Pro Guiding Service - The Longest Day, The Longest Run

Sinuhe is trying to keep the faith, but as he looks out the rain-soaked windshield at the neon greenness of the Cascadian brush, he is entertaining serious doubts about whether his 12-hour drive from Montana to Mt. Rainier National Park wasn't in the pursuit of a lunatic's grail. "Snow line's at 5400 feet now," I console him as he marvels over the verdent foothills. "We're in for 9000 feet of vertical."

That was the lure that drew him here--the longest skiable drop in the Lower 48 on the longest day of the year, the appeal of skiing an elongated sliver of winter during the zenith of summer, the urge to defy the masses who mothballed their boards months ago.

"What about the drizzle," Sinuhe frets.

"Phhh--valley fog." I tell him, with more confidence than the fickle Northwestern weather justifies. "It'll ceiling out at 6000 feet."

At Paradise Lodge on the southern flanks of Rainier, that forecast is still hard to swallow, but my credibility rises as we leave the parking lot on skis, tunneling into the gray gloom. I watch my Casio and the 6000-foot level comes and goes without much promise. At 6300 feet, however, the skies lighten and suddenly we breach the surface of the gaseous ocean to confront nearly two vertical miles of ice. From this first vantage, Fuhrer Finger, the narrow colouir we will climb and ski, looks threateningly steep. The gouges in its snows carved by falling rocks are uncomfortably numerous. And the slopes above the Finger appear unusually crevassed.

I opt not to stare, not to let the illusions of vision preoccupy me. Intellectually, I know that the Finger itself is a reasonable 40-degree pitch, that we will pass through the colouir early before heat transforms it into a bowling alley, and that ramps will lead through the upper maze of crevasses. I put my head down and plod.

While we traverse the lower Nisqually Glacier, one of the largest of the 26 glaciers flowing off the 14,410-foot peak, it is apparent that although ice has shaped this landscape, it is heat that activates the ice. Today, the heat saturating the stagnant air is like that of a steam bath. The mountain sweats and as it does, seracs cave into the crevasses they overhang, avalanches of week-old snow cascade down the crumbled headwalls of pocket glaciers, and dozens of fingers of supersaturated snow creep--amoeba style--down skiable slopes.

The same heat that has the mountain boiling burrows into Sinuhe. Meltdown comes suddenly and avalanches of his own spew from his guts. The longest day takes on a new meaning as he struggles to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

Near our intended camp on the western flanks of the Wilson Glacier at 9200 feet, we pass a group of climbers who have carved tent platforms in the snow. They view the metal-edged antlers protruding above our packs with condescending eyes. Their comments carry the unstated message, "This is a climber's mountain, not some fool ski hill."

Sinuhe, whose heat stroke is exacerbated by the weight of his ski equipment, is prone to agree. But 15 hours from now when the upward journey ends--when gravity becomes a slave rather than a master--he will no longer curse the wings of his skis.

****

The sun sets over the blanket of valley clouds in one of those displays that permanently etches a place in the mind's memory. The clouds below our camp glow golden and then ratchet down the electromagnetic spectrum to shades of pink. The highest thorns of the Cascades--Mt. Adams, Glacier Peak, the upper slopes of the Goat Rocks Wilderness--all create islands of refuge from the ocean of low clouds. Then, the shadow of the mountain projects over the screen of clouds, its profile elongating as the sun drops.

Aesthetics eclipse the scientific portion of my mind. The summer solstice occurs when the sun migrates to its farthest northerly position, reaching its zenith over the Tropic of Cancer, 23 1/2 degrees north of the equator. I figure--and had wanted to verify--the sun should set 23 1/2 degrees north of west tonight. I'd also wanted to time the sunset--to compare how much more light we at 9200 feet received than the denizens of sea level.

More than an hour after sunset as I prepare the rope for our 3:30 a.m. departure, I remember my ill-fated science projects. Now the stars are blazing and the glowing atmosphere to the southwest marks the position of Portland. On this longest day, the signs of the Zodiac change from Gemini (the Twins) to Cancer (the Crab), but being clueless about where in the sky to find Gemini or Cancer--much less any idea what they look like--I just lie on the ground and stare up into the black vastness. I think about waxing poetic to Sinuhe, but he's in the tent concentrating on keeping his supper down. My comments might throw him over the edge.

Sinuhe gets his own taste of aesthetics five hours later when the beeping Casio drives us into the morning. A sliver of moon casts pale light over the mountain and the air is so crisp the black arch forming the dark side of the moon contrasts against the violet sky. We slam down breakfast, strap on crampons, clip into the rope, and traverse across the Wilson Glacier toward Fuhrer Finger.

Several steps into the traverse, we receive the day's first piece of bad news: the freeze during the shortest night of the year was a lame one. Every tenth step we break the thin crust coating the slopes and sink to our knees in underlying slush. If these conditions exist on the steep slopes of the Finger, we will need to ski it extremely early--perhaps too early to make the summit.

