We each took a blanket and a little hard tack in our knapsacks. I had my camera and had more, of course than any one else… [W]e climbed over snow and ice, then we got to a place about 10,000 ft. where we were to stay over night. The night was like a night in Minn. in Dec.
-A.C. Warner, Expedition Photographer, 1888*
The first successful ascent of Mt. Rainier was made in August 1870, by the climbing pair of Hazard Stevens and P.B. Van Trump (great names). Eighteen years later a team of nine, led by Van Trump, set out for the summit. Arthur Churchill Warner, a twenty-four year-old photographer from Seattle, was invited to come along. Says one of the expedition’s more well-known members:
We were in light marching order, save one who pluckily determined to carry his camera to the summit. At night, after a long easy climb over wide and smooth fields of ice, we reached a narrow ridge, at an elevation of about ten thousand feet above the sea, on the divide between the glaciers of the Nisqually and the Cowlitz.
-John Muir**
When John Muir arrived at 10,080’ in August 1888, there was no welcome wagon—no public shelter, no climbing rangers with the latest weather forecast, and no solar toilet equipped with an industrial-size bottle of Purell inside. The view hasn’t changed much though—just a bit more foot-traffic and bit less of Mt. St. Helens. The best part of Camp Muir is undoubtedly the 10,000’ panorama, with Mt. Adams, Mt. Hood, and Mt. St. Helens all gracing the skyline—a view which, up until that point, you hadn’t really noticed since you’d been doggedly focused on boot-tracks in the snow ahead, the speck of a stone shelter, William McKinley (or was it Cleveland…?), and glissaders flying by, bent on cheeseburgers and beer, sleep, and a shower (most likely in that order). And if the view didn’t take your breath away, being at 10,000’ might. But by far, the best part of the breathtaking view was the satisfaction of finding a nice rock, cracking open a Mountain House dehydrated Santa Fe Chicken and Beans dinner, and serenely watching all the other intrepid hikers and mountaineers battle their way up the mountain and through the Tredmill—and as they drew near enough, perhaps offering a friendly “you’re almost there!” wave. What would John Muir have thought?
My Muir moment was interrupted by a 21st century reminder tune from my Animas pump saying the insulin had run out. I lingered awhile longer watching the sun sink lower, the “Camp Muir lassitude” winning out (read The Ascent of Rum Doodle). Three or four (perhaps five) reminders later, I finally got up to assemble the legions of diabetes supplies sitting at the bottom of my pack (the sole motivating factor being the necessity of more insulin to cover a surplus of trail mix threatening to overwhelm the system). The duct tape over my pump site was also hanging by a thread—high time to start afresh. Bobby made room for me on the bench in front of the shelter, and I laid everything out just like home—insulin bottle, alcohol swab, reservoir, tubing, and inset30. That’s when the epic diabetes conversation began. It reminded me of the conferences my parents used to bring me to, where criminologists from across the country would disappear into ballrooms, meeting rooms, and hotel bars to discuss the finer points of academia (while all other laypersons steered clear and kept the real world turning in their absence).
After eating a little hardtack, each of us leveled a spot to lie on among lava-blocks and cinders. The night was cold, and the wind coming down upon us in stormy surges drove gritty ashes and fragments of pumice about our ears while chilling to the bone.
-John Muir
The public shelter at Camp Muir does just what it needs and nothing more. When you compare it to the accommodations John Muir had when he came here, we’re talking a vast improvement. It’s about the size of a spacious Lincoln-era log cabin and, according to the NPS, supposedly has room to comfortably cram in twenty-five climbers— meaning: normally there aren’t that many; in a bind, you can really sardine folks in there; but no matter what, the NPS would like you to become comfortable with your neighbors.
There weren’t that many climbers in need of accommodation, so our team alone took up half the shelter. I laid out my sleeping bag and ground pad in the middle of a long wooden platform on the lower level of the bunk, and two of the women from the team that I climbed to Muir with took the spots on either side. Camp Muir is by no means a normal community—the camp quiets down after dinner, and most people are in their sleeping bags by sunset. I’ve pulled my share of late nights at William and Mary, but I don’t think I made it past 10 pm that night.
7/19/10: An iPhone alarm went off at midnight, and I opened my eyes as a group of guys on the other side of the hut sprang into action in the darkness. The first thing I thought was boy, I’m sure glad I don’t have to move from this sleeping bag. And then I did what most type 1 athletes do when they have nothing else to do: pulled my meter out and tested—without moving from the sleeping bag. 49. Bummer, now I had to move from my sleeping bag to my backpack on the shelf across from the bunks (about two feet give or take). But I was motivated by sports beans and chocolate protein bars—even at midnight. (Must’ve been the effects of the hike, plus overcorrecting at dinner for all that trail mix. I set a lower basal rate for the rest of the night.) Being low is no fun, but there’s nothing quite like eating jelly beans and chocolate in the middle of the night—love it. Try it sometime. As I sat there on my sleeping bag, trying not to overcorrect the low, I took in all the preparations happening on the other side of the shelter by headlamp—quite daunting to believe that would be us in less than twenty-four hours. After not more than fifteen or twenty minutes, the heavy wooden door creaked open. With the sound of crampons on concrete, stray beams from headlamps, [and a hearty heigh-ho Silver!] the climbers disappeared into the night.
