Mount Adams stands majestically against the skyline of the state of Washington. The fact that it has not erupted in several thousand years makes it no less the mammoth volcano that it is. It is a member of the Cascade Volcanic Arc. It’s more famous siblings include Mount Rainier to the north and Mount St. Helens to the east. Mount Adams is located in a remote wilderness 31 miles east of St. Helens. On a clear day it juts 1.5 vertical miles above the Cascade Crest.
In the days leading up to the ascent of this 12,267-foot volcano, I experience serious anxiety. I don’t know if I’m physically up to the challenge. I pulled a hamstring a few weeks previous and then reinjured it two weeks later. The injury has halted my preparatory workouts.
I feel intimidated in a pre-hike meeting two days before departure. Can I keep up with this group? It includes six energetic teenage boys and their adult leaders. In preparation they did a 20-mile hike only three weeks earlier. They seem to be ready. But even more intimidating to me is the Ironman. Mark Barnard is my dentist, but he is better known for his completion of ten ironman triathlons. Yes, he’s an old man like me, but anyone capable of swimming 2.4 miles, biking 120 miles, and then running 26.2 miles is sure to embarrass me with my sort-of-in-shape body.
The group leader is young men’s president, Brian Masse. He asks everyone to bring their hiking boots to the meeting so he can get them fitted for crampons the next day. He is taken back when he finds I don’t own a pair of hiking boots. He doesn’t realize I’ve been bantering for 30 years with hiking buddies who think I’m loony for simply wearing running shoes on treks as rugged of the Grand Canyon and as long as 60-milers in the Sierras. I hate boots. I refuse to wear boots. When I learn that crampons can’t be worn on “tennis shoes” my anxiety ratchets up a notch.
Our adventure begins about 8:30 on Friday morning. It is a 2-hour drive to the mountain. During our drive to the trail head, Mount Adams looms closer and closer. This bald-headed glacier-strapped peak towers above the lush green forest below. We arrive at the trail head at the base of the mountain about 12:30pm. We pile out of our cars and unload our gear. While we sit and enjoy lunch, Bishop Freeman comments on the array of new state-of-the art backpacks. He comments to another adult, “Hey, remember those old-style packs we used to wear.” He doesn’t notice that my pack probably pre-dates the ones that he’s laughing about.
Before we leave, Brother Massey offers me a spare one-man tent to take on the trip. When I feel the weight of the tent in my hand, I cringe. It’s only 2.5 pounds, but it’s more than I want to carry up the mountain. I thank him, but hand it back. There is only a 30% chance of rain tonight. I’ll take my chances sleeping under the stars.
After lunch and last-chance stops at the outhouse, everyone dons their pack. The boys are full of energy and take off at a brisk pace. I decide to give my hamstring a good test. I hang with the lead boys for the first 1.3 miles. Fortunately hamstrings are not used much for climbing. My legs feel fine.
I tuck in behind the Ironman and strike up a conversation. For the next few miles he entertains me with tales about training and competing in the many triathlons that he has completed. Surprisingly, he looks scrawny and nonathletic. I marvel at the endurance and determination that it takes to do what he does.
At the 7,000 ft level we take a break. We’re still in the trees, but near the timber line. Many of the boys want to camp here so they can enjoy a camp fire. Above the timberline there is no wood. Besides, fires are not allowed any higher. The debate rages. A campfire would be nice, but it is only 2:30 in the afternoon. If we stop now, what do we do for the next 6 hours until nightfall? If we push on, there will be much less hiking and climbing to do tomorrow. Amidst grumbling of half the boys, we continue.
The Ironman leads the way. I stick to his heals. Sixteen year old Devin Masse, who proves throughout the trip to have an edge on the other boys, stays with us. The three of us put distance between us and the pack. It is late afternoon when we reach a relatively flat expanse known as “Lunch Counter”. It is sprinkled with tents of other hikers. We find an area to ourselves several hundred yards from any others. This will allow the boys to be boys without disturbing our neighbors. The three of us early arrivers begin to set up camp. Others stagger into camp for the next half hour.
Lunch Counter is an interesting place. The immediate landscape is cluttered with volcanic debris. There is no hint of vegetation. The mountain peak towers above us 3,000 feet. Glaciers cling to it’s steep slopes and contrast with the black volcanic rock like massive white spots on a black milk cow. At 9,400-foot altitude, we are literally camping above the clouds. The sky above us is mostly blue. The valley below is filled with a continuous blanket of grey ever-churning clouds. Thirty miles to the west, Mount Saint Helens pokes its head through the clouds. Seventy miles to the south, the craggy rock dome of Mount Hood protrudes.
