit. I could see the end of our journey, up that great smooth surface of ice and snow, zig zagging back and forth, higher and higher. Suddenly, after several hours of silent walking in a line that resembled monks trudging to a holy site, we were near the summit.
We reached the summit at 9:30 a.m. having left the Muir snow field at 1:30 a.m. Time means nothing in this world. Schedules are dictated by nature and nature only: weather tells you when it’s time to go and as Michelle Shocked knows all too well that the secret to a long life is knowing when it’s time to go.
My left leg went numb as if I was walking on wood, not being able to shake the boot burn developed on the fast pace up to Muir the day before. I could barely walk as we crossed through a small pass that weaved through the higher points of the rim of the south crater. Surrounding the great crater, were volcanic vents spewing steam into the atmosphere which quickly turned to ice in the clean, cold air. Inside the crater, the snow was light and deep, much softer than the ice. I sank with every step up to my hip. Dave knew how to walk in the deep snow. I tried to match steps and keep Dave and Dawn moving toward the center of the snowfield. Finally, we reached the middle of the crater and sat down. Once we stopped moving, we had to dawn parkas, due to the instant freeze that comes from immobility. At this level, once the body stops generating kinetic heat from movement, the heart slows and the blood starts to move cold to the extremities. I then realized why climbers on Mt. Everest perish when they stop moving or are unable to move. I cannot imagine the feeling at 22,000 feet. One has to keep moving if not just to keep from passing out from exhaustion. The wind and cold air immediately seize your body and wrap you in a freeze so fast you hardly notice, like a wet hand towel being suddenly being thrown into a freezer. After fifteen minutes, your fingers start to freeze. But for the grace of god, there go I, on the summit of Mt. Rainier, a simple monk from the east.
The color of the stratosphere cannot be duplicated at this height. It is deep blue, clear and infinite, endless, the closest thing one can come to imagining heaven in an earthly realm, like staring into a color with no beginning and no end. Dave and the rest of the team went to the top of the ridge to sign the summit registry. I stayed back with Mike to rest my legs and was glad to hear that I qualified for a certificate stating I had reached the summit even if I did not sign the registry, which required another 15 minute hike through deep snow to rocky heights near the crater rim. It was going to be a long way down. Never in my wildest dreams could I have anticipated the physical and mental fitness need for such an endeavor. I was simply not in shape and felt as if I was placing myself and team at great risk. I wanted to ask Mike whether there was shorter way down. “Can we go another route to the back way to the parking lot?” I thought. Unfortunately, I knew the answer. Somethings are better off left unsaid.
After much rejoicing and photographs taken by the team in excited jubilation, we started our descent. Dave had placed markers on the snowfields after Disappointment Clever and was now picking them up as we tracked down, placing them in his back pack without missing a step. As we moved down off the magical realm of the summit, a sense of peace fell about me, that I had made the summit despite having been confronted with the voices of exhaustion, fear, doubt and possible disappointment. Suddenly, the trip down felt better as my crampons gripped into the ice allowing me to lean forward into the mountain, like skiing a double diamond . As we began the trek through Disappointment Clever, I was able to see the heights we had passed in the blackness of night. Now, it was day light and to my right, sheer rock, to the left of the single track path was a 3,000 foot drop to a place beyond the low lying clouds. We moved, slowly, silently, but we moved.
As we reached Cadaver Pass and the icefall we came upon tourists inspecting a crevasse, walking blissfully off the path to peer deep into the bowels of the glacier. Dave stopped and radioed base camp to be weary of the two tourists as we hurriedly walked through the lower half of the ice fall. At the next break on the Cowlitz glacier we sat on our packs in a semi-circle surrounding the bodhisattva as if we were in a great monastery, seated in the classroom of the high llama. The secret to developing good mountaineering sense Dave said, is to always minimize your time in places of exposure. One survives in the mountains by limiting risk. Set your camp in a safe place, takes breaks on even ground and minimize the amount of time in dangerous places, below an ice fall avalanche zone. Dave told us of how he touched the void on Everest having to bivouac overnight at twenty eight thousand. His countenance moved from the present to the past and he said in a low, quiet, peaceful voice with a slight smile, Quinn in the cabin, “that’s as close as I want to come.” We all knew what he meant as we had -just for a second- experienced what can happen in his world. The experience of knowing what it was like, to be present in the moment and asking yourself if this was really it, all there is to this life, then to come out the other side, like a surfer escaping a giant wave or a skier flying off a cliff with a parachute. This was the beauty of being alive.
