Mt. Rainier is a blessing upon Seattle, a gleaming white beacon elevating the spirits of those trapped in a traffic abyss. It is a measure of good weather, glowing in the sun and hiding in the clouds. And to some, it is a challenge -- a reminder of the higher heights to be had.

I climbed halfway up Mt. Rainier in 1999. This year, I was determined to go all the way. My adventure on Mt. Rainier began in January, when I joined a charity climb with my employer, Microsoft. I promised to raise $2000 to benefit Washington's National Park Fund. In exchange, I would receive a guided trip to the summit. The only other thing I had to provide was the body- and will-power to make it to the top.

My training began in earnest. I climbed Mt. Si, Tiger Mountain, and Rattlesnake Ledge -- all local mountains within an hour's drive of Seattle. Then, things started to slow down. I did little in the way of hiking through the spring, although I continued to play sports. I climbed up to Camp Muir, Mt. Rainier's halfway point, in May. In June I tried climbing Mt. Si again and found myself turned around at the halfway point. This was somewhat of a wakeup call, and I dove back into training. From that point on, I hiked every weekend, with varying degrees of success on Bandera Mountain, Mt. Defiance, Pratt Mountain, Red Mountain, Lundin Peak, Guye Peak, Mount Daniel, and Mailbox Peak. My most memorable experience was the last, when a thunderstorm had me practically running back down the steep trail, fearing for my life.

The big weekend finally arrived, after 8 months' anticipation, and Saturday morning found 15 climbers from Microsoft gathered for climb school. In climb school we learned the basic skills that would keep us alive and get us to the top of the mountain: how to use an ice axe to stop a fall, how to walk when roped up, and stuff like that. We enjoyed an easy day on the lower mountain, followed by a barbeque, and then returned to our accomodations.

The next morning we gathered at 9 am at the Rainier Mountaineering Inc. guide hut, elevation 5,400 feet, to begin the climb. Each of us carried all the equipment we would need for the next two days with the exception of ropes, harnesses, and helmets - those were stored up at Camp Muir. My bag weighed in at a comfortable 30 pounds. The day was overcast but the clouds were low, meaning great weather on the upper mountain. We were given a brief rundown and pep talk by Peter Whittaker, lead guide, TV personality, owner of the guide service, and more. Then, the climb began.

20 of us -- 14 climbers and 6 guides -- began the arduous journey. We walked slowly, very slowly, establishing the rhythm that would carry us for the next 30 hours. We walked in a long line through the flowering meadows of the lower mountain, passing camera-toting tourists and being passed by more aggressive hikers. As I walked I started to uncover the nuances of the rest step, a walking technique which sees most of the body's weight borne on the bones of a locked leg instead of muscles. I also started to make occasional use of pressure breathing, a breath technique that increases the air pressure in the lungs (to simulate lower altitude) by exhaling in a sharp burst. The guides walked beside us, getting to know us, offering advice on walking and packing techniques, and generally herding us slowly up the mountain. After an hour of walking at a steady pace we stopped for our first rest break.

We were now in the clouds, and the temperature had dropped. We were instructed on the important things to do during a rest break: stay warm, eat, drink, relax. "Self-care" was a continuous theme for our guides. We were encouraged to take care of all equipment adjustments and other necessities at the beginning of the break, so that we'd be ready to go when the guide called "2 minutes" near the end. After about 15 minutes we packed up and resumed the trek.

We had now left the asphalt and gravel trails of the lower mountain behind us and were climbing through the snow. We continued in a long line, walking as a tight group with the guides to the side, offering advice and encouragement. One of the guides praised my use of the rest step and that sent my mind spinning off on a dangerous tangent.

"Guiding could be a great career," I thought to myself. "Obviously (given my instinct for rest-stepping), I've got a nack for high-altitude travel, and training can't be that hard. Imagine: being out in the mountains, conquering exotic peaks..." Fortunately, my imagination would be brought back down to earth over the next 24 hours.

We continued plodding up the mountain. The pace was slow and comfortable. The odd deep breath was all I needed to keep my lungs going and my heart rate was just a little elevated. I felt great. We were still deep in the clouds but occasionally a window would open on the upper mountain. Great glacial folds would hover like a vision in the clouds, then fade into a misty memory.