I roll my pad and sleeping bag out on the ground. The rest of the group busy themselves setting up their tents. It’s a difficult task in the 20-mile-per-hour winds. The consensus amongst the group is that I’m nuts. “You’re going to freeze Brother Fuller.” Two take pity and offer to let me squeeze in their tents. One of them is Brother Masse, who’s tent is pitched only three feet from my sleeping bag. I politely decline. Later I’m grateful for the decision, when at three-minute intervals, flatulence rumbles from Masse’s tent with such intensity that Bishop Freeman can hear it clearly from his campsite 50 yards to the west.
It’s dinner time. The flame of my backpacking stove struggles against the frigid wind. When the water in my small mess-kit pot is slow to boil, I lose patience and dump macaroni noodles in prematurely. The water never does boil. The noodles finally soften, but lie in the bottom of the pot in a starchy blob. The addition of cheese mix makes it edible, but only because I’m extremely hungry, tired, and cold. The frigid wind cools my dinner so fast that the last bites are slimy cold. My whole body is chilled. The small thermometer on my backpack reads 40F. I crawl in my sleeping bag but can’t seem to get warm. “Are you alright Brother Fuller?” I offer assurance that I am. But then my legs begin to cramp. I’m forced to get out of my sleeping bag to walk off the cramps. The Ironman gives me a couple of salt tablets and assures me they will help. They do.
The sun sets over the horizon, which from our vantage point is a sea of fluffy white clouds. I’m fearful of freezing all night. I put on my ski bibs and down jacket. I debate for a moment, but the fear of cold feet prompts me to leave my shoes on too. I crawl inside my mummy bag and cinch the hood around my head. I’m warm for now. I fall asleep as the last rays of daylight drain from the sky. I wake up three hours later, not because I’m cold, but because the incessant wind is rattling the tarp I’m using for a ground cloth. The rocky ground is hard even with a pad between me and it. The midnight sky is spectacular, with the Milky Way galaxy spread grandly almost from horizon to horizon. I’ve only once seen a more spectacular sky and that was in the Sierras at nearly11,000 feet. The view is slowly shuttered by my eyelids as I fall back asleep. At day break I wake toasty warm but can feel the frigid morning air on my face. The thermometer now reads below freezing. I’m doubtful that it is really that cold. After all, how accurate can a $5 thermometer be? But the temperature is verified by ice chunks in my water bottles.
The boys are slow to rise. I’m antsy to get moving. I empty my backpack of all nonessentials, leaving mostly food and drink. While Brother Masse tries to convene the boys for a pre-hike devotional. I leave camp by myself. It’s 6:30am. Unlike the rest of the group, I don’t have crampons. The 30-minute head start may even things up.
I survey the mountain for the best route up. There appear to be no trails. I follow another group of hikers that begin their ascent at the base of a glacier. They slowly move up the slope with their crampons penetrating the icy shell of the glacier at every step. I choose a route 100 yards to the left, where a narrow rock outcropping ascends the mountain between two glaciers. The rocks are irregular-shaped volcanic debris, about shoebox size. Step by step, from one lava chunk to another, I move up the mountain. After half a mile the rocky strip I’m on gives way to another glacier. I’m forced to traverse a narrow strip of ice. Lucky, there are a few rocks protruding from the freeze which give my soft-soled shoes traction. Safely across the ice, I begin anew on a new strip of rock.
As the sun peaks over the horizon, it glimmers off the glacier to my right. I notice a tiny stream of sunshine-induced melt begin its descent downhill. When the last rays of today’s sun flee and the nightly freeze follows, the glacier will do its best to reclaim what it has lost. The rising of tomorrow’s sun will begin the thaw/freeze cycle anew. The quiet clatter of a golf-ball-size rock on the ice draws my attention. Perhaps the morning thaw dislodged it from the ice somewhere above. It rolls past me at a sluggish speed but picks up as it goes. After a hundred yards its speed is lethal as it is bouncing repeatedly 10 feet off the ice. It grows too small to see before it reaches its final destination hundreds of feet below. As I make my way further up the mountain, my quads scream in pain. To force a pace, I take 20 steps then stop to catch my breath, another 20 steps and stop. Beneath my ski bibs, my burning legs are sweaty. At the same time the exposed skin of my bare arms stings from the cold. I breathe heavy. The thin-air altitude is truly butt kicking.
Forward progress is measured by viewing the empty expanse below. Our campsite, with tents still standing, lies at least a thousand feet below. As I climb, the large volcanic chunks which offered decent footing earlier give way to base-ball-size and smaller rocks that want nothing more than to roll down the mountain. I grow frustrated as I take three steps forward and slide two steps back. I find myself sliding down slope on my butt in a mini-rock slide. I’m reduced to climbing like a stinkbug, my butt in the air and my hands grappling for traction in the loose rocks. It’s extremely tiring. The lava rocks are sharp and abrasive on my finger tips. I take out my ice ax and use it as a make shift cane.