We moved quick and arrived at Muir Base Camp just after noon. We loaded our sleeping bags, coiled the rope, stepped out of our harnesses and removed the crampons. We moved quickly down the snowfield with full packs. My legs just gave out. I had to glissade down several feet just to keep up with the pack and not fall behind. Finally, I could not keep up and had to remove my pack. Robbie carried and towed my pack behind him until we reached the tree line where I was able to pick it up on the dirt path. I caught the team at the final rest stop before the sprint to paradise. It was almost three o’clock. I sat on a rock next to Dave, feeling dejected at not being able to keep up. He just laughed and said “ well your better than most people at this stage in your physical state, they are mostly just bitching, wanting the bus to come up and get them or complaining about how they were never told that they would have to walk so much.” I just kind of smiled and said nothing thinking that Dave and the others would not understand that this was my spiritual journey, a pilgrimage, a chance to find a higher power. As Jim Whitaker said, to test myself. I came out of my void at that moment and found that in the grand scheme of life on this planet, the true beauty of being alive comes from the goodness that is found within all of us. Maybe I was mistaken in that believing Dave and team would not understand. Maybe, I was just too tired to tell them.
We arrived at the bus at the paradise lodge parking lot. I stumbled in ten minutes later than everyone else, who all applauded me as I dumped my pack for the last time. I felt like the last cadet at West Point on graduation day that always gets the loudest applause, simply because he made it. Jennifer was waiting with a large watermelon cut up by a machete. It was not a Georgia watermelon, but it was the best thing I could get in my body. I felt rejuvenation in my blood from the combination of water and the sugar of fresh fruit. Dave K asked what was next. SCUBA diving I said. Dave laughed as I sat next to him, spitting seeds out of my mouth.
The ride back to RMI went quick. Jennifer motored through the park like Junior Johnson driving through the woods of Carolina, sometimes brushing the trees to fit the bus between oncoming traffic. At the base cap in Ashland, we had a small ceremony and certificates were given out. I sat with the team and just smiled. Dave congratulated me for toughing it out. I’ll never forget the look on his face. He was as satisfied as I that I did not quit. He knew I needed to see what he sees on the mountain and how it touches the soul. As Rene Dumal said,
one goes up the mountain,
one sees,
one comes down,
one sees no longer, but one has seen.
Maybe Dave believed that if I failed, he would have failed, maybe not. I do know that Dave Hahn is a man without self or ego, purely dedicated to the interests of others. Maybe that is why he is a guide and “he will do it as long as his body lets him.” Dave Hahn is a selfless man He is not in it for the book, the movie or the sponsor, but for the pure love of what he does for other people on mountains.
I took a picture, shook his hand and was gone as fast as I had come. My plane was leaving SeaTac at 10:10. I had 1.5 hours to drive 100 miles, through the backwoods of central Washington, in the dark, get a full tank of gas, drop off a rental car and make it to the Delta counter to load my pack, which had doubled in weight.
I was stopped by a Washington State Trooper outside of Tacoma doing 72 in a 45 mph zone. For the first time in recorded history, a criminal defense lawyer could not talk his way out of ticket. The trooper asked for insurance.
“Bwaaaahhahh, ho ho, you’ve got to be kidding me, Insurance? I don’t even remember what rental car agency this is from. Look buddy, I just summited Mount Rainier with the greatest high altitude climbing team in the world, led by the greatest high altitude guide in the world, became an enlightened soul and really could care less about speeding tickets or any other earthly matters at this time in my life. So if you don’t mind, can you just give me the ticket and let me catch this plane back to Atlanta. I will never speed in your state again, at least until I get out of this smelly fast food parking lot and onto a major highway.”
“I just really don’t know what to say to that.” The trooper said in his best authoritative voice after giving me the ticket. Subsequently, the ticket was dismissed by the local judge as a professional accommodation from the State of Washington. God, thank you for the people of Washington: weed buses, TV commercials for gun control and hippie traffic judges. I truly love this state.
I made the plane with 12 minutes to board and for the first time in my life was grateful that Delta Airlines can do nothing on time. I slept. Ahh, sweet sleep. I dreamt of seals playing in the ocean surf chasing bait fish in the sun.
I arrived in Atlanta at 7:30 Monday morning to 90 degree temperatures, jet exhaust and traffic. I could not find my parking voucher and had to hike, with full pack, a half an hour through acres of asphalt and parked cars to find my car. Finally, I pulled into my driveway and found my bedroom. I made it.
I continue to ride this wave as I complete this blog almost seven months later. The friends I have met are on my Facebook and regularly comment with me on mountains, fitness and adventure. Dave Hahn went again to the South Pole and continues to guide for RMI. He is not on Facebook. I am truly grateful for the ride and if I never see a mountain before god takes me, I will still say thanks for the trip. But then again, Rainier isn’t the tallest mountain in North America.
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