We all got to sleep in that morning, but somehow I managed to be the last one up and out of the hut. (Being a college kid, I have learned to value any opportunity to sleep. ;) I had only a handful of trail mix for breakfast because somehow I ended up a little high when I woke up… couldn’t blame it all on dawn phenomenon, I guess. That morning, we practiced skills, roped up for the first time and took a walk across the snowfield, and went over crevasse safety. Some highlights:
Self-arrest: A site was chosen to practice basic self-arrest technique—it was a short, steep bowl of snow that flattened out nicely around thirty feet down. A bit steeper than what we’d practiced on during the winter course in the White Mountains, but I recalled the steely Boston accent of my Mt. Washington guide Jim, and his crash course on self-arrest (…oh man, bad pun). Jim, you taught us well.
Though, perhaps I was rusty after two years because the first time down was abysmal (sorry Jim!), and I ended up at the bottom with a crampon-sized hole in my climbing pants. Decided to go with gaiters from there on out, and the second try was better.
Roping up: The real test came when we roped up into teams of five to practice glacier travel. My rope team had Doug in the front, me behind him, then Bobby, Laura, and Jo bringing up the rear. We walked down to the bottom of the bowl and followed Doug a few hundred yards along a low traverse. We reached the end of that, and Doug turned around and instructed us to descend a few yards down the slope. I took one step and was kicking my boot into the snow to gain a better footing, when all of a sudden the soft snow gave way and I started sliding down the hill. Had I kept going, I would’ve just ended up at the bottom of the small hill, but I thought, might as well make use of the opportunity; so I turned over and drove the pick of my ice ax into the snow underneath me, and a few feet later came to a halt exactly where Doug had pointed…only the method was a little more direct. I was congratulated on a nice, albeit spontaneous, demonstration of technique, and I think I heard clapping coming from the other rope team across the hillside.
Crevasse stuff: We spent the next hour or so alongside a respectable-looking crevasse, learning the basics of crevasse rescue and each person’s role in the process. (For more info, refer to the Glacier chapter of Rum Doodle; essentially the same, just without the champagne. ;) We even got to tie into a snow anchor and peer down into the crevasse. It wasn’t what I expected—instead of a clear-cut chasm straight down to the base of the glacier, it was a complicated maze of twists, turns, and overhanging ice formations. While we waited our turn to hang over a crevasse, my rope team assisted in assembling a formidable team of snowmen, safely roped together with prusiks (see below).
The rest of the day was spent organizing gear, packing, refilling water bottles, and eating an insanely early dinner. Most of the team turned in before sunset.
There was a strong north east wind and our camp was not well sheltered. Dan and I dug a hole in the sand, then got some large flat stones or lava, piled them up so as to make a house; we used our Alpine staffs to form joists to lay stones on, so we had a very nice little house that we could sleep in and keep warm…the others rolled up in their blankets and were cold all night. We did not sleep much but talked most all night. Dan and I made fun of the rest and kept them laughing. I was the only one who was not sea sick.
-A.C. Warner
I didn’t sleep much that evening (don’t know anyone who did)—and anyway, it didn’t really get dark until around 8:30 pm, an hour before we were supposed to get up. However, if there’s one thing that a windswept rock ledge at 10,000 feet is good for, it’s self-reflection. Camp Muir is no Shangri-La, but I can understand why they build monasteries on cliffs. Life is simpler up there, and I think hiking or mountaineering in general gives you a lot of opportunity to think. I would’ve preferred to sleep, but might as well make use of the opportunity. :) I thought about how exactly one year ago to the day, Peter and I hiked to the top of Mt. Elbert in Colorado (a mere 23 feet higher than the summit of Rainier!), and exactly a year before that, was my first triathlon—just a sprint-distance—back home along Lake Michigan. Never planned it that way, but I’m starting to like the tradition.
I thought I’d be more nervous about the climb ahead, but for some reason the mountain seemed less daunting from halfway up than from afar. All the preparing, training, and outfitting were over, and all the unnecessary things that make their way into your life at sea level were left behind, far below. (You don’t really realize how unessential cell phones, computers, Facebook, and the five-o’clock news are until they’re gone, and you start to think Van Trump, Muir, and Warner had something right.)
However, my desire for at least a couple hours’ sleep finally won out, and I became the anti-Muir, digging out my iPod from the bottom of my pack (don’t even know how it got there…:) and turning on an audiobook: Virgil’s Aeneid. The Aeneid is my favorite book in the world right now, and for some reason, Virgil is the only thing that I can listen to during a hard workout at the gym and when I’m trying to fall asleep at night. Varium et mutabile semper femina. Try it sometime.
*Transcribed from "John Muir's Ascent of Mt. Rainier" (As recorded by his photographer, A.C. Warner). (1956, December 28). The Mountaineer 50 (1), 38-45. http://content.lib.washington.edu/warnerweb/essay.html
**Chapter 20, Steep Trails by John Muir http://www.yosemite.ca.us/john_muir_writings/steep_trails/chapter_20.html.
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