On the glacier to my right is a group of four crampon-fitted hikers who started up about the same time I did. Initially it seemed they would soundly beat me. Throughout my climb, I’ve gauged my progress against theirs. They are all at least 20 years younger than I and much better equipped. But after climbing 1500 feet they are no higher than I am. When I stop for a minute to catch my breath, I catch one of them looking at me. “Are the rocks better?” he calls. “I don’t think so,” I offer. Apparently, my actions speak louder than words. He and his buddies leave the glacier and began traipsing across the rocks. Their crampons offer better traction in the small aggregate than my shoes. Our unspoken race to the top is over. I can’t keep up.
What appears to be the top of the mountain is close. But I have read about a “false summit” and know I am looking at it. When I finally crest it, the real summit looms across a half-mile-wide snow-covered saddle, about 500 feet higher. The ugly smell of sulfur reminds me that I’m on a volcano. My shoes crunch at every step as I follow the footprints of others through re-frozen snow. Going down into the saddle offers a reprieve from climbing. On the other side of the saddle a well-marked trail emerges from the snow and begins one last steep ascent to the summit. It is well marked and snow-free. Good footing is a welcome change but does little to quiet my screaming quadriceps.
When I finally hit the top I am greeted by a snow-encrusted old abandoned cabin and the first four climbers of the day that reached the top before me. I drop my pack in exhaustion and suck in thin cold air. I did it! I conquered Mount Adams.. At 12,287 feet, it seems I am standing on top of the world. The sky is reasonably clear. The sun’s rays offer little warmth compared to the howling arctic-like winds. Through hazy skies north, Mount Rainer beckons. To the west is Mount St. Helens. Hood is visible to the south, with Mount Jefferson a little farther south.
I sign the guest registry before plopping on the ground and savoring the view. The A&W root beer which I carried up to celebrate this moment sits untouched in my backpack. Its syrupy sweetness is unappealing. After three hours of sweating, I crave salty food. As I scavenge through my backpack I notice an unopened bag of trail mix which has ballooned in size from the change in altitude. I finally settle on a tube of Pringle potato chips.
Ten minutes after my arrival, guys from our group begin to trickle in. Devin Masse is first. When the Ironman arrives five minutes later he expresses his surprise at my performance by calling me a “steely eyed mountain goat”. More exhausted boys follow, each absolutely exhilarated for having accomplished the feat. The two adult leaders that started the morning with the boys are nowhere to be found.
The wind is so cold it is hard to sit for long and enjoy the view. The Ironman grows cold and is first to head down the mountain. I leave five minutes later and quickly catch up. We hike together for awhile. We encounter Bishop Freeman as he starts across the saddle. He is feeling nauseous and has no appetite, but is determined to reach the summit. Brian Masse is not far behind him and looks even worse. We offer words of encouragement as we pass. A little further we pass Dallas Stahle and Justin _____ who are on a march to catch the rest of the group. They arrived and started hiking a half day later than we did. Shortly they will join the group for the remainder of the hike.
As I make my way down the mountain I encounter another hiker on her way up. The exchange is typical of more to come. The attractive young lady in her 20’s eyes my shoes and asks, “You went all the way to the top in Nikes?” I nod. “Kewl,” she exclaims. As I walk away she calls after me, “You should have your own commercial.” I chuckle at the thought. It is true that if 50 people reach the summit on this day, I would bet money that I’m the only one to do it without crampons. If a thousand were to reach it, I’d likely be the only one to do it in tennis shoes.
The Ironman and I make the three mile hike back to base camp in great time, in part because we slide down glaciers for nearly a mile on our butts. We opt to leave the six boys and four other adults to finish the hike on their own. We load our packs and head down the mountain. Ironman is undoubtedly in vastly better shape than me, but I have an advantage. Having hiked hundreds of miles on rocky trails in the Grand Canyon, I am very sure footed. I’m able to pick my way through the rocks clean and efficiently. I set a natural pace that feels good. Anything slower feels uncomfortable. Ironman lags behind until I can’t see him anymore. I arrive back at the parking lot at 4pm. For twenty minutes I sit in my truck and reflect on the just-completed 12-mile jaunt. I did OK. For that I’m grateful. Finally the iron man arrives. We toss our packs in the back of my truck and hit the road. With luck we will be home for dinner.
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Special to thanks to all who let me be part of their Mount Adams experience:
Peter Deuce
Jacob Meyers
Jordan Haupt
Devyn Turner
Austin Freeman
Evan Long
Brian Masse
Kendell Freeman
Mark Barnard
Dallas Stahle
