The 12,000 Foot Wall

We gathered at Paradise and after I made my introduction to four other climbers that Lara knew, we shouldered our packs and began our hike up towards Panorama Point and then onto the Muir Snowfield for the final ascent to Camp Muir at 10,000 feet. It had been foggy and chilly at the parking lot but now the gray had departed and the sun shone down in full force making us sweat for every step up the ever-softening snow. Gibraltar Rock loomed overhead, piercing a cloudless brilliant blue sky. The weather was favoring us and that was no small thing. We set up our tent camp and ate together, making plans for the day ahead. Turning in early, I hoped to get enough sleep before our nighttime start. While we would travel roped, the Disappointment Cleaver route was not a highly technical route and so I was not anxious about that.

Up at 3:00 am, I felt on autopilot as I put on my frigid boots, super gaiters and crampons. Quickly eating a cold breakfast, I fastened my harness and was ready. We were silent ghostly figures only distinguishable from each other by the light of our tiny head lamps whose beams splayed hauntingly across the snowfield in the dark. Roped up and ice axes in hand, we began our slow ascent. The icy crust of the snow crunched beneath the spikes of my crampons and ice axe. It was the only sound, as we were fortunate to have a morning free from wind. Crunch, crunch, crunch…we made steady progress, only stopping to hydrate from our water bottles. And soon the whole sky was bathed in a saturated deep blue during that sliver of time between the dark of night and the golden hour, just before sunrise. It was 1975 and Mt. St. Helens stood tall and proud on the southern skyline. It was our Mt. Fuji, a stunningly beautiful symmetrical white cone. I paused and took a photograph. I wanted to remember the moment.

That section, traversing from the upper Cowlitz Glacier up to the Cathedral Rocks Ridge was perhaps the most beautiful part of the climb in that early morning light. It was a joyous experience and I was filled with both a satisfaction of the present and an optimism for the climbing to come. I thought, “This is so spectacular!” After traversing the Ingraham Glacier, we approached the lower southern base of Disappointment Cleaver and the massive overhanging seracs. The visual drama of them made me feel small and vulnerable. We hurried past as best we could, not pausing for an instant.

And then suddenly, toward the top of the Cleaver, around 12,000 feet, I felt the wind go out of my sails. I felt that I had hit a wall, it was that pronounced. Of course, everyone had slowed down but that didn’t change my experience. I simply couldn’t get enough breath or strength to power up the mountain as my brain wished me to do. It just wasn’t there and that was both frustrating and scary. I’d make a step or two and have to pause for another breath before resuming. I had never felt anything like it and began to doubt my ability to go higher. It was through sheer force of will that I continued. What had been such a stunningly beautiful climb only hours before had now become an interminable trudge. We continued, no one speaking. Finally reaching the top of the east crater, I sat down and demurred as the others made their way across to the true summit on the west crater rim. I just needed to gather myself and enjoy this place on the mountain. It was good enough, and I really didn’t care about the other side of the crater. Yes, I was a bit disappointed in myself but I was just too spent and wanted to save something for the descent.

I was happy when the others rejoined me and we began our journey down. We had been fortunate that it was a cloudless, windless day. The giant seracs glistened in the sun. The mountain was now again a place of breathtaking beauty. But it was not yet over. Even the descent was hard work in the rapidly softening snow and the intense heat of the sun reflecting off the glacier. I grew weary and stumbled a bit as I caught a crampon spike in one of my gaiters and I nearly pitched forward onto my face. I had to stop and regroup and make a mental note to shake off my lazy approach and take this part of the climb every bit as seriously as the ascent. I soldiered on. As we neared Camp Muir, I began to feel more elated with the accomplishment. What had happened up there I wondered. The truth is that I had hit some sort of physiological barrier at around 12,000 feet. It was the altitude. It had simply kicked my butt.

I would later wonder what or if I could have done anything differently. I don’t know. But the upshot of it was that I temporarily lost my enthusiasm for climbing Mt. Rainier, that is until a bunch of us thought it would be a good idea to try a winter ascent of Liberty Ridge. I do remember being at home in Wallingford in mid-May of 1980 when we heard news of the enormous volcanic explosion of Mt. St. Helens that blew the entire top of the mountain into ash. It was fascinating and hard to believe. In that moment one of my feelings was one of meaningful regret that I had not climbed it when it was still a pristine cone, our Mt. Fuji.