Growing up in the Seattle area, it was always there. People talk about it like it's a friend or family member, someone they've known for ages. "The Mountain is out today," people will say and no one asks "what mountain?" It's there, regally standing tall for all to see. On summer mornings as the sun comes up it's staggeringly beautiful, even after a lifetime of regularly seeing it.

The interesting part is, I never contemplated actually going there, seeing it up close, or, heaven forbid, climbing it. I do have vague recollections of visiting the Paradise visitor's center with Grandma Reid as a kid, of wildflowers and rocky trails. But you didn't need to visit Rainier to think of it as your own. It is just part of being a Seattleite.

So it's a bit ironic that when I moved away from my hometown after 31 years and relocated to San Francisco, that three years later I'd return to climb this familiar peak. I must admit that as soon as I decided to do this, this spring, looking at Rainier didn't seem so peaceful anymore. I recall that on an early morning drive to SeaTac a few weeks back, the mountain looked so much BIGGER than I had remembered. Less friendly and fluffy. I wasn't sure how I felt about this anymore. I was conflicted, and a bit scared.

But, we went. We saw. We summitted.

Thursday
Flying into Seattle is always amazing - Adams, Hood, St. Helens, Rainier, standing tall above the clouds. This time was no exception except that this time, the realization of what we were about to do was staggering. There, above a band of clouds, stood the tip of Rainier. My thought process went something like this, "Wow, how beautiful. How amazing." Then, "Ohmigod. I'm climbing a mountain whose top can only be seen by people on airplanes." I was scared, and a bit awestruck.

We checked in to Whittaker's bunk house in Ashford, Washington (owned by Lou Whittaker, who led the first American team up the North Col on Everest in 1984, and whose twin brother Jim was the first American to summit Everest in 1963), that night and had our last good sleep for several days.

Friday (Day 1)
Mountaineering school day. This consisted of getting on a bus with 24 other hopeful climbers of all ages, occupations, and origins, and heading to Paradise. The mountain was indeed out and it was glorious. It somehow looked different up close, or maybe the lack of snow this year changed its face. It was stunning. We then hiked with our three guides (one has been guiding for 17 years and was incredibly patient, kind and wise, and two other 20-somethings who guide Rainier in the summer and lead trips all over the globe the rest of the year. My high tech marketing job was starting to sound a bit tame all of a sudden) up to a snowfield around 6,500 feet to learn the tools of the trade. I sort of smirked a bit when they talked about teaching us how to walk and to breathe. Geez, how hard could it be? I also smirked a bit when, as we were getting evaluated for our fitness levels (sadly, one man was nixed from the trip because he was not in any shape to climb), Terry, Lynn and I kept easy pace with the guides as we walked. I quickly realized how much I had to learn.

Training consisted of falling and sliding down the hill from various angles and slopes and self-arresting with our ice axes. It was actually pretty damn fun... until the next day when my shoulders hurt so bad from digging into the hill with my axe that now I could hardly brush my teeth. We also learned how to walk with crampons, how to walk on a rope team, and how to yell "Falling" at the top of your lungs.

That night we had dinner at a local place (with the world's best blackberry pie, according to Terry) with a fellow climber, and called it an early night. Our fellow climbers, we were finding, were going to be among the best parts of this trip. We were amazed at the diversity of ages, climbing experience levels, and reasons for coming. Everyone had a story and every one was unique and inspiring. It was pretty damn cool.

Saturday (Day 2)
We rose at 6:30am to commence with more packing. For an adventure that only requires one backpack and a little food (our guides provided us a complete checklist of gear), the packing seemed to be ridiculously complicated. Getting gear for this trip also ended up being ridiculously expensive. The families of REI employees should be loving me for the profit sharing checks they'll be getting this year. Then we hopped back on the bus, with a smaller team (again we smirked, we were the "A team." As we found out later, this meant little except we got to climb first and be with the lead guide, but it made us feel special anyway) to Paradise. The climb started for real.

Sadly, the Mountain was not out today and we hiked through a pea soup fog for about four-and-a-half hours from Paradise to Camp Muir at 10,150 feet. All in all a pretty easy hike.

