Mission Project

Gazing out at Mount Baker from atop Mount Seymour in British Columbia in September of 2006, I wanted to rent a car and drive across the valley separating the North Shore Mountains and the Northern Cascades. I wanted to find out right then what it was like to climb a big glaciated mountain dressed in snow and ice. At that moment, I decided it had been too long and it was time to climb. After letting a few more months slip by, I bought my Exposure II Parka in December. Due to the vendor's high cost of return shipping, I wasn't going to return it. My story was just beginning.

Honestly, I thought summit-only beginner trips were for the nebbish. To become a brawny mountaineer, I figured six-days on an ice-covered volcano in the ever-changing climate of the Cascade Mountains should give me a solid glimpse of mountain life. I took a big financial risk and booked my glacier skills class and Mount Baker summit attempt in early 2007 despite dealing with a pinched nerve in my neck that affected my right side first, then my left. But I was now armed now with a gear list and I swiftly began spending chunks of my paycheck to stockpile gear. After devouring No Shortcuts to the Top by Ed Viesturs, I decided that if Mountain Hardwear gear was good enough for Steady Ed, it was good enough for me. Along with the Exposure II Parka, I purchased the MH Power Stretch Balaclava, Power Stretch Glove Liners, Headwall Gloves, eXtend Featherweight Zip T, Destination Shorts, and a MH Ball Cap for good measure. I recalled my formative years when I would backpack in a cotton t-shirt, jeans, and construction boots.

I glanced around the square room I sat in--the fluorescent light gave me a vacant feeling, as I hadn't eaten breakfast yet. It was 6:30 a.m. on a cloudy Seattle Sunday. Despite yet another major setback with my neck injury just days before, I popped a bunch of muscle relaxers, crossed my fingers, and flew out anyway. Four other guys sat around blinking at each other. I arrived at gear check with a large suitcase loaded with food and clothing and duffel bag full of gear. We waited quietly for the others in our group to arrive so we could begin, speaking only to introduce ourselves. I noticed the others' packs were nice and tidy and everything seemed to fit inside. I remember thinking their packs didn't look that big. I wondered how large mine would be when it was loaded and how much would it weigh. Based on the amount of food I had, I knew my pack was probably going to be huge. Loading my gear, I began to run out of room. I shouldered my pack an hour later and the crushing weight of it left me doubting I'd make it the 3,000 plus feet to high camp.

The weather worsened the closer we got to the trailhead and it was raining steadily at 3,364 feet. The reputation of the Cascades was in full effect. After we unloaded our packs from the trailer, I dug out my rain gear and organized my ice axe, crampons, helmet, and other equipment on to my pack. I fumbled around. It had been a long time since I put a pack on and took off into the wilderness. I felt unsure of myself. The other guys looked like they had it together.

We set off up the trailhead. My gear wasn't clanking annoyingly, I had water, and I was ready for the brutal climb to high camp. Then, I fell into a raging creek. New to trekking poles, I fumbled along the slick boulders and was unsteady under the weight of the pack as the water raged just beneath my feet. I missed a few pole placements and the pack lurched forward sending me into the creek, soaking my socks and boots on an already cold and rainy day. I was the only one that fell in, adding to my unease of how prepared I was. After adjusting my rental pack to keep it from riding low, we began the ascent up steeper terrain. The trail got tougher and, naturally, I got sweaty. It was still raining and getter colder every couple hundred feet of elevation gained. My base layer clothing was soon soaked with sweat. We'd break and I would shiver uncontrollably as my core temperature plummeted. Stay warm and wet in the Cascades the guides would say. I wasn't warm, but damn I sure was wet. I had come from 90 degrees and humid in Virginia only a few days before and I was not exactly layered the way I should have been at this time.