An hour later as we ascend the narrowing slopes toward the colouir of the Finger, the real bad news is apparent: Sinuhe is too wiped from yesterday's bout of dehydration to have any chance of making the summit. For a testosterone-craving extreme skier of Sinuhe's ability, he exercises unusually sound judgment and opts to turn around before climbing slopes where lethargy could get him hurt. Being nearly twice as old, I exercise half his judgment and push on alone.

The news inside the Finger is good, the snow is well consolidated and firmly frozen--there will be no avalanche hazard mandating a race for the summit or an early turn around. Without Sinuhe, however, that good news is a moot point--I am unwilling to contend with the crevasse fields up high without a rope mate.

The sun on this first day of summer climbs quickly and by the time the Seattle morning commute is starting, the surrounding slopes are absorbing potent solar radiation. At 11,500 feet I exit the narrow confines of the Finger and follow widening slopes upward. At 12,000 feet my route intersects the upper reaches of the Nisqually Glacier, the same glacier we crossed yesterday. Traversing onto the glacier, I follow obvious leads flanked by forty foot seracs and gaping holes over 200 feet deep.

With the insurance of a rope mate, the area would kindle few worries; alone, vulnerability walks with me like the Vibram of my right boot. The left Vibram, however, is an absurd desire to salvage my goal--to bag that longest run. Resisting the urge to turn tail, I reach a farcical modified goal--that point where the Casio reads 12,400 feet. This point lies an even 7000 vertical feet above our vehicle and 100 feet above Mt. Adams, the second highest peak in the state. That gives me, if not the longest drop in the country, the longest drop in the state. I dig in and wait for the crust to corn.

That corn, of course, forms at different times at different elevations. At 8:45 a.m. I guess the mountain to be in the best overall condition and shove off. Above 12,000 as I ski cautiously past broken towers of blue ice, the crust scraping my bases sounds like amplified static. As I drop, the mercury rises and the steepening inclines point the slopes more directly at the sun. Soon the decibels trail off as the skis slice into the sun-softened veneer.

At the top of the Fuhrer Finger, I stop to study my options. The gentlest line through the hour glass below still lies in shade, but the steeper outer slopes funneling into the colouir have harvested sun for well over an hour. I ski out to the outer limits, don my helmet, and launch a tentative first turn onto a 45-degree incline. A firm base coated with a veneer of corn gives the edges a pit-bull bite; I take several more tentative turns, testing the consistency of the conditions. Bombproof. The stoppers come out and I fire rapid turns. Half in the air, half in the snow, I touch the lower boundaries of flight as I bounce downhill.

In the middle of the Finger, a rock the size of a softball hurls past my legs at femur-breaking speeds. I glance over my shoulder and receive a second shot of adrenaline--a posse of pursuing stones is about to trample me. Reflexively, I launch an evasive turn and the stones fly by, taking with them air rather than flesh. Down the remaining 800 vertical feet of the rock-bordered corridor, my rubber neck swivels between the booby traps ahead and the stinger missiles behind.

Squirting from the sphincter of the Finger, I'm surprised to see yesterday's climbers grunting their way toward me. They are hours too late to minimize the objective hazard of this route; still, I'm delighted to see them. Carving relaxed GS turns I lose elevation quickly and effortlessly. I edge to a stop in front of the leader and we exchange digs.

"A lot of rockfall in the colouir this late in the morning," I comment. "Do you have helmets?"

"You ski across the glacier down there without a rope," he rebuts.

"The three of you should be unroped now," I parry, "When the rocks fall, there's no time to coordinate which way you're going to run."

He climbs on, disregarding the advice of an ignorant skier.

I push off and in five minutes have flown back to camp, a distance that consumed an honest hour of slogging during the ascent.

I rouse Sinuhe from the tent and we hurry to break camp. The amphitheater around us is baking and minutes may determine whether we fly over corn or wallow in glop. Our Suburbia disappears into the black holes of packs and soon we're ready to glide.

Before descending towards the sea of clouds some 3000 feet below, we take a long moment to absorb the scale of this mountain. The climbers I passed are now but flakes of pepper and they aren't even halfway to my turnaround point. That point, meanwhile, looks insignificant when measured against the vast slopes above. My efforts were little more than half finished when I retreated. Skiing buddies have been telling me winter is just gearing up in New Zealand and South America. They're anxious to follow the winter solstice south. But here before us is a slice of winter that offers a far bigger drop than they're likely to find down under. Mt. Rainier will be offering a 9000 foot drop for a good month to come. Of course, to bag that longest run on the longest day is an opportunity that comes but once a year. Before the prize is ours, we'll have to lick our wounds during the longest wait.

****

Details, Details
Fuhrer Finger is the shortest route up the 14,410-foot hulk of Mt. Rainier and, arguably, the finest ski descent. Approach from Paradise Lodge. Visitors intending to summit must register with the Park Service at Paradise and pay a $15/person climbing fee.

For the best route information, see the Cascade Alpine Guide: Columbia River to Stevens Pass by Fred Beckey (published by The Mountaineers, 800-553-4453). Also, contact the climbing rangers at Mt. Rainier National Park (360-569-2211).