Paradise

Eatonville to Paradise and back. Thursday to Friday May 2-3, 2024.

Mount Rainier, it turns out, was named by Captain Vancouver, the first to explore Puget Sound, in honor of his friend Peter Rainier, a British rear admiral who fought against the Americans in the revolution. He never saw the mountain. Just like William McKinley never saw Mount McKinley, before the name was changed back to Denali. I don’t believe Sir George Everest ever saw Mount Everest either.

Fortunately the weather was good. Left my bags at the motel, got an early start, and with the help of 4 cups of coffee

made it to the national park entrance by mid afternoon.

but the steep part of the climb was yet to come. 3000 feet in 11 miles, I had to stop frequently, at one scenic area I met Jacob and Zephaniah, classmates at Bible school, who gave me a blessing.

They had their own view of Paradise, but for me, the destination was embodied in three songs of that name. John Prine talked about a favorite haunt from his youth, until Mr. Peabody’s coal train hauled it away. https://youtu.be/DEy6EuZp9IY?si=qXJdN53o6ujz8wk4

My favorite Eagles song is this eco-parable about unchecked development, The Last Resort (you call someplace paradise, kiss it goodbye). https://youtu.be/4ETN21RZwwI?si=5C1-tdhRs-J643EL

Finally, The Boss himself wrote the most haunting version of Paradise. You had to listen carefully to realize it was about 9/11, a suicide bomber, and a Pentagon widow. https://youtu.be/rcWF7se6EfA?si=BgUds5oZm579t8sV

These songs sustained me as I ground up those last few miles, suddenly surprised to see I was surrounded by high snowbanks. It was 6PM when I reached Paradise, the snowiest place in the continental US, and there were still over 10 feet on the ground. It was hard to recognize the iconic Inn and guide service headquarters where I’d began my climb 30 years ago.

Flashback: it was August 1994, and I was stuck in a boring conference in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. On a whim I called Rainier Mountaineering Inc. (RMI), the main guide service on the mountain, started by Jim Whittaker, the first American to climb Everest. Their trips were booked six months in advance. But they had a cancellation!

Ecstatic, I had Jane FedEx my stuff to Paradise, and drove the 350 miles there the next day. My first view of the mountain was so dramatic I almost drove the car off the road. It looked like the Emerald City.

RMI has the climb down to a science. The first day is an outdoor classroom, where you learn how to handle crampons, ice axe, and a rope. They drive you pretty hard that first day, and if you seem to be flagging, they warn you to drop out now, and get a partial refund. Once you start the climb, you’re liable for the full fee, even if they pull you.

I befriended two vivacious ER nurses, Renée and Linda. They would work double shifts and every few weeks have the money to take major expeditions like this. Linda confided to me that she had just found out she was pregnant; too late to cancel the climb, she was going to try anyway.

It’s almost like a cattle drive. 36 clients roped together in six groups of six, with a guide at the head of each. That second day is just a grind, 4500 feet up to Camp Muir, via a deep snowfield. The Camp is a bare bones cabin with bunk beds stacked four high. We were supposed to bring our own food, but on the short notice, all I had was peanut butter crackers. No matter, everyone else had packed too much, and were happy to let me eat their leftovers. Otherwise, they’d have to pack them back down. It occurred to me that you could mooch your way up any big mountain, and have people be grateful to you.

Bedtime was 6 PM, but nobody slept very well. They wake you up at midnight, get all your equipment sorted out, rope you up in those groups of six, and you’re off with your headlamps. Every thousand feet of vertical climb, they stop you by a group of tents, stuffed with sleeping bags. There the guides cull the stragglers in the herd. They say “you, you, you, you’re out.” You have to wait in the tents, warmed by the sleeping bags, until a total of six have been pulled, spread over the various stopping places. When six are out a guide can be peeled off to take them back down. Linda tried her best, but got yanked at the second stopping place.

The rest of us crossed the glaciers in the dark, then clambered up the stony Disappointment Cleaver, it was quite a sight to see all the crampons kicking up sparks on the rocks. The Cleaver got its name because it didn’t take you all the way to the top, it ended with 1500 more feet to go. The sun rose as the guides continued to push us, we had to be on the summit by 7:30. The snow gets too soft later in the day, and avalanches and rock slides are common.

Mount Rainier is a volcano, and sure enough there is a small summit crater. It turns out the true highpoint, Columbia Crest, is on the far side, about a 20 minute walk. It’s not part of the regular itinerary. I was told I had to convince five other people to come with me, to justify peeling off a guide to take us. After some cajoling, I got Renée and four others to come along. Everybody else, cold, exhausted and anxious to go down, gave us the stink eye.

It had been almost 90° that previous morning at Paradise, but Rainier often develops a cloud cap, a yarmulke of sorts, with nasty weather underneath. It was 20°, complete whiteout, and blowing on top. Nevertheless, the six of us were delighted to cross the crater and celebrate at the highpoint marker. (The few pictures I have of the climb are buried in our files, I’ll try to scan them in later.)

Going down was a plodding, painful affair, and we were reminded why we had to get started so early. One glacier we had to cross was called the Bowling Alley, and sure enough every minute to so a rock would come bouncing down. It was almost like waiting at a crosswalk for traffic, still roped together we would dash across between boulders. The guides admonished us not to look triumphant when we joined up with the stragglers heading down. We got back to Paradise, then as now, around 6PM. Long day.

Here I was, 30 years later, reminiscing about all this, but soaked in sweat and getting chilled. Really chilled heading back down at 35 miles an hour, but whooping for joy. Every bend of the road seemed to have a drop-dead view of the mountain.

The pictures, foreshortened this close up, don’t really do it justice. With the possible exception of the Grand Teton, I think it’s the most beautiful mountain in the lower 48. And I climbed it. I climbed all of it. As goofy as my two-stage process sounds, I was delighted beyond words.

Rather than go back 45 miles to my motel, I stayed at the National Park Lodge near the entrance, even though it meant paying for two rooms that night. People at the lodge had seen me on the road, were congratulating me and I wanted to chat, but the dining room was about to close. When I got to my room at 9 PM, sweaty, stinky, and ready for a shower, I discovered the room hadn’t been made up. I didn’t care. Housekeeping had left for the day.

The next day was an easy ride back to my original motel. But maybe I should’ve pushed on. Rain is predicted for the next three days.

At the time, Rainier was my 22nd highpoint. I’m still at 37 total, but now I can say I’ve climbed 20 of them from sea level. Cool. Turned that pin gold.

Distance 88 miles, 346 total. Time 14 hours with stops. Elevation gain 6000 feet

©️ 2024 Scott Luria