At one point, a guide told us we were 1/3 of the way there. I cringed hard. We had just left the van and I was already crumbling on the trek to base camp. An old friend offered up his trekking poles the night before and I accepted them at the last minute. I would have never made it to high camp without them. I am convinced of that. The hours crept by, the rain kept coming, the air was getting colder. As my muscles constricted hard to keep me warm, I hoped like mad my neck injury wouldn't derail me. I was prepared for the guides to leave me in the wilderness alone for the kamikaze chipmunks to have their way with me if I couldn't go on. After five plus hours and third from last in line (only ahead of two brothers from Iowa twice my age), I arrived into camp, exhausted, miserable, but in good health. I didn't have to worry about being accosted by rodents that night as I had made it to high camp, elevation approximately 6,500 feet. At this point, 3,000 feet with over 70 pounds on my back was the hardest climb I'd ever done. I'm sure the scenery was beautiful, but it was swallowed by the clouds the entire way up.

I was ready to set up camp and make dinner. However, this novice was short on guy lines, didn't know how to anchor his tent down with rocks, lost his fuel bottle somewhere along the way, and his rental stove came without a pump. I managed, but my first day was harsh. Rock climbing taught me that it is not so much about reaching the top as it is about the process of getting there--the feeling of suffering greatly but not wanting to be anywhere else on planet Earth. I was struggling to be in that moment just then. Later in the evening Phil, a climber from another company, sat down on the latrine next to me (I was the only guy to crap next to another human all week--I'm still deciding if I should I be proud of that). We talked about the mountain and he asked me how long I was staying. I replied six days. Phil commended me and said he couldn't last longer than the four he was staying. I definitely needed the pat on the back that this guy Phil gave me to keep my spirits u p. The next day, things got harder for Phil. He had whiteout conditions and a brutal 17-hour summit day.

The next two days the steady rain was getting to my morale. In those two days, we covered the basics of climbing a glacier and crevasse rescue. My Power Stretch Gloves resisted the cold as I dug dead man anchors, but not the water logging nature of the task. So, out came the waterproof Headwall Gloves on the second day of crevasse rescue drills. At the end of the day, many fellow climbers and even the guides complained their gloves were soaked and their hands were cold. Despite the constant rain and snow flinging, my Headwall Gloves were wet on the outside, but dry and warm on the inside. Equally as important as learning new glacier skills and having bomber gear was finding out how to endure the unsympathetic landscape I was living on and everything that went with it. There was an unremitting sum of water falling from the sky that turned $600 tents into alpine lakes. There was no privacy when you took a dump, as the latrine was situated so that everyone eating could watch you wipe, except when the fog rolled in. Additionally, there were case-hardened guides that late in the season had little patience for those like me that fouled up rope work and pulley systems. In the end, it all was seeping in to my psyche: the weather, the miscues during class, and my aching neck as I slept.

On the third night I received a positive omen. I stepped out of my tent to a canvas of stars and the slightest aroma of sulfur crawled up my noise. The rain had moved out for good and the mountain was clear. My MH Ball Cap shaded my face from the shining sun the next day. I watched the vapor rise from my wet clothing as if the sky was taking back the three days of gloom with which it pummeled me. We discussed the next day, Thursday, summit day. We were to rally at 2:30 in the morning, geared-up and ready to go.

I was up at 1:00 a.m, still weary from only four hours of sleep and a long day of crevasse rescue drills in the rain. At 2:20 a.m., I locked down my crampons, grabbed my axe, and headed to meet the group. For the first time all week I roped in my prusiks with efficiency and I was not one of the last people ready to go. I had shrugged off the previous four difficult days and was eager to get going up the mountain. At 2:35 a.m. we took our first steps up the snowfield. I was on my way to climbing my first glaciated mountain. The snow pack was hard, the panorama was black, and the air was crisp and chilly. My thoughts drifted as I became focused on the amber beam from my gigantic Petzl headlamp. I imagined I was a little kid again headed out to play. Memories churned in my mind of nights bundling up and going out in the fresh winter snow in my parents' yard in northeast Ohio; nights similar to this one.