After spending a lot of time hiking in the Sierra this summer in Tahoe and Yosemite, we sea level kids were getting pretty good at some minimal altitude. We had a good time meeting other climbers and it felt so good to be hiking in relatively cool weather after all of our 90- to 100-degree day California hikes.

We arrived in base camp greeted by a shack the side of my bedroom, in which all now 23 of us would be sleeping. It was sort of like a morgue with rows and rows of benches we'd call beds, with bodies lined up in neat rows. Guess it didn't really matter, because you certainly don't sleep much. We unpacked some of our gear, repacked, ate some dehydrated food and were told to go to bed. It was 6pm. Surprisingly, I crashed right away.

Both Terry and I woke up around 7:30pm when nature called. We walked outside to the most amazing sight we'd ever seen. The mountaintop that we'd seen on the airplane was what we were now standing on, with clouds below us and completely clear skies around and above us. We could see the summit. The glaciers were ablaze with the setting sun, and a light fog was starting to creep up the mountain. Truly magical. We then tried to sleep some, and managed a few hours amidst the snoring and the waiting... The guides were going to wake us up at some time between 12am and 4pm to make our summit attempt.

Sunday (Day 2.5)
1:05am. The bunk house door opened and Brent, our lead guide, strode in, "Wake up everybody, it's time to climb." So our 16-hour day began. We all sleepily got out of bed (23 people trying to get ready in a small room is not conducive to any sort of speed). Upon walking outside I was immediately awake; it was the clearest evening I'd seen in ages. The stars seemed within grasping distance and the slight moon reflected beautifully off the snow. I started to realize why ancient peoples thought of mountains as gods - they are pretty amazing beings.

We geared up, strapped on crampons, grabbed ice axes, roped up and headed off, now in four-person, plus one guide, teams. We lucked out and got to be first out the door, ready to blaze the trail for the rest. I realized later this also meant we worked a lot harder than some of the last crews, but it was well worth it.

We started pretty flat out of Camp Muir across the Cowlitz Glacier, and then quickly found ourselves climbing a steep rock face (that we didn't seem to remember when we saw it again coming down from the summit) called Cathedral Gap. Then it was on to Ingram Glacier, at around 11,000', and at this point things started to get interesting.

With just our headlamps to light the way we were skirting massive crevasses and walking along their edges on tiny, tiny paths. Then we crossed over these deep cracks in the glacier on tiny, tiny little ladders. I was scared to look down and was extremely grateful it was still dark so I couldn't see how far down it went.

Then, at about 12,000', we hit something called Disappointment Cleaver. Let me tell you, I don't wonder about this name, I have my own opinion. I am pretty sure it was early climber disappointment that it wasn't the summit, because it's so freakin' hard. And on the way down, you're disappointed that you have to walk through the damn thing again. This was about 1,000' of steep rock face, with tons of talus and other various rock debris, covered in ice and snow, sitting out over the craggy and broken ice blocks of the Emmons Glacier. It sucked.

For almost 90 minutes we traversed across this thing with crampons slipping on ice and scraping on rocks; quads screaming in agony, hands gripping your ice axe in fear. When we got to the top it was bliss, however. It was our second break of the morning and the sun was just coming up. Looking out over what we had just climbed was incredible, and sort of frightening. "Good God, we hiked that? How the hell do we get down?"

We could see the lights of Yakima off in the distance and several neat rows of climbers with headlamps, like luminaria, weaving their way up the hill after us. As we rose further, we climbed to "High Break" at 13,500' and the sun was out in full force, making for a gorgeous day. We could see Mounts Adams, Hood and Jefferson off in the distance. As we started to make our last 1000-foot push for the summit, yesterday's lessons about breathing and walking came in damn handy. I used to always wonder about those mountaineering books that talked about taking one-two steps and resting, one-two steps and resting. Geez, how hard can it be? Oh man, it is so hard.

We very slowly worked our way up the mountain. I was feeling tired and starting to get pretty lightheaded. Our rope team members had varying moments of "bonking" and we all struggled to stay moving. Our guide was incredibly patient (even when I knew we were driving him nuts) and kept motivating us onward. Then we broke trail on a fresh patch of new snow and for every step up we took, we slid two steps back. It was frustrating and painful, and really steep. Then we came upon a snowfield that looked very "Dr. Suessian," with little snow statues "growing" up from the snow floor. The sun and melting snow had carved hundreds of spires of snow. It was probably incredibly beautiful, but by that point I was too tired to care.