We stopped twice more on our way to the summit. Each time the guides gave us a little bit more advice about the climb, and we ate and drank a little bit more, and generally just relaxed in the snow. About 1,000 feet below our day's goal we finally broke free of the clouds for good and sunshine accompanied us as we entered Camp Muir.

Camp Muir is a collection of stone and wood huts built on a rocky outcropping at about 10,000 feet. It sees tens of thousands of visitors every year. There is a public shelter and ranger station, a few toilets, the RMI bunkhouse and kitchen, and a rough helicopter landing pad to get supplies up and waste down. We were staying in the RMI bunkhouse. We each grabbed a spot in the tight quarters and the guides explained what would be happening over the next 24 hours.

First, we'd be enjoying a nice spaghetti dinner. After that we'd organize all our gear, including helmets and harnesses, and hit the sleeping bags. Some time after midnight, depending on weather and whim, the guides would awaken us and we'd eat some breakfast oatmeal. Then, we'd rope up and begin the second half of our climb.

At 10,000 feet I was beginning to feel the altitude. My lungs just felt a little empty with each breath, like something was pulling them inwards. After dinner I settled down to sleep and soon found myself dozing off with the aid of an occasional pressure breath. After an hour or so I got up to use the outhouse, and I was treated to a glorious sunset as an almost-full moon rose out of the east. Things looked good for the climb later that evening. I returned to my cozy sleeping bag as the temperature dropped and soon fell asleep. My bunkmates claimed to have not slept very well, and they were kind enough to not blame my snoring.

Just after midnight we were roused from our fitful slumber by the guides. It was indeed a beautiful night for a climb. The moon was bright, there was no wind, and (the guides claimed) it was actually rather warm. To the climbers, though, it was a little on the chilly side. Most of us remained bundled in our down jackets as we ate oatmeal and pulled our equipment together. Finally, around 2 am, we stepped off the rock island of Camp Muir and onto the Cowlitz Glacier.

Alex lead my rope team and had been to Mt. Rainier's summit about 150 times. He led us at a slow pace. The snow was crunchy underfoot, the air was clean and cold, and the moon was bright. My headlamp soon faded out in the cold, and I continued across the glacier by the light of the moon. Far below us lesser mountains rolled off to the horizon, their valleys filled with a dim blue haze. I was happy.

It took us about half an hour to cross the Cowlitz Glacier and begin the climb up the loose gravel of Cathedral Gap. I'd been drinking lots of water as part of my adjustment to the altitude and I had to pee very badly. My headlamp was also completely out. I notified Alex of these important matters and both were resolved to varying degrees of personal satisfaction at the top of the gap. We continued onward to Ingraham Flats and took our first break at about 11,000 feet.

I quickly donned my fluffy down parka to ward off the chill but soon a shiver set in. I drank a bit and had some fig newtons but mostly I just sat on my pack and enjoyed the view of Little Tahoma Peak, a huge pyramid of rock sticking up out of the dark valley below. It was one of the tallest peaks in the state, and Mt. Rainier dwarfed it.

The next section of the route took us up the Ingraham headwall, a potentially dangerous area of rock and ice fall, and then onwards above Disappointment Cleaver. We moved slowly, continuing at a steady pace. Fatigue began to set in as we climbed higher and the air grew thinner. The temperature continued to drop. A thin band of pale orange appeared on the eastern horizon, faintly at first. It began to glow as the climb progressed and as we reached our second rest break at 12,300 feet it was a full, deep scarlet. By this point, I was feeling nauseous from the altitude. I was freezing, and my whole body was shivering despite the many layers I was wearing. My fingers quickly went numb. I could drink very little and didn't eat. As I sat there in the pre-dawn glow I was reminded of the misfortunate climbers from Into Thin Air, and for a few minutes I caught just a glimmer of an understanding of how they must have suffered.

My fanciful dreams of pursuing a career as a professional climber were now long gone. This was grueling.

I didn't consider stopping at this point, though. I was freezing, yes, but I knew that a warming sunrise was just minutes away. I was also growing more nauseous by the hour, but it wasn't significant enough to end the climb yet. I would play it by ear. I could certainly continue on to the next rest stop.