My long sleeve eXtend Featherweight Zip T was working hard from the start, keeping me dry and warm; it didn't smell after three straight days of wearing it. I was feeling cozy and dialed in. After an hour, we climbed briefly up the Deming Glacier which then bled into the Easton Glacier. I threw on the Exposure II to keep the chill out as I snapped pictures, consumed food and water, and took in the magnitude of what I was doing and of the environment in which I was standing. Just below a large blue ice fall, the slope got tough and the stench of sulfur surged down from the crater and I steadily lost my appetite as I worked hard on the traverse bearing towards the crater. We cleared the ice fall without incident and stopped to break. I put on my MH Power Stretch Balaclava and my head was toasty, dry, and not itchy for the remainder of the summit push. Break ended sooner than I'd have like and I tried hastily to swallow the remains of a bagel and climb a steep pitch above the ice fall at the same time, breathing through my nose. My throat was dried out from the mountain air and I couldn't get the piece of bagel down. I remember thinking, "So this is what it must be like on Everest" as I tried to swallow and get enough air in my lungs at the same time. I finally gave up, pried the bagel loose from my mouth with my Power Stretch Gloves, and chucked it at a crevasse. The wad bounced over and lay there, out in space, like a wad of pantyhose for all to see as they passed. I was now a glacier defacer.

The sun was rising and I absorbed the colors of sky as we ascended closer to the crater. But, I was tired and feeling more worn down every 100 feet. I was in better shape than what I was feeling like. By the time we got to the steaming crater I was wilting fast and was feeling like I would not be able to make it for the final push. As most of my classmates unroped and scrambled up the dirt to take pictures of the crater, I could not get up from the ground. I sucked big air with some positive results as I tried to revive. Break ended and I figured I'd give the last hour a shot. We had just begun our approach up the Roman Wall when suddenly the teams came to a grinding halt. A fellow climber was calling it quits. He had to be unroped and be taken down the mountain. Our break stretched on. We were not downwind of the crater anymore and I was feeling fresh again thanks to the extra time.

We climbed cautiously up the Roman Wall; my foot placements were solid and focused. I wasn't going to be the guy that tripped over a crampon and sent the team hurtling towards a crevasse. I glanced occasionally at another guided group as they attempted a steep and shady route to the far right of the Roman Wall. Instead, we traversed left, crossed a few sketchy crevasses, set a few running belays, and then traversed to the right. Slow and steady, one cross over step at a time. As a novice climber it blew my mind that one misplaced step could send the roped team into a desperate fight to prevent disaster. The attention to detail was intense, even on a mountain made for the tenderfoot like the Mighty Bakerhorn. After we reached the top of the Roman Wall and headed across the ice cap. I could see the product of all my training, planning, and spending was a few hundred yards away. I plodded down the gently sloping and unsullied field of snow and ice that lay before me.

The trail channeled towards a little nub in the distance where other climbers were, the summit. The sun doused the ice cap and the air was warm and clean. As I took the remaining steps toward the summit, I felt scrubbed of the dirt staining my life at the time and just lived in the moment. Something I hadn't done in a long time. I stood with many other men gazing out from the top of Mount Baker, but I was alone on the summit with my thoughts. My journey started at the age of 22, seven years ago, when I first saw Mount Rainier. I was now 29, staring my 30s in the face and all the things that comes with that next phase of life. What a way to say goodbye to my 20s. The feeling of accomplishment was tremendous. I had 20 minutes to look around, take pictures, and offer congratulations to my fellow climbers and classmates. Any mountaineer will tell you that to climb a mountain is more than an exhibition of outstanding physical fitness. It's a voyage for the mind and soul. I left Virginia full of nostalgia and naivety. My six days living the mountaineering life were sobering and enlivening.

Nine hours after we left camp, I sat on a rock base camp lounging in my airy Destination Shorts and staring up at the mountain. Ardy, a fellow climber and new friend, and I were watching the tiny dots march single file up the Roman Wall and make their way to the summit. We ruminated on our expeditions for a while and talked of the future. Ardy was heading off to Rainier in a month and possibly even Denali next year. I didn't have immediate plans to return to the mountains. I needed time to take it all in before I planned my next quest. Yet, as I wrote this piece, I felt the magnetism of mountaineering, for it is a sport that beckons climbers like a siren. For my own wellness, I will likely summit a mountain again--and that is something dignified to climb for after all.