I started to feel really queasy, but kept breathing and telling myself that if a little 77-year-old woman could do this in 19 hours round-trip, and whom we passed on our way up to Camp Muir), I could darn well get my butt up there.

Sunday (Day 3+)
9:39am. We summitted 14,411-foot Mount Rainier. And I lay down in the snow and wanted to sleep. By this time I was definitely slightly altitude sick, couldn't eat, threatened to barf on my team members, and too tired to walk across the crater to register/sign us in. Terry did the honors and instead of being rewarded with a view of all of Washington, he (and we all) received a whiteout storm instead. Sigh.

Sitting in the crater of Rainier's dormant volcano was amazing though. We high-fived with our ice axes (quickly we novices became climbing nerds), took a bunch of photos, choked down some Gu, waited for a couple of the other teams, and then started the long journey back. We reveled in the fact that we'd done it. We'd climbed a 14,000-foot peak. And I'd finally met my "friend," the Mountain, up close.

The trip down was much harder than I thought. I pressure breathed my way into feeling better by about 12,000 feet, but then we hit Disappointment Cleaver and had to walk down through snow, ice, rock and mud. I contemplated how much it would hurt to fall into a crevasse and if I wanted to jump and take the 'easy route.'

By this time, the sun had melted the snow a great deal and we started seeing where we'd walked in the morning, which was truly scary all of a sudden in the daylight. The tiny, tiny snow bridge we'd crossed at 3am was now impassable. Our guide ice axed us a new route over a deep crevasse. Jesus, what am I doing here? The sun now blazed us and I was dying, my water was gone and we still had two hours to base camp.

Finally we made it out of the Cleaver, back across the scary ladders (thankfully our guide had his tools and re-hammered them back into the ice before we crossed) and, in the lower altitude, we were all feeling better. Then the gale force winds, hail and snow started to fly. Good God, will this day never end?

We made it back to base camp at 2pm and were told we had 30 minutes to pack and then we had to head down to Paradise. My muscles were screaming. We'd been up for 12 hours already, we'd gained and lost 9,000' and it was a blizzard, and they want me to walk more? Sigh.

So, after a brief hot chocolate break and high-fiving all the other summitters and a story about a guy falling into a hidden crevasse (he seemed to think it funny after all of it, not sure his guide did), we headed down the last 5500' to Paradise. Then it started to rain. I think this was one of those I-don't-miss-Seattle moments, but it beat being pelted with hail and ice, so I didn't complain. We reached Paradise after about two-and-a-half hours and headed back to Ashford, tired, hurting, exhilarated.

We went home, with soreness in muscles we never knew we had, a hunger that won't seem to go away, a feeling of exhaustion that I'm pretty sure only about 24 hours of straight sleep will cure, and a sense of tremendous accomplishment and utter wonder. Despite the scary stuff, the cold, the nausea, the 1am wake up call, the smell of 23 sweaty bodies in a tiny shack, and the fact that I don't think I'll want to eat Gu again for a very long time, this was the most amazing thing I've done. I can easily see why people do this for a living, and I envy them that. I don't think I'll be looking at climbing Everest any time soon (or ever, for that matter), but I'm pretty excited to climb Mt. Aconcagua in Argentina this winter.

I found a quote today by Jim Whittaker that sort of sums up how I feel about climbing Rainier...and about marathons, 450-mile treks across Spain, Ironman triathlons, 100-mile races, cross-country bike rides, bivvying out on ledges, and anything else that people do that others sometimes call nuts.

"If you aren't living on the edge, you're taking up too much space. It has nothing to do with thrill-seeking. It's about making the most of every moment, about stretching your own boundaries, about being willing to learn constantly and putting yourself in situations where learning is possible - sometimes even critical to your survival. Being out on the edge, with everything at risk, is where you learn - and grow - the most." - Jim Whittaker, first American to summit Mt. Everest.

Go be crazy.

— Diana Reid, MountainZone.com Correspondent