The planning began months in advance. My friend Johnny Riggs, erstwhile climbing partner and now living on the east coast, wanted to fly back to Washington for a few days of climbing. Some friends of his, Alex and Scott, were planning on an ascent of Mt. Rainier, and Ron and I were their local contacts. Email flew back and forth as we debated routes, gear, and schedules. After eliminating Liberty Ridge, scene of many recent accidents, and the standard Emmons and Disappointment Cleaver routes, we settled on the Kautz Glacier. The Kautz route would provide some interesting alpine ice climbing and a spectacular high camp below an ice cliff.

After a morning packing session and gut-bomb breakfast at IHOP, we drove down to Longmire and picked up our reserved permits. There are two common approaches for the Kautz Glacier route: from Paradise, across the Nisqually and Wilson Glaciers to a snowfield called the "Turtle"; or up the Comet Falls trail, through the meadows of Van Trump Park, to the same snowfield below the Kautz Ice Cliff. We opted for the longer hike through Van Trump Park and a three-day climbing schedule. This way, all us lowlanders would have time to adjust to the altitude and we would avoid the crowds of tourists and climbers that plague the trails above Paradise.

So just up the road from Longmire, we swung off and started up the trail. It was already midday and I was soon dripping with sweat. After the steep trail through Van Trump Park, we got a full view of the route before us. Just then, Ron lost the battle with dark intestinal forces and lagged behind to make numerous unsavory marks upon the lush green heather meadows. We eventually stumbled upon a pair of luxurious campsites on a rocky ridge just below a series of snowfields that connected a few thousand feet above with the Turtle. This would be our first night's camp. We set up tents and made dinner between short bursts of rain. The showers and slanting sunlight created a spectacular vista to our south, with a huge pair of rainbows framing Mt. Adams and the Tatoosh Range in the coloring light of evening. Johnny Riggs was so excited to be there, I think he ate two MREs.

Our three-day schedule gave us plenty of time to relax, so we made no fuss about getting up early the next morning. There were only 3000 feet of mellow snow slopes to ascend to our high camp, so we enjoyed breakfast and stashed a few unwanted items in the rocks to retrieve on the descent: a few filled blue bags, the wad of extra slings Riggs caught stowing away in his enormous Army pack, and our running shoes--great for the dry approach trail, but not much use on snow or glacier.

A few hours of boring step-kicking got us to a small waterfall just below a network of bivy sites at 9200' below the Turtle. We refilled our water bottles and took a brief siesta. To the east, tiny black dots inched their way up and down the Muir Snowfield, a destination for dayhikers and the approach to the most popular route on the peak. I basked in the sunshine and enjoyed a little solitude.

Camp at 10200' was a bit smaller, on a nice perch next to the Turtle. Self-arrest practice, dinner, and boiling water occupied us until the incoming thunderstorms persuaded us to take shelter. Our plan for the next day was to get up and down before the sun swung around and started baking the ice cliff, below which we would have to traverse when climbing and descending back to camp.

I managed some sleep, but the alarm beeped too soon. Rain flicked at the tent window. Reluctantly, I pulled on my boots and started to prepare for the climb. Scott and Alex were ready to go, but from John and Ron's tent arose doubtful laughter about the rain. A sudden shower pushed us back into the tents, where we debated how late we could afford to start and still have enough time to make the climb and descent with a reasonable safety margin. Another lull lured us outside, but soon again the rain lashed our faces. I wasn't feeling good about the weather, so I retreated to the tent to seek solace from the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

I wasn't too concerned with nabbing the summit, but it was an easy decision for me, since I can always drive down to Rainier and try again. For Alex especially, however, motivation was still high. He and Scott took my offered ice screws and went for a little walk. We agreed to make radio contact in an hour. Sixty pages of the Hitchhiker's Guide later, I pressed the call button, but got no answer. Wind and rain had joined forces now and pressed insistently on the walls of the tent. The temperature had dropped. I was a little worried that my repeated calls got no response.

Wet shuffles and clinking metal sounded outside. Our intrepid companions had returned, miserably damp but otherwise unfazed. The radios were working, but we had both tried to call each other at the appointed time and neither of us had heard the other. There wasn't much else to do but toss wet clothes into the vestibule and half-sleep through the rest of the noisy, stormy night. Our summit attempt was abandoned.

When daylight arrived, it was still raining and clouded over. We could barely see the rocks around us until well on into the morning. I brought out the cards to while away some time. Riggs and I crushed Alex and Scott in a long game of something whose name escapes me now. We tried calling for weather reports but no one's cell phone could get through.

I had to get back to Seattle to work the next day, but everyone else wanted to stay on for another go at the summit. I left some of my gear (ice screws, pickets, a stove) and most of my food for the others to use the next day. Johnny Riggs had eaten his seventh and last MRE, his only provisions for the trip, and certainly would have withered to skin and bones were it not for the bits of cheese and sausage I left behind. As I packed up to leave, the clouds blew away briefly to reveal the mountain sparkling in the sunshine. My partners cheered up with the improving weather and I wished them luck.

The hike out was shockingly quick. It was depressing to descend in one hour what had taken three to climb with a heavy pack. I wasn't sad to leave until I looked back up at my tracks and the campsite. I knew I was missing out on finishing the climb. With the extra day and the clearing weather, the chances looked good for my partners to make it to the summit, and as it turns out, they did.

I don't regret not going for it Sunday morning--the intensifying storm, in hindsight, justified my decision. It was great to spend three days on the mountain with a fun group of guys, summit or not. In the ongoing conflict between climbing and rest of my life's priorities, score another point for pedestrian existence.