Story: A Near-death Experience Mountaineering in Washington's Mount Rainier National Park

One minute I was descending a expansive field of snow at 9,000 feet on a crisp October day. The next I was lying on my back in severe pain. Only a hastily carved shelf of ice held me in place as the deadly cold and darkness of night quickly approached. It probably wasn’t exactly the best way to see Washington’s Mt. Rainier National Park but things hadn’t exactly gone according to plan.

The conditions for climbing had been perfect that day. Sunny. Ninety-mile visibility. 65 degrees with no wind. The meadows below, the ones that are covered with wildflowers in summer, had recently exploded into the vibrant colors of autumn. At elevation the snow levels were at their lowest and safest on a mountain that can see up to 1200 inches of annual snow. Rainier is the most glaciated mountains in the lower 48 and for most of the year deep crevasses, falling ice and avalanches can make travel on the upper mountain tricky. But we were just there for an alpine hike to 10,000 feet. We weren’t planning on climbing any ice walls. It was just supposed to be an easy day.

Our gear was light, smart for such a steep climb: ski poles, a compass and altimeter, water bottles, cell phones and camera gear, power bars and gel packs. We had a few layers of clothing but they were light. If we had anything that went a step beyond the usual it was long-distance GMRS radios and crampons, with rows of spiky steel teeth that strapped to the bottoms of our boots for more stable travel over the ice and snow.

The previous few days had been a whirlwind through the park, with epic hikes through the park’s dense old growth forests, past thundering waterfalls and trampling over blue ice glaciers. The U.S. Congress established Mount Rainier National Park in the spring of 1899. The 235,625 acre, 36 square mile park sees around 2 million visitors a year. The incredible size and diversity of the place makes it so there’s just about something for everyone, providing they don’t have any reservations about recreating on an active volcano that experts say is overdue for an eruption.

I was still new to the Seattle. I had only lived there for a month, and had just started a new job two weeks before. By that point and I had barely been out of the city. But a friend came out to visit from New York City so I thought it would be a good opportunity for me to get out and explore a bit of the Pacific Northwest myself.

Upon coming to Seattle I quickly discovered that its reputation for rain is somewhat exaggerated. There can be a lot of velvety gray skies to be sure. But there are also long stretches of clear, dry weather in the summer. The city is surrounded by both the Olympic and Cascade mountain chains and on clear days there are snow-capped peaks in every direction. Though the 14,410 foot peak of Mt. Rainier is technically more than 60 miles southeast of Seattle, its massive size makes it look like you can put your hand out and touch it, looming large on the southern horizon, beckoning those who are brave enough to try and conquer its heights.

From an elevation of around 5,400 feet on the south face, at a place called Paradise, the trails seem only to go up. It is brutal as you start the climb, every muscle in your legs burning and telling you to stop. But when your body realizes that you won’t be stopping, something magical begins to happen. Your body copes. It isn’t like the work becomes easier but the endorphins pumping into your system have the calming effects of opiates. You find your pace and your body runs like the efficient machine it can be.

Crowds of day hikers thin out around 6,500 feet at the switchback before Panorama Point. Just above there the trails end with ominous signs about the dangers of venturing farther. That’s where the Muir Snowfield begins. It is a relatively open and wide expanse of snow between the Nisqually and Cowlitz Glaciers and is one of the most popular routes for mountaineers headed to Camp Muir, a sort of base camp for the mountain’s summit. In the conditions we had that day, our path up the snowfield was relatively easy. At every place we stopped to rest the views over the Cascade mountains to our south were breathtaking. Off to the southeast was the snow-capped summit of Oregon’s Mt. Hood. To our southwest, nearly 100 miles away, was the infamous Mt. St. Helens. And it was erupting; a wispy column of smoke rose above it. We had hoped to reach Camp Muir that day but got a late start so we ran out of time and when we had to turn around. It was tempting to continue on but we understood the way that the desire for elevation can cloud judgment and put climbers in danger.

Eighty percent of mountaineering accidents occur on the descent and though I didn’t know it, I was destined to be another statistic. Only five minutes after beginning our descent, something went horribly wrong. One slip and I was on my back in an uncontrolled glissade down the snowfield. With no ice axe with which to self-arrest, I tried futilely to use my ski poles. But there was little friction from the hy-vent shell layer I had put on to keep warm. So the poles did nothing and my speed only increased. I did my best to keep my feet in the air so my crampons would be free of the ice and snow flying under me. But my increasing speed and the uncertainty of what was below me caused me to panic. Even though I knew better, I did absolutely the worst thing I could: I put my heels down.

The sharp metal teeth grabbed the ice aggressively and stopped me in seconds but it came with a tremendous cost. I heard a loud, dull pop and felt an immediate sensation of agonizing pain. My left leg had been unable to cope with the physics of the speed. My fibula snapped like a pencil, about halfway up my calf. The talus bone in my ankle fractured too, and just about every ligament tore itself away. When I looked down at my feet upon coming to a stop I saw that my left boot was pointing backwards, with the heel normally where the toe would be. I instinctively righted its position and simultaneously screamed as the tangled mess of broken bones, torn ligaments and disrupted nerves answered my action.