Once again we began to climb. My fingers warmed up again as my body started moving. With the important exception of my growing nausea, I felt just fine.

The trail meandered across the mountain, sometimes flat, sometimes steep, a few times downhill, and mostly up. In places it was a narrow trough dug into the snow by returning climbers, and placing my feet at a comfortable angle was difficult. I spent more than half of the climb above Camp Muir walking sideways.

At one point the trail crossed a deep crevasse, and continuing on meant a jump of about 3 feet. The jump was nothing, really, but the combination of altitude and fatigue and backpack and rope and cold combined to make it a daunting task. I glimpsed a great blue void as I leapt across, and then continued on my way. In another section the climb slowed as the trail hugged a steep cliff. There was only about 12 inches' worth of ledge carved into the snow, and the glacier feel steeply below it into a deep crevasse. We inched past that obstacle without incident and again continued upwards.

We were climbing through a great white expanse under a brilliant blue sky. The glacier was far from featureless, with massive folds and cracks belying the life in the ice below us. The trail wound its way among the greater cracks and passed over the lesser ones. These small cracks, barely inches across, led deep into the blue-black heart of the glacier.

Our steady pace continued. Our rhythm, very slow, very mechanical, was only occasionally broken by stumbles or other rope teams. I was getting tired, and my unsettled stomach did little to aid my progress. At times the trail got very steep, or the footing less comfortable, or I'd misjudge the pace around the corner, and I'd see the rope in front of me lifting off the snow as I fell behind. One mantra kept me going when I felt the seeds of doubt begin to plant themselves: "I am strong." That phrase got me through the toughest spots.

We finally reached the third rest stop, at 13,500 feet, at the end of a particularly steep section. Andrew, who was at the end of our rope team, plodded to a stop and said, "that last section kicked my ass." I wholeheartedly agreed and collapsed onto my backpack.

I was feeling terrible. The altitude had turned my stomach upside down, and eating and drinking just weren't in the cards. What I most wanted to do was lie down on my pack and have a nice little nap, but that wasn't really what I needed. Alex prodded me upwards, encouraging me to supply my brain with what it really required (sugar, water, and oxygen) and Heidi donated some PowerBar Goo (a mild concoction that reminded me of vanilla icing sugar) to my most worthy cause. Neither did little to settle my stomach, and the cold continued to seep in under the down parka. The day was warming, though, and my stomach was still not bad enough to stop me. I felt I could make it to the crater rim (the point at which one was considered to have successfully summitted the mountain) but that I would pass on reaching the true summit, another 20 minutes further along.

We donned our packs for the final leg and resumed the slow march up the mountain. I had been carying one chocolate truffle, which I'd been saving as an emergency energy/will-power pill, and I ate it as I left the rest stop. Unfortunately, eating and breathing are mutually exclusive activities and I had to quickly choke down the chocolate while the lack of oxygen further unsettled my stomach. Once I resumed pressure breathing, though, I began to feel better.

...and better. I was now pressure breathing very aggressively, nearly hyperventilating, in loud, whistling breaths. After a few minutes I began to actually feel pretty good, relatively speaking. My stomach settled and I slowly powered my way up the mountain, step after step, one foot at a time. I imagined myself reaching the summit and began to choke up. I was going to make it! ...and not just to the summit ridge. I was feeling good, and I was going all the way to the very top.

After about 45 minutes of slowly zigzagging across the tortured glacier, a rocky ridge came into view. "Hey Alex, is that the summit?" I called ahead. "Yeah," came the reply. "Cool!" And then, a few minutes later, we were there.

The summit ridge was incredibly anti-climatic. We weren't even on the tallest ground within a few hundred feet, let alone the entire mountain, so the designation of "summit" seemed rather arbitrary. I was feeling great since I'd started pressure breathing like a maniac, and continued to feel great so long as I kept up the rapid whistling exhalations. A small group was formed to tag the true summit, across the crater, and we headed off. Twenty minutes later, I was on top of the mountain.

We took the requisite hero shots and enjoyed the view. To the north, we could see as far as Mt. Baker, near the Canadian border. To the south, Mt. Jefferson was visible in the middle of Oregon. Far below us, Seattle was nestled under a thin layer of cloud. All around us, small waves of mountains rolled off into a fine summer haze.

