Chastised, I retreated to change. As I stepped into my Capilene, I realized that at least this was one less set of clothes to fit into the backpack. When I returned, a bulging Ziploc bag filled with candy, nuts, meats, and cheese—lunches and snacks for five days—topped my pile. Meanwhile other climbers were loading their packs easily and efficiently. I began tentatively, placing items into each of the pack's compartments, filling these pouches until zippers strained and the thin fabric stretched. But after all compartments were full, many items remained on the floor. Then I hung climbing gear and water bottles from the pack frame, draped assorted clothing over the top, and tied two sweaters around my waist.
As I tried to heft this hopeless mess onto my back, we were instructed to come forward and receive our share of “group gear”—cooking pots, lightweight gas stoves, climbing anchors, ropes, and more food. Nineteen roughly equal allotments were stacked atop two tables. Each climber was expected to carry one of these piles in addition to their own gear and food. I was last in line. As I stepped forward, I faced an unwieldy collection of oddly shaped items, topped by a loaf of bread. A stern-faced guide stood behind the table.
I looked at the bread, then at the guide. He looked at my bulging backpack, then at the bread. Thankfully, he carried the entire pile.
I hoped that enthusiasm and fitness would overcome my inexperience. Starting near the head of the line, I kept pace easily. As we ascended the well-maintained Skyline Trail from Paradise, we remained unroped, instructed to walk single file an arm's-length apart, maintaining a steady pace. If one needed to rest, adjust their pack or even take a picture, they were to step from the line. If other hikers approached, and many did this late August weekend, our group moved in unison to the side of the trail, allowing others to pass. Like a long snake, twenty-six climbers, each a yard apart, ascended the winding path.
As we ascended, the altitude and physical exertion each took a toll, and by early afternoon the tightly regimented line had disintegrated. While the strongest climbers forged ahead, others lagged, panting and coughing, struggling from the lack of oxygen in the thin mountain air.
I kept my pack—and maintained a steady pace. Conditioning had helped, at least this first day.
During the next three days I learned to use an ice ax, tie climbing knots, and walk on glaciers while roped with others. Sliding down icy slopes, our group practiced self-arrest, rolling and twisting our bodies to firmly implant long metal axes into the frozen surface, thereby stopping or arresting a fall. After learning crevasse rescue, a technique employing ropes and pulleys to lift a climber from an icy abyss, each participant was given the dubious opportunity, while double-roped for safety, to jump into a crevasse, experiencing the sensation and full force of a fall.
I found living and climbing in a glaciated mountain environment exhilarating. Rainier, however, is a dangerous peak, a mountain of many moods with weather that can change quickly and topography that can be unforgiving of even the slightest mistake. Hours before our summit attempt, the calm weather we had enjoyed began to change. Between the wind's roar and the anticipation of the upcoming summit attempt, sleep did not come easily.