We Fell into a Burning Ring of Fire

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Outside magazine, March 2001

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We Fell into a Burning Ring of Fire


	Because it's...where? Doug Ingersoll, center, points out Rainier's summit to Hansen, Vandenoever, and Fedarko, from left. Michael Darter

WHILE WE LOADED our rigs in the parking lot at the base of Rainier, Ingersoll urged us to follow him north to Mount Baker, where he generously offered to guide us up the mountain and show us some of the finest glacier skiing in the Northwest. At some point during our ski descent of the Muir Snowfield, however, an odd feeling had overtaken each of us. Partly it owed to the euphoria we felt at the nearly flawless 14-hour round-trip we'd just completed with Doug's help, but I think it had even more to do with a renewed collective determination, fueled by what we had both gained and given up on Rainier, to reconnect with our original plan. We'd lost two days, so we'd have to cut out Mount Hood, the least enticing of our Ring of Fire objectives (its most direct summit route entails hiking up through the Timberline ski resort). But if we busted a move, we could still bag two of the three remaining peaks on our own. We shook hands with Ingersoll and thanked him sincerely for all he had done. And then we sped south for Adams.

AT 12,307FEET, Mount Adams is a lesser giant than Rainier, but still formidable—an elegant massif with fir-studded flanks and snow-draped shoulders that is believed by many to be the loveliest peak in the entire Pacific Northwest. Partly owing to our time constraints, we planned to camp at the Cold Springs trailhead and summit in a single, punishing 6,700-foot push up the South Ridge—a route that doesn't require ropes or protective gear other than ice axes and crampons. If we got lucky with the weather, we'd be able to ski straight off the top and carve turns all the way back to camp. Summiting Rainier may have been viscerally intense, but as far as we were concerned it couldn't hold a candle to the rapture of linking turns through the virgin snow on Adams.

We awoke well before dawn and launched a rhythmic attack on the series of wide, steep snowfields along the mountain's southern rib, spurred by the bracing realization that we were now on our own. Nine hours later, we crested the summit of our second peak and, in one of those acts of grace that nature sometimes affords, were greeted by a vista that was striking even by Cascades standards: There, winking back at us 80 miles to the north, its blue glaciers shimmering in the crystalline air, was Rainier. To the south, just across the Columbia River Gorge, rose the sharp spire of Hood. And 50 miles to the west, the razed dome of St. Helens. We gazed in silence for several minutes while waiting for Hagerman, who had stalled out and almost given up due to fatigue. When he finally arrived, he annihilated the delicate and beautiful moment by seizing his ski pole and walloping the summit with enough fury to create a small cloud of snow crystals. "I beat you, you son of a bitch! Take that and that and that!"

We cruised off the top on our skis and boards, hacking through 400 feet of sastrugi ice burrs until we reached the 700-foot, 40-degree ramp that leads from Adams's false summit down to a broad plateau called the Lunch Counter. It was midafternoon, the snow on the ramp soft and consistent so that our edges set easily, almost automatically, and then sliced into buttery arcs. Several of us had skied big mountains before, but none had ever experienced anything like this—the brilliant summer afternoon, the skis and boards hissing beneath us, the marvelous sensation of dropping into that elusive flow state in which body and mind move to the cadence of a synchronous, elemental inner vibe. "Well," announced Keyes, as we pulled into camp around 5 p.m., capping a 12-hour marathon, "I'd say that was pretty much the best day I've ever spent in the mountains."

IT WAS exhilarating how the momentum of skiing multiple peaks seemed to build rather than diminish: The next morning we broke camp, hiked out, loaded our trucks, and headed straight for Mount St. Helens, which offers a long (4,500 vertical feet) nontechnical walk-up and skiing every bit as delicious as that on Adams. We arrived feeling that we were firing on all cylinders and exhibiting an almost Ingersollian élan—a mind-set that was dealt a rude blow when we caught up with a troop of ten-year-old Girl Scouts merrily skipping up the route we'd chosen. We scampered up to the rim in a brisk three and a half hours, completing our revised goal: three peaks in a week. Not too shabby. A thick wash of fog was rolling in below us and appeared to be rising, so we didn't dally. We clicked into our gear and boogied down the ash-dusted snow. As we whisked past the Girl Scouts, who were firing up the cinder ridge at Marine Corps pace, somebody yelled to ask if they'd already done Adams or Rainier. Fortunately for us all, perhaps, their reply was lost in the fog.

WE CASHED IN our last night on Bainbridge Island, northeast of Seattle, where Eric Hansen's family has a beach house. As we drove the three hours to the place, I realized that this, even more than the climbing and skiing, would be the moment I relish most—the seam between the denouement of an adventure and the cold shock of reentry to your life, when your body still vibrates from the physical challenges in a way that makes you feel renewed, expanded. That evening, we plucked and shucked oysters from the bay next to the cottage. We grilled salmon steaks and cooked a huge pot of pasta. We uncorked bottles of wine. We drank three cases of Rainier Beer. And soon the ideas about other possible trips were tumbling out: something in Patagonia, perhaps, or Alaska's Brooks Range, or maybe a wilderness canoe trip through the Northwest Territories. As the conversation eddied and rolled, I ducked out and walked down to the dock, where I stared up at the stars and pondered the trip's balance sheet of risks, frustrations, and rewards. Was it a success? Had it been worth the effort? I looked toward the house and got my answer. Through the kitchen window, I could see my friends sitting at the dining table, laughing and lifting their glasses in the air, and I realized what they were doing. They were offering a toast to our next self-guided adventure.

I walked back to the cottage to find out what it would be.

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