The rest of the climbers were waiting for the true-summit team back at the summit ridge, and our guide quickly herded us back to them before they got too cold. Two of the guides had already left the group work on the trail at a few of its more precarious spots. The remaining guides divied up the remaining climbers, we clipped back into our rope teams, and we began the long descent back to Paradise.

The descending pace was much quicker, obviously. My brain shut off for most of the trek down. I was focussed only on the rope in front of me, ensuring that it got neither taught nor slack. The snow had softened in the morning sun, and our steps became long as our feet slid through the firm slush. The tops of my toes became raw as they discovered something to rub against inside my plastic boots.

Alex stopped ahead of me, jarring me from my walking-dead state of mind, and quickly admonished me to pull up the slack of rope coiled at his feet. We'd arrived at the three-foot crevasse. He used his ice axe to examine the section onto which we'd jumped a few hours before. A few sharp whacks didn't indicate much from my vantage point, but something didn't satisfy him. He turned to the rope teams stretching away behind us.

"This ice was okay early this morning, but it's too soft now," he said. "You can see where there's a hole here. You'll need to jump from back here," and he indicated an approved spot a foot or two back from the edge of the crevasse. He requested a bit of slack in the rope from me, then leapt across the chasm. I was next, and walked up to the gap. I ensured I had enough slack in the rope behind me to make it across, took a second to steel my nerves, then took a long leaping stride across the crevasse. I was hardly graceful, but I made it. Even with the extended distance, the obstacle was still more psychological than physical. Heidi was next. She took a few extra seconds to establish an appropriate frame of mind, and then leapt. And fell -- forwards, fortunately. She lay in a tangled heap a few feet down the trail and about 20 feet above me. I moved to go back up the trail to help her, but Alex told me to stay where I was, to ensure that the ropes adequately protected her. Unfortunately the ropes held her a bit too tightly, but after pleading for some slack from both ends of the line she managed to extract herself and we continued.

We encountered the trail-maintenance guides a little while later. They were working on the narrow-ledge section of the trail, to which they were applying steel pick-axes in an attempt to widen the trail. I was amazed they'd managed to carry the incredibly heavy equipment that far up the mountain. We continued along the ledge, and it actually seemed more precarious on the return, despite their apparent improvements. We requested more shoulder room and continued on.

We finally took a break at 12,300 feet, just above Disappointment Cleaver and the Ingraham Ice Fall. The three rope teams gathered together in the snow and Alex explained the challenge of the next section. We'd be venturing through a hazardous rock- and ice-fall zone, and quick and attentive travel was the name of the game. We'd be moving even faster than before, and at the end of the hazard zone there was an uphill section. To ensure the tail end of the rope team didn't stay in the danger zone for too long, the front end would need to get up the hill as fast as possible. After that, it was all downhill.

We took an extra-long rest break, gathering the mental and physical energy for what was probably the most dangerous stretch of the entire trip. I was still pressure breathing heavily -- at almost the same speed as at the summit. We dozed on our packs, but after a few minutes Alex leaped to attention. He'd spotted someone about 30 feet away from the group, peeing into the snow.

"Is that person with our group?" he asked, and someone responded affirmatively. He yelled at the peeing climber. "Come back here right now!" The urinator looked up from where he'd been absorbed in his task, but didn't seem to appreciate the gravity of the situation. Alex continued to yell. "Put that thing away and come back here right now! Do you know where you are?" He pointed up the mountain. "See that crevasse? You're right on top of it." The climber was unclipped from his rope, drilling deep yellow holes into a softening snow bridge. He picked his way back to the group, and the guides took responsibility for the mistake. "When we said you could pee anywhere," Brenda said, "we didn't mean anywhere."

A few minutes later we assembled ourselves for the continued descent. Alex lead the way, and we began hiking down the trail with long, steady steps. Occasionally the climbers behind me would slow, and I called for Alex to wait while we reassembled ourselves. He told me not to call out to him -- he needed to listen for rock fall. He'd feel if we needed to stop by a tug on the rope.

We moved on. Just above the hazard zone I fell, catching one crampon in the straps of another, and fell face-first into the trail in front of me. I yelled "falling!", as we'd been trained to do, and slid to a stop a few inches later in the thick wet snow. I righted myself and we continued on.