My climbing partner Marie was perhaps two hundred feet away from me and she’d tell me later that she thought my initial cries were a joke until she heard the raw intensity of my screams. As an avalanche of intense pain washed over me, I pleaded with her to call for help. She took her cell phone out of her pack and immediately called the ranger station. Despite waning battery power and a low signal, she was able to get through. But there was little relief as we weren’t exactly in a spot where an ambulance could drive over in minutes. We were quite alone. It had been a while since we had seen any other climbers as, in the waning light, most had left the upper reaches of the mountain and were well into their descents.

I did my best to stay focused in spite of the electric pain but thoughts rocketed through my brain. When will help be coming? How bad is my injury? How much light do we have left? Where exactly are we? What will this mean for my job? Is my insurance information even set up yet? When will this pain stop?!

When I felt my hands begin to tingle I knew I was going into shock. I realized it meant that the trauma and stress was causing my body to pull blood in from my extremities for the benefit of my internal organs. It would be very dangerous to go into shock in those conditions. I gingerly dug into one of the many pockets of my cargo pants and pulled out a couple of gel packs. They were full of minerals and electrolytes but they were mostly sugar and I knew the glucose would calm my system and help stave off shock. I also dug into my pack for Advil. I had no illusions about it doing any good but I figured it couldn’t hurt.

The sun went down quickly and the temperatures began to plummet. I began to shiver harder than I had ever shivered before and and the involuntary movement, while necessary, wasn’t helpful with the pain that came from the slightest move. I knew the distress call went out but there was no word on exactly when we could expect help to arrive. Initially the rangers had said they would be sending a helicopter. However, they subsequently could not find a pilot who was willing to fly so late in the day on a Sunday. So I’d have to wait hours for the climbing rangers to organize an expedition and climb to my position.

The biggest stroke of luck arrived in the form of an experienced father/daughter climbing team that arrived about 30 minutes after the accident. Tim, a retired logger and his nineteen year-old daughter Hannah were on their way up the mountain with plans to spend the night at Camp Muir. But seeing me in distress they gave up their climb and set up camp to take care of me. They were an absolute miracle as we hadn’t seen any other climbers in the waning light and we were poorly equipped for the falling temperatures. After they covered me with extra layers of gear they fired up a camp stove and made me hot tea. As soon as I was sufficiently stabilized Tim sent off down the mountain to meet the climbing rangers and lead them to our position. I recognized how difficult the climb must have been but Tim had no qualms about doubling back, for a total stranger, only to climb back up with the rangers in pitch black.

It was four hours before the climbing ranger rescue team arrived at our position. Though I had been in constant, excruciating pain for the entire time, the extremely low temperatures did numb my leg, taking the edge off. The rangers had no painkillers to offer. They merely strapped me into a fiberglass litter and prepared for the descent. They first pulled me off the snowfield and then carried me with great difficulty over the treacherous, rocky terrain, past switchbacks with sheer drops of sixty feet or more, all with total darkness with only tiny headlamps to light the way. The trip down took three and a half hours. From there it was another hour’s drive to the nearest hospital on foggy, winding roads with logging trucks bearing down on us.

I checked into the hospital a full nine hours after the accident. The prognosis was grim. After a series of X-rays the ER physicians suggested that the severity of my injury and the period of time I had gone untreated meant that I might never walk normally again. They recommended immediate surgery but I declined it in favor of going back to Seattle where I had surgery a few days later. For around three months I struggled with my loss of mobility, taking care of myself in a new city where I didn’t know a soul. But the initial prognosis turned out to be wrong. Two surgeries and several months of physical therapy later I made a full recovery. Other than a ten inch titanium plate permanently mounted in my leg, one would never know of my harrowing night on the mountain.

I’ve gone back to Rainier since the accident, though not to the elevation where I got into trouble. Upon reflection, the experience was one of the most harrowing of my life. But it was also rewarding in the way that horrible accidents can have a richness of experience in themselves. Losing my mobility and having to re-learn how to walk was an incredibly valuable lesson in what a miracle it is to be able to get out of bed in the morning and walk across the room; like a whisper of something I'll someday know when I'm an old man. Family and friends would often question the desire of mountaineers to put themselves at risk in harsh environments. And repeatedly I’d tell them that a well-lived life is not risk-free. I think I earned the right to say this without trying to sound like I am glorifying risk. On Mt. Rainier the path between taking pictures of summit views and having rangers call-in a helicopter rescue is a fine line. I came too close to knowing that there is no glory in death, just cold corpses, eternal sleep and the end of gifts. But I was unwilling to let the mountain take me. There is too much left to do.