Wind hurtles up the Emmons glacier, backhanding our tents as it heads for the summit. The snow has frozen our tent stakes into the glacier, and hopefully the tent with it. It might still be here when we get back down.

A few murmurs from our rope mates in the tent next to us between gusts. It’s 1:30 AM on June 26^th, after 4 hours of snoozing to refresh. At our current 9600 feet, the wind’s gusting 40-50 mph, it’s 26 degrees F, with a few scattered clouds cruising high above the summit. Perfect. Rainier’s a solitary white island above the mass of clouds a thousand feet below.

Light the stove, heat water, gulp down coffee, bagel, energy bar of choice. Drink more water. “It was that odd cracking sound in my leg I remember best,” mumbles a woman in the group roping up near us, “after they caught my fall and I bounced off the side of the crevasse.”

We rope up, strap on crampons, grab our axes and head up, debating whether to let our leg cracking neighbor go ahead of us as the official expedition crevasse tester. But we pass her huffing away after a few minutes and keep going. It pays to live at 8500 feet.

No need for headlamps. Just the crunch of snow on the moonlit glacier, the whistle of wind, and breathing as we wind-up and around crevasses. Tiny lights of headlamps bob ahead of us high up the glacier. We move quickly, skipping rest breaks. Blasts of wind tug us off balance. Duck, get three points into the snow, hold on for a moment.

We hit the steeps. The rope yanks hard behind me, jerking me backwards in mid-step. I tense and prepare to hit the snow and self-arrest. Nothing. I look back and see my wife leaning on her axe, head down. “Tell when you need to stop, maybe before you stop,” I call down in mild irritation. Nothing. “That’s kind of hard when you’re out of breath,” she shouts back. I ponder a response. A rare burst of wisdom reminds that silence, and food, would be golden right about now. After all, she’s been over 19,000 feet more than I have. We carve a seat out of the snow, rest and watch the orange glow of sunrise spread over the horizon hundreds of miles to the east.

Lunch at 8 AM on the summit. Steam slips out of the snow on the crater’s edges. A jagged Mt. Saint Helens pierces the clouds to our south. Full sun warms us. And the softening snow. Time to descend.

We wake early the following morning, pack, and climb a gully behind base camp to the top of the Interglacier. Off with the crampons, on with the snow pants. No more plunge stepping: time for the glissade. We hit the butt-tracks of previous climbers and an Olympic quality luge run, complete with banked corners, mini jumps and the perfect run out at the bottom. I bank into the first turn, barely hold it, weight the axe point and recover. My wife blows by with perfect form, giggling her way down the track to my right. Our rope mates close behind. No need to rest here.

Two hours in the car and we’re on the beach. A sample of the local brew, a dive into the painfully cold Pacific, and a few minutes to thaw and start breathing again, followed by a heap of fresh fish and razor clams at a local seafood joint.

We could live like this.

About the author:

Paul Riciputi and his wife Charlotte live in the mountains west of Boulder, with the requisite dog and a garage full of tele skis, bikes, raccoons, backpacking and climbing gear. They sharpen their survival skills by venturing into the corporate and education worlds to fund adventures and new gear.