We entered the hazard zone. Huge blocks of ice towered over the trail, but didn't feel particularly threatening. Then, we heard a loud crack and turned to face up the mountain. A boulder had let loose, slightly larger than a bowling ball, and it was bouncing down the slope at high speed. It entered a gully to our right and disappeared from view. The whole event was rather humorous, despite its rather dangerous implications. It was almost as if the mountain was trying to get back at us for conquering her -- and she had really bad aim. As soon as the rock passed out of view Alex turned back down the trail and jerked us all back into motion.

A few moments later I tripped on my crampons again and fell face first into the snow, banging my knee on some ice. No major damage done, fortunately, so I called out that I was okay and set about trying to untangle my limbs. Alex instructed the others to face uphill and watch for rocks while I got myself out of the snow. I got up, said, "okay," and once again Alex jerked us back into motion.

Another loud crack echoed out above us and another bowling-ball-sized boulder bounced down the glacier and into the gully. We watched it disappear and the continued on. We were now almost out of the danger area, but we still had the dreaded uphill climb ahead of us. The trail climbed steeply to skirt the uphill end of a large crevasse, and we followed. As the tail end of the rope team hit the bottom of the hill we slowed slightly -- everyone was now out of danger. But we still had several hundred feet to climb to get around the crevasse. Some later reported that this was the single hardest part of the whole trip.

We took another break a few minutes later, at Ingraham flats. The air had warmed considerably as the sun climbed and we did the opposite, and we took the opportunity to remove a few layers of clothing. We had only one more short section before we'd be back at Camp Muir. Alex again told us what to expect from the upcoming portion of the climb, and what we should do once we got back to Camp Muir. Then, we continued on.

After 15 minutes or so we were back on the gravel and scree of Cathedral Gap. We coiled up our ropes so they wouldn't drag and fray on the rocks, but remained clipped in. Walking in the scree was difficult: the loose rocks slid underfoot, the steps were uneven, and I was bound to the person in front of me by only a few feet of rope. Despite the guides' assurances otherwise, I believe the crampons were a hindrance, not a help. But after an annoying 20 minutes on the rocks we stopped off onto the Cowlitz glacier for the final stretch into Camp Muir.

We were welcomed back into Camp Muir around 2 pm by the sole member of our party who hadn't made the summit. He'd been unlucky enough to eat some bad food two nights previously, and had turned around just below Ingraham flats with stomach trouble. He'd spent the day watching a helicopter carry supplies back and forth between Paradise and Camp Muir.

The guides gave us an hour to relax and pack up our gear for the descent, although not in that order. At 3pm we were all ready to go and began frolicking our way down the Muir Snowfield like schoolkids. We had way too much energy for people who'd just climbed a major mountain. Whether it was the increased oxygen or anticipation of being back at the bottom, I don't know. We stepped and slid our way down the mountain, with varying degrees of success, occasionally regrouping before bursting forth upon the snow again. At the end of the snow field we took an extended break and waited for a few stragglers to catch up.

We were now out of the snow entirely, and into the home stretch. Blisters had formed on the tops of several toes and the gravel trail did little to help. We were walking very quickly, eager to be back at the RMI guide hut. We'd get occasional glimpses of the parking lot, and although it didn't appear that far away it seemed to never get closer. After an eternity of hiking we reached the halfway point. Another eternity later, we didn't seem any closer. Finally, we left the gravel behind and began to walk on the asphalt trails of the lower mountain. The grueling pace of the forced march didn't let up. Forget about altitude sickness -- this was the worst part of the whole climb. And then, finally, mercifully, we were done.

This trip gave me just a taste of what mountaineering is really like, and let me tell you, it's really hard. It is a cold, uncomfortable business, and I earned a profound respect for those that lift themselves to even higher heights. It's hard.

Although I found myself cured of any Everest-sized delusions, this trip has set me up with enough reality to anticipate a few less-lofty destinations: Mt. Kilimanjaro, Mt. Fuji, and Mt. Everest's base camp. I'll be travelling in the vicinity of each of those mountains in the next few years...

This is the last lesson in Steve Learns to Hike, since I'm leaving Seattle in October, 2000 for some extended travelling. I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed creating it for you.