Reflections on birthdays, Mount Rainer, and turning 57

Yesterday I turned 57 without a great deal of fanfare. It was pretty much a normal workday, with a couple of exceptions. The staff took me out to lunch at Jalisco, my favorite local Mexican restaurant… it was awesome food and great company. While we were at the restaurant, both our children gave me a call to wish me a happy birthday. That, of course, warmed the cockles of my fatherly heart.

On the night before my birthday, we had the board over to our house for a salmon barbecue – salmon which I caught while fishing with one of our board members in Alaska last summer, by the way. That, too, was a great time and the salmon, dare I say it, was stellar. The board members got together and gave me more than enough money to purchase next season’s mid-week season pass for Steven’s Pass. I had been wondering if skiing was in my future next year. So all in all, I’m a blessed man.

Getting old sneaks up on you, just like everyone says. I find myself reinterpreting my definition of “old” on a yearly basis. Last week I spent three days on Mount Rainier, proving to myself that 57 is not nearly as old as it seemed to me when I was 25. I’ve heard that a summit of Rainier is equivalent to running a marathon, but I have a hard time believing that. Last week’s attempt marks my third time to successfully summit, but I know that I will never in my life be able to run a marathon.

On Wednesday a group of us hiked up to Camp Muir (about 10,000 feet) and set up camp in the lovely little sites that had already been dug out in the snow in order to provide maximum protection from the wind. (If you’ve never camped on snow before, I highly recommend it. The crispness of the air, the frosty surface beneath you and the warmth of your down bag, snuggled up around your face is one of life’s more pure pleasures.) On Thursday, we just lazed around, prepared our ropes and equipment and then tried to grab a little shut-eye (that didn’t work for me) before the start of our ascent to the summit at 11pm. The conditions were mild, so most of us wore rather limited clothing (a wicking layer and a Gore-Tex shell) as we started winding our way up the mountain.

As we reached the ridge of rock known as the Disappointment Cleaver (about 11,500), the winds began to pick up and the temperature dropped. Looking back on the Ingraham Glacier below us, the steady stream of rope teams with headlamps gleaming on the pristine glacial snow looked like a miniature highway – an enchanting sight. Just about that time, the trailing member of our rope team began to feel the severe effects of altitude sickness. This sickness is quite unpredictable, but those who succumb feel like they are ready to divest the entire contents of their stomachs from both ends. Combine that with the tension of unsure footing while roped into a climbing team on a steep, rocky surface along with wind gusts of 50mph that are sapping your core temperature and you can readily recognize, this is not a pleasant experience.

It was on the Cleaver that we met the first rope team that was turning back due to the high winds. It was actually one of the professionally guided teams and I couldn’t foresee that the conditions warranted aborting their attempt, but apparently they thought so. (We discovered later that several teams turned back that day due to the wind conditions.) We continued on past them at a snail’s pace – there were well over 30 teams summiting that day, so the route stacked up like a traffic jam. The temperature grew colder and the winds stronger, but I didn’t want to stop our team to put on extra layers, though I most certainly should have. We just kept pumping down energy jells and pressing on. Eventually at 6:23 AM, nearly frozen (metaphorically speaking) from the wind and from the slowness of the pace, our team crested the crater rim while the wind pelted our faces with bits of snow and ice.

From the rim it’s about a half-mile traverse across the crater to the true summit on the southwest side. At the registry that contains a very normal looking spiral notebook, we recorded our presence. Without much thought I simply wrote: “Steve Pecota, #3, Happy birthday to me.” At that moment, six feet away from me, the most successful American climber in history, Ed Viesturs, knelt on one knee, checking his Blackberry for reception. I didn’t have a clue who he was.

During the next 100 yards to the summit, I had to fight the wind to maintain my balance. Fortunately the pathway is broad and not at all dangerous. At the highest point we took the obligatory team photos with Mounts Adams, St. Helens, Hood and Jefferson in the background – a truly awesome sight. (It was an exceptionally clear day! The last time I summited it was so fogged in, line of sight was limited to about 10 feet. In the photo we may as well have been standing on the shore of Lake Washington – one couldn’t tell the difference.)

After that came the long slog downward. I was quite concerned about my knees, but God was gracious and they held up. But by the time we reached Muir, I was exhausted and the thought of the five additional miles down to Paradise, again with a heavy backpack, was less than inspiring. But after a brief respite in the tent that was baking in the noonday sun, my body rose to the challenge. The thought of a pizza beckoning just outside the park boundary spurred us all forward.

As I sat in the warm evening sunshine a few hours later, eating pizza, I thought to myself, “That was a good accomplishment. I’m sure that’s enough of Rainier for me.” But a day later I told the story to various friends and a few of them asked, “Can I go next year?” I found myself already mentally preparing for the next trip.

What is the attraction? It’s hard to put a finger on. Certainly the “growing old” component is one factor. It’s not as if I want to prove to myself that I’m not as old as my driver’s license says that I am. I just want to keep pushing myself beyond what might be considered normal expectations. It seems to me that when we begin to settle for normal, that’s when we begin to succumb to the entropy of aging. That’s something I’d like to resist as long as God makes me able.