In 1989 geologists classified Rainier as a “Decade Volcano.” This means that due to the activity deep down inside the mountain, it’s past eruptive history, and its proximity to population centers, it needed to receive closer study over the next ten years.
I also classified Rainier as a “Decade Volcano.” To me, this meant that in spite of the activity deep inside my heart, my personal history, and the mountain’s proximity to my daily thoughts, it would take ten years to finally ski from the summit.
My first trip was to just try to climb it. We had good weather for the summit, and skied from Camp Muir down into thickening fog, getting off route and having to climb back out of the Nisqually glacier basin. It was a great day, but I couldn’t escape that nagging regret for not having my skis on my feet at the summit.
Over the years I’ve skied the Muir Snow fields in fog, sun, and blizzards. I’ve had a good friend drag me up Liberty Ridge. I’ve taken the hint as rocks buzzed past my head on the Success Cleaver. I’ve resisted the urge to call my boss and tell him that my transmission blew and it’ll be a few more days until I can be back at work. (I’ll never make that mistake again) I’ve watched it rain so hard sideways that the rain drops squeezed past the gaskets on my old Subaru’s windows. I’ve poured salt in the wounds by checking the weather after getting back home. I’ve thought about how it would be to ski from the summit while shivering myself to sleep on Baffin Island. While I didn’t think about it once climbing the Dome Route on Mt. Blanc… I couldn’t help myself from having just a brief vision before I started down the North Face. I got sick from stove fumes on a super windy night on the Emmons glacier. The vomiting, head ache and partner who was just a little freaked out pulled the plug on that one. Solo descent of the Cooper Spur? Check. Self guide the Haute Route? Yup. Six Summit descents on Shasta? Been there. Mt. Tom? Done that. Dana couloir? Twice. South Face of Superior? Thrice. Rainier from the top? No dice. Nada. Go home. Forget it. Go to work. Get lost. Leave. NO!
Spring 2007 arrives and Mark and Judd are game. I decided not to discuss my previous experiences on the mountain. We spend some quality time practicing our rescue skills on a cornice at the local resort. I keep telling myself that it’s like the Red Socks: you’re in it for the feeling, not the Pennant. Weather looks good but I keep my mind focused on other important things, like fine tuning my boots. When the time comes, we point the car in the right direction and hope.
What do you know? Three dudes in the lot at Paradise, high pressure for the next week, and great snow cover. How about this? We’re at 9000 feet, it’s 10 am and here is a great spot for a camp. Hmmm… It’s 3 am and there is no wind and not a cloud in the sky. The stars are so bright we almost don’t need headlamps. What’s this? It’s 5 am and we are through the crux and the sun is up. Hey! It’s 9 am and we’re on the summit cone. Isn’t something going to happen? Some catastrophe lurking around the corner? Looky here… we can’t go up any more.
You’re kidding me, right? That’s it? Well, let’s git while the gittin’s good!
Skis on, and down we go. Slow and careful on the frozen sastrugi. Point it and turn on a dime through the crevasses. Jump and grunt in the soft corn through the crux.
Traverse like you mean it through the avy debris. I keep thinking that it ain’t over ‘till you’re at the car. Back at camp we find that ravens got into our food and wet slides are raining down. Time out. Eat, clean up camp, nap, and wait for the sun to start setting. Snow is firming up again so let’s move before it gets dark. Careful turns with a heavy pack and wobbly legs. Pay attention to where our wands are to find the snow bridges. Skins on for a short climb…who’s idea was this any way? We’re poling downhill over moss covered sun cups. Are we there yet? NO! Are we there yet? Close. Are we THERE YET? Yes…finally, after ten years… I’m there.
Trip report and photos by Darrell Finlayson
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