Rainier Report: Paradise to Muir

If there is one thing I learned during the three days I spent on Rainier, it's that no matter how many guidebooks read, trail maps studied, conversations had, and background research accumulated, there is absolutely no way to remove a certain element of unknown that defines an expedition. In the months and weeks leading up to the climb—trust me, I definitely tried! Knowledge is a powerful tool, but so is discovery. And there is only so much you can glean from a guidebook and prepare yourself to expect; after that point, you can either worry about the rest that remains unknown or you can put a little more faith in yourself and become an active student of the experience. Seems like a truth for any elevation.

By sharing this narrative of climb, posting a record of my blood sugars, and providing a glimpse into the training, gear, and preparations, I hope that you will not only take my word for it but go out and see for yourself!

 

7/18/10: The 4 am wake up call wasn’t nearly as unwelcome as I thought it’d be. Once the car was loaded and speeding past the outskirts of Seattle, the turmoil of packing and preparations—tracking UPS packages, taking inventory of food and diabetes supplies, buying last minute items, and keeping the pack as lightweight as possible—was finished and the adventure could finally begin! In the car were two other members of the climbing team and our leader, Doug. It took around two and a half hours to get to Rainier National Park, but right before my cell phone lost reception, I received a few  last minute well wishes, including a “Wooohooo!” from Johnny at iD. We made a quick stop at Whittaker Mountaineering in Ashford to rent a set of hiking poles, and I happened upon a beautiful pair of Mammut Mamook goretex leather mountaineering boots at a tempting rental price. (I had a pair of plastic Asolo’s rented from REI in Seattle, but contemplating the opportunity cost involved with renting a second pair was a no-brainer: no boot bang, no need for hiking boots to Muir, and no hauling plastics halfway up the mountain. Sometime it’s a good thing expeditions never go as planned.)

The first time I saw Rainier up close and personal was shortly after we entered Rainier NP and were winding up the road to the trailhead at Paradise. It was stunning to see but even more remarkable to realize we would be all the way up there and back in the next three days. Our crew of four arrived at the Paradise (5,420’) around 9 am, and met four others from the team as we gathered our gear together in the parking lot. The remaining two decided to make the hike to Muir the day before and spend an extra night (and save us some good spots in the shelter!). The other members of the team were all from Washington State but came to Rainier with varying degrees of mountaineering experience and athletic backgrounds. (One member of the team, Gerhard, was a ski mountaineer from Germany who decided to ski all the way up to Muir and then back down from there two days later. Don’t ask me how he did it—it was neat to see though...until he flew by us on those skis and disappeared up the trail!) The whole group of ten was friendly and easy to get along with, open to learn, and highly motivated. (A good sense of humor helps too, and we had that taken care of.)

Bobby H. was my other teammate who was rockin’ the ‘betes on Rainier that weekend. Bobby is a cyclist/triathlete with Team Type 1 and recently decided to add mountaineering to his ever-widening repertoire. We’d never met before that day, but diabetes has a way of making its own introduction and fast-forwarding formalities. “What’s your starting BG?” “Is that too low for something like this?” “Are those sour gummy worms???” We had an epic diabetes conversation later in the evening...up to the point that the rest of the team was about to take bets on how much longer we could “talk diabetes”.

The trail to Camp Muir is around four miles and gains 4,500 feet along the way. As the hike

progressed, members of the team naturally drifted into smaller parties with a similar pace. I hiked most of the way with Doug and two other women who work with him. In the first hour of the climb—the initial a**-kicking phase that you just have to work through before a rhythm sets in, Tami and I stopped momentarily and looked uphill. She urged me to go on ahead if I wanted and not to let her slow me down. Slow me down? I re-assured her that she most certainly wasn’t slowing me down and that my going slow had absolutely nothing to do with her. :) The breathtaking views along the way up, and as we crossed the last patch of green at Pebble Creek, helped distract me from the fact our way was gradually becoming steeper; and though it was warm enough for base layers the entire hike, we were on snow almost from the beginning. Other than the occasional convoy of Rainier Mountaineering guided expedition teams, we mostly shared the mountain with intrepid day hikers with ridiculously light packs.

We tackled the hike in sections—there were rocky rest areas at respectable intervals (maybe once every hour), and as we refueled (and tested BGs) at each of these stops, we often met up with the same bunch of climbers, like one big game of leapfrog. I remember two of them—the first was the Duct Tape Man, a friendly and resourceful mountaineer who offered me a roll of duct tape when he overheard my infusion site (for the insulin pump) was coming off. Worked like a charm. (I had planned to put in a backup site for the summit climb, but it probably would’ve been nice to have another one on the Muir hike too. My blood sugars weren’t rising, so I decided to wait until the reservoir change that night.)

The other climber we got to know was an older fellow with a GPS unit. I’m not sure which one was programming the other, but at one point he estimated there were 750 ft. to go until Muir. We weren’t even in sight of it yet, and I think Doug said it was more like 1400 ft. (From there on out, whenever someone asked how much longer we’d say “another 750 ft.” :)

The trail was basically as wide as the snow-covered hillside and marked by wands, thousands of footprints, and the shallow chutes where descending climbers had perfected their glissading technique (i.e. sliding down the hill on your butt). There’s nothing quite like spending all day trudging your way up a mountain as dozens of elated climbers, fresh from the summit, wish you well (or simply laugh, scream, and yodel) as they whiz past like a bobsled team. Kept telling myself, “that’ll be us in two days!”

My middle school club soccer coach always used to tell us— right before making us sprint up and down this mean hill zillions of times, or as we played through driving rain, covered in mud, trailing a tough team, with all the parents watching comfortably from their cars (except my dad who once stood there holding up the broken leg of our popup rain shelter for an entire game)—my coach would always yell, “It’s all mental!” (He had served in the Marines). Well Coach, ten years and 14,410 feet later, I’m finally starting to believe you. (As long as you don’t make me sprint that hill again.)

Toward the end of the hike, a brown speck appears across the snowfield above. As you climb higher, it grows into a collection of small buildings that appear reassuringly close. Well, they’re not. Welcome to “The Treadmill”. It’s not horrifyingly steep or tricky—just a long drawn-out slog that ends just as you start to wonder if Camp Muir is slowly rolling its way further up the mountain with each step you take toward it. (Carrot anyone?) One of my fellow climbers began “99 Bottles of Beer,” and another went through verses “American Pie” in her head over and over again. Like a long car trip through the cornfields of Nebraska, anything to ease the monotony was welcome. As for me, I did what I could do. First it was U.S. Presidents and then, after about five rounds of that, I switched to emperors of Rome. Can’t take the history major out of the mountaineer. Somewhere between Vespasian and Domitian, we pulled into Camp Muir at 10,080 feet.