Alive by dumb luck
With arctic temps in Boulder recently I’m reminded of a climb I did 30 years ago that nearly ended in catastrophe. In January 1994, my friend Jack and I climbed Mt. Rainier (14,411 feet) — a glaciated volcano in Washington that’s seldom climbed in winter. As you’ll see, our ascent was marred by a dangerous mix of hubris and naïveté.
We left the parking at Paradise (5,400 feet) in mid-afternoon on snowshoes. I can’t recall why we started so late, but we slogged upward for five hours, mostly by headlamp, to reach the wooden shack at Camp Muir (10,188 feet) where we would spend a short night.
From there, Gibraltar Ledges is the most direct winter route, and we began our ascent at 6 a.m. My crampon points squeaked in the snow as we followed faint tracks of three mountain guides who had left Camp Muir earlier. The horizon turned pink, then orange and yellow as we gained elevation. But soon the tracks in the snow disappeared.
The cold and wind intensified as we climbed. My breath froze instantly, coating my balaclava and ski goggles with ice. Gusts knocked us around so we hunched on our ice axes for balance. This, coupled with the altitude — we’d been at sea level 24 hours earlier — slowed our pace dramatically. Jack suggested we turn around but my foolish fervor eclipsed reason. I’d been obsessed with a winter ascent of Rainier and it felt like now or never. I refused.
At the crater rim we unroped in a howling gale. I scampered across the massive crater, alone, crazed for the summit. To avoid being blown off the mountain I crawled, hands and knees, toward it — a fanatic worshipping his idol. I tagged the top with a flicker of triumph, then turned tail and groveled back toward Jack. He sat slumped in the snow where I’d left him.
Suddenly, fear replaced the fleeting high as I considered our perilous situation: the windstorm, the late hour, the cold and altitude, our isolation.
Roped up, we staggered down the glacier as the wind raged. Blowing snow enveloped us in a whiteout. Amid the maelstrom Jack blindly walked off the edge of a ten-foot snowdrift; the rope whipped tight and ripped me off my feet. We were unhurt, but we could no longer descend safely. We would have to bivouac.
“We’re screwed Chris. We are so screwed!” Jack yelled into the tempest, as we lamely tried to scoop out a hollow in the snow with our ice axes. Our decision to “go light” rather than carry crucial winter gear like a stove, shovel, bivy sack and sleeping bag was reckless. We had no choice but to plop onto the snow, huddle together… and wait.
Cold penetrates everything. I shiver spasmodically and let my eyes close… a tent appears, then a ring of stones and firewood … “Chris!” Jack’s voice is distant. “Don’t fall asleep. You won’t wake up.” He’s right. I stay awake by flexing my arms, my torso, my legs. I wiggle fingers and toes — thank god I can feel them. Time stands still in this dark, barren dreamscape. I cough up blood. Jack’s toes are frozen.
By sunrise, after nearly ten hours of freezing hell, ice caked the inside of my clothing two layers deep. We had to descend or we would die from exposure.
Visibility proved just enough through the still-blowing snow. When I stood, I wobbled like a newborn foal. My legs felt detached from my body. We tripped and lurched and let gravity drag us down the mountain.
In a haze, we hobbled to Camp Muir more than 25 hours after leaving it. The guides, who had smartly turned around early the day before, stared at us like we were ghosts. “I don’t know how you guys survived up there last night,” one of them said, gravely. They figured they’d have to recover our bodies.
Ultimately, five of Jack’s toes and both of his thumbs turned black. I escaped frostbite, but for two weeks I couldn’t stay warm, even indoors. I got severely ill and couldn’t shake it. But I was alive by dumb luck. And knowing that humbled me more than anything ever has.