Rainier

I recently got back from a climbing trip to the Pacific Northwest that was full of everything I love about climbing: pain, perseverance, success, and failure.

After the long drive from Salt Lake, I met up with Dad, Kris and Jesse in Mt. Rainier National Park. We planned on climbing the mountain via a technically moderate, but long and strenuous route up the Emmons Glacier -- the longest stream of ice in the lower 48. Three of the four of us had already been on the mountain. Two of the team had high-altitude experience in other countries. We'd all been planning our ascent since spring. I was stoked on how together things seemed.

The approach went smoothly and we hit our 9600' basecamp at mid-afternoon. The next day we rested, brewed up, and did a little rescue practice. Many interesting tales were told. Most involved SE Asia. Almost all involved sex. After Jesse, Kris and I had finished brewing the last liters of water at the end of the day, I crawled back into the tent for the second night on the mountain when Dad let me in on a little secret -- he wasn't planning on leaving for the summit the next morning. He complained of an upset stomach. He complained that he felt sluggish. He complained that it was too risky.

He was scared. Starting at seracs and crevasses all day had shaken him.

Everyone who chases the dragon of risk knows Fear. The frustrating part about Fear is how subjective it can be. What seemed a mellow, grade 2 glacier route to me racked my Dad with doubt. It forced him to examine his life, his priorities, and his motivation. It magnified the hazards of glacier travel until they seemed insurmountable. Rock climbers call it getting "gripped." It's that moment when you feel too scared to move up, down, or sideways. It's that moment when palms sweat and time stops and experienced dragon chasers start talking to themselves out loud or singing their favorite pop song. ("Goodbye Yellow Brick Road" by Elton John is my personal favorite.)

We agreed to discuss things again when the alarm went off, but I knew he'd already decided. I guess sometimes it takes months of planning, roundtrip airfare, and a healthy dose of suffering to know where your boundaries are.

When the alarm went off, Dad rolled over and let me know when I already knew -- he was bailing. I was so angry that I refused to carry a flag to the summit for him. All I could think of was how great it would've been to give him a hug and tell him how proud I was that he'd summitted after two consecutive failures. I was disappointed. It felt like I'd failed even though Kris, Jesse, and I were the first to arrive at the summit that morning.

Still, the sunrise was spectacular. The intervening ridges were highlighted pink and the Enchantment Range - where Jesse and I planned on climbing in a few days - was silhouetted black against the pale sky. I remember mumbling, "this is the most beautiful thing I've ever seen" into the whipping wind. I forgot the flag and the failure and felt lucky. Looking back on the Emmons, I'm still not quite sure how I feel about it. The trip that Jesse and I took a few days later to the North Cascades clouded things a little for me.