Up from Paradise: Adventuring on Big Tahoma

Paradise to Camp Muir

Mt. Rainier National Park, WA

9 miles round-trip, strenuous

On this fine August morning circa 2002, we don’t dwell on the fact that our objective is the loftiest non-technical point in the state of Washington—and it’s best we have no way of knowing that Backpacker magazine will one day include the trek from Paradise to Camp Muir in its Ten Most Dangerous Hikes in America. 

Instead, we’re looking up, up, up at the massive stratovolcano some call Big Tahoma, contemplating a trip halfway-to-the-top, anticipating a hybrid hike/climb to Camp Muir that will undoubtedly give us an exhilarating lungful of the air up there.  Once charmingly known as Cloud Camp, the staging point for climbers and destination for day hikers was renamed for naturalist John Muir after his 1888 summit expedition. 

Of all the fire mountains which like beacons... once blazed along the Pacific Coast, Mt. Rainier is the noblest.  ~John Muir

Paradise Meadow.

As is our custom, we travel lightly: hats and sunscreen, layers on top, shorts(!) and sturdy boots, availing ourselves of trekking poles, carrying adequate food and water, apprising ourselves of route and weather information.  A minimalist approach, yes, but a realistic one.  We are prepared to stop and/or turn around if the going gets rough on the south face of this 14,410-foot Cascade peak.

Subalpine Meadow and Creek.

We embark from Paradise on the Skyline Trail.  The first two miles pass innocuously enough, on paved trail and then on well-worn rocky path. We meander across restored subalpine meadow—purple lupine, magenta paintbrush, and yellow cinquefoil nodding in the morning breeze, hoary marmots signaling our passage through their fragile ecosystem home with simultaneously endearing and irritating toot-shrieking calls.  

Past the idyllic drainage of Pebble Creek, the way becomes more challenging, traversing rock outcroppings and snow patches until the transition is complete.  We have moved from a world of wildflowers and whistle pigs into a startling realm of snow, mountain, and sky.

Making Progress on the Snowfield.

And so the climb begins.  Step by snowbound step, we scale two-plus miles and 2800 vertical feet across Muir Snowfield.  We keep a steady pace, progressing ever-upward, pausing occasionally to rest and reconnoiter on craggy basalt islands adrift in a mounded sea of snow.  Above eight thousand feet, the rate of ascent moderates: cold comfort, as the air is rarifying, and there remains plenty of white stuff above.

On Muir Snowfield.

On this blue-sky morning, the route is clear and crevasse-free.  Many have observed that Rainier produces its own weather: storm systems roll off the Pacific, enveloping Big Tahoma in blinding fog and big snow, limiting visibility, transforming the snowfield into a winter-washed wasteland.  A land without landmarks exposes disoriented hikers and climbers to peril on adjacent glaciers. 

Today... so far, so good.  We keep eyes trained on those empty blue skies.

Approaching Camp Muir.

Step, step, step, pause.  Step, step, step, pause.  Legs and lungs pose the increasingly persistent question: Are we there yet?  Indeed, the final stretch—several hundred footfalls up several hundred vertical feet—are the most psychologically and physically challenging of the  climb.  Those.  Buildings.  Look.  So.  Close.  Step, step, step, pause.  Finally, we step, step, step off the snowfield and onto the rocky reprieve of Camp Muir, 4600 vertical feet above Paradise.

At Camp Muir.

The camp, elevation 10,080 feet, rests impressively, implausibly, on a saddle between the Nisqually and Cowlitz Glaciers.  Two rustic stone structures dominate the suspended hamlet: one, a public shelter accommodating climbers on a first-come, first-served basis; the other, a bunkhouse quartering a professional guide company.  Clusters of orange, yellow, green, and blue tents splash nylon color across a landscape delimited by rock and snow.  It is very quiet here.  Climbers move about, attending to pre-summit preparations. Fellow day hikers mill about, speaking in muted tones and snapping photographs.   We settle on a rock ledge, enjoy the snacks we carried, and take it all in.

Clouds and Cascades: View from Camp Muir.

It’s an extraordinary sensory experience, hanging out on the side of a snow-covered stratovolcano.  Periodically, we hear distant-or-not-so-distant rumblings of melting ice and snow, moving breccia and basalt, tumbling downward to settle in a new place.  In those moments, it seems like Big Tahoma is alive and kicking.  We look to the now blue-but-cloud-scuttled sky and then to the terrestrial panorama.  Beyond the serrated Tatoosh Range, Mt. Adams, Mt. St. Helens, and Mt. Hood congregate on an inexpressibly lovely horizon, a veritable Who’s Who of Cascade peaks.  Closer, on this mountain, impressive glaciers sweep away from the camp; Gilbralter and Cathedral Rocks and Little Tahoma loom above us.

Momentarily Dignified and Upright on the Descent.

Back to the Meadow.

Step, step, step, slide.  Step, step, step, long slide.  Step.  Very long slide.  The descent from Camp Muir to Paradise presents challenges of its own. Afternoon sun has tempered the snow—it’s not too soft, not too icy—and we settle on something vaguely resembling the classic glissade, an often comical, knee-burning attempt to control rate of descent.  Gravity is our friend, and we’re soon delivered to the land of gurgling mountain creeks, nodding wildflowers, and whistling hoary marmots.

Noble Rainier, Making Its Own Weather.

When John Muir returned to more firma terra after his 1888 summit, he campaigned to establish Mt. Rainier as a national park and confided to his wife, I didn’t mean to climb it, but got carried away. We understand his enthusiasm.  We did in fact mean to climb halfway up and step-slide halfway down Big Tahoma, and we are similarly carried away, adventuring on the mountain Theodore Roosevelt called our noblest landmark.