The summer collapsed in on itself and the calendar squares lost their edges. Off work for three weeks, July lapsed into a blob of vagueness. I recommitted to my health, to feeling young and strong. I returned to the mountains, the one I last climbed in 1999, the trail Steve O’Neill and I took in 2000 when our faces got wind burned so badly it was hard to open our mouths. I looked up the glacier to the rock formation where I almost died and thought, this will be the year I get young again. Summerland was the name of the hike, the theme for my 2024.

Mt. Rainier was less than two hours from our house and yet I’d stopped going there since that last summit attempt in 2000. I got spooked by it: stumbling on crumbly rock in the early morning, dizzy from the altitude, no longer the invincible young lad I once was. Everything about that trip was flawed—starting the climb too early before the mountain was frozen and the steps were good; mistaking sun cups for boot track and wandering off route; our guide not testing his new crampons prior.

I didn’t believe there was really a difference between three and four season tents; I thought it was all marketing. But the wind was so strong at Camp Schurman, Steve and I got tossed around in my three-season tent like a kid’s bouncy house. My tent poles are now bent like crooked snakes but I keep the tent as a reminder of my hubris.

My first day out in July, newly off work, I found myself on that same trail leading to Camp Schurman. After you get through the forest to the base of the mountain it opens into a vast expanse of rock, ice, and river. You can see where the glaciers scoured the valley and the perspective can make you feel small. Two climbers were heading up the Inter-Glacier, the size of ants from where I stood. Seeing them made me want to press on, though I’d forgotten my glacier goggles. Our friend Peter had foregone goggles that one time and fried his cornea on Mount St. Helens; his face had gone glossy and swollen and Dawn had to drive him home in his new Lexus. It was early enough in the day and cloudy, so I thought I’d be okay. And I made good time as the two climber-ants remained in my view the whole way up.

I haven’t glissaded in maybe 20 years. It’s one of those things you learn and hope you’ll remember but have no way of knowing in advance. Dawn and I glissaded down St. Helens that one time and it’s one of her favorite memories. After working so hard to climb up a snow field or glacier, you just sail down it like you’re bob-sledding, except you do it on your butt and use your ice ax as a handbrake. But it’s really easy to gouge yourself with your ax if you lose control and start going too fast, or flip over. And it’s easy to bust your genitals on a rock.

When I got to the top of the saddle, the base of the rock formation where I’d almost died in 2000, it was just me and the climber-ants and a group of climbing students huddled together in a snow bench they’d dug out to keep warm. The two guides were organizing their rope and gear and everyone was quiet. It reminded me of the same solemn anticipation I had when I first climbed Rainier. And all around was fog, clouds, snow and ice, rock.

I got out my snow pants and gaiters, my ax, nodded hello to the others, then found a chute on the glacier and nudged myself down. I cocked my right leg at an angle to keep myself from going too fast and dropped several hundred feet in seconds. I made it to my feet, found another chute, and went down again. My undersides were wet and numb but it worked: I felt young again, and strong. Tomorrow I’d hike up to Summerland.

Categories: Memoir, writing

Tags: Creative Nonfiction, hiking, pacific northwest