Mount Rainier Quotes

We need a new ethic of place, one that has room for salmon and skyscrapers, suburbs and wilderness, Mount Rainier and the Space Needle, one grounded in history.

During my three seasons at Mount Rainier I learned a lot about mountain climbing and rescues, about politics and camaraderie in the mountains, and about what being a woman climber means. Now I know in all certainty when to bring my toothbrush and when to leave it at home, and, all things considered, that kind of confidence is hard to come by. The greatest skill I ever had, though, was the one I started with: being able to suffer for long periods of time and not die. In exchange, I got to see some amazing things.

My drafting table, where I drew The Far Side for most of my career, faced a window that overlooked a beautiful garden; beyond the garden was a lake, and beyond the lake Mount Rainier rose majestically into the Washington sky. I worked at night.

We know people by their stories: their history, their habits, their secrets, their triumphs and failures. We know them by what they do. We want to know mountains too, but they’ve got no story. So we do the next best thing. We throw ourselves onto them and make the stories happen.

The mountain receives our expressions and becomes part of us; we imprint our memories upon it and trust it with out dearest divisions of out lives. Mt. Rainier does not exist under our feet. Mt. Rainier lives in our minds

If you’re gonna be broke, you could pick plenty of worse places to do it than Tacoma. It’s not too hot; it’s not too cold. It’s as green as any place could want to be. You’ve got the bay on one side and the mountains on the other. Mount Rainier is as big and beautiful a mountain as anybody would ever care to see. When you could see it through the haze, I mean. Even when it’s not raining around there, the air’s damp. No wonder it’s all so green. Tacoma

How did you do it?” we asked Don. “How did you make it to the top of Mount Rainier on one leg?” “One hop at a time,” he said.

More pleasure is to be found at the foot of the mountains than on their tops. Doubly happy, however, is the man to whom lofty mountain tops are within reach, for the lights that shine there illumine all that lies below. — John Muir, from “An Ascent of Mount Rainier” Chapter One The Great Fire Seattle, Washington Territory 6 June 1889

This is what we see when we look up at Rainier, the beauty, the horror, the awe the unbelievability of size that confirms our own consequence on this earth. We look at the mountain, like god and can imagine nothing larger. Its incompressible life-span reminds us of the fleeting mortality of our own bones. It looms over our lives on clear days and and stay present but hidden through the clouds of winter. Like god it remains everywhere forever.

Civilization proceeds in a direction opposite from everything mountains represent: starvation, hardship, coldness, the constant scramble to survive...People used to avoid mountains, but now we seek their company. We come for the pretty sights, but also to find a place still free from those life-saving constraints. We come to the mountain seeking beauty and terror.

Few experiences rival a serious climb for bringing us into close contact with our own limitations. Part engineering project, part chess game, part ultramarathon, mountaineering demands of us in a way that other endeavors do not. After my trip to Cholatse, I came to think of high-altitude climbing not so much as a sport but as a kind of art or even, in its purest form, rugged spirituality—a modern version of secular asceticism that purifies the soul by stripping away worldly comfort and convenience while forcing you to stare across the threshold of mortality. It is our effort to toil through these hazardous and inhospitable landscapes that culminates with such potent effect, what humanistic psychologists have described as the attainment of self-actualization, a pinnacle of personal expression that dissolves the constraints of our ordinary lives and allows us, even if fleetingly, to “become what we are capable of becoming.” This transformative power is, in a way, why summits have taken on so much symbolic importance for those who pursue them. As the reigning mythology suggests, the higher the peak—Rainier, Cholatse, Everest—the more it fires the imagination.

(The very term “skid row” comes from Seattle’s skid road, a logging skid at the center of a large liquor and prostitution industry.)

Indian Bar’s reputation as a notorious bear enclave can be accounted for by the acres of blueberries surrounding the camp. While they draw the bears, the berries also assure backcountry campers that bears will look upon them as nuisances in the berrypatch rather than two hundred pounds of meat on the hoof. That is, if you arrive during berry season. Which I did not. A ranger had issued me a wilderness permit to pitch my tent among the bears outside the designated camp, but by the time I’d bushwhacked to the top of a ridge above the Ohanapecosh River, I’d begun to question the wisdom of my decision. Every tentsize clearing under every tree bore the wilderness equivalent of a coat on a theater seat: bear scat big as cowpies and puddingly fresh.

You take bits off crickets and they grow new parts,” Edwards explains in his cheery New Zealand accent. “My interest in this alpine work is that you find creatures growing in habitats where you wouldn’t expect anything to be.

This is how I think of Mount Rainier, not as an icon of permanence but as a source of relentless change, a mountain forever falling.

What if each American landowner made it a goal to convert half of his or her lawn to productive native plant communities? Even moderate success could collectively restore some semblance of ecosystem function to more than twenty million acres of what is now ecological wasteland. How big is twenty million acres? It’s bigger than the combined areas of the Everglades, Yellowstone, Yosemite, Grand Teton, Canyonlands, Mount Rainier, North Cascades, Badlands, Olympic, Sequoia, Grand Canyon, Denali, and the Great Smoky Mountains National Parks. If we restore the ecosystem function of these twenty million acres, we can create this country’s largest park system. It gives me the shivers just to write about it. Because so much of this park will be created at our homes, I suggest we call it Homegrown National Park.

As nearly every story that follows illustrates, a failure to gear up, or to properly use gear—or failure of the gear itself—plays a starring role in fatal accidents on Rainier.

There are old climbers, and there are bold climbers, but there are no old bold climbers.

You don’t have to be on the steepest, or the highest, or the coldest, to meet your maker in the wild.

On June 24, 1947, Kenneth Arnold, a businessman from Boise, Idaho, was flying a small plane near Mount Rainier when, according to Associated Press reports, he spotted a chain of nine “saucer-like” objects above and east of the mountain. Brilliant in the sun, these objects darted toward Mount Adams at “an incredible speed” that he estimated to be at least 1,200 miles per hour. Arnold’s story of saucer-shaped objects initiated a UFO craze that has not abated. Analyses by meteorologists and other scientists suggest that Mr. Arnold did not spot a visitor from another world, but rather a mountain wave cloud, a frequent visitor to the mountainous Pacific Northwest.

I prefer the saddle to the streetcar and star-sprinkled sky to a roof, the obscure and difficult trail, leading into the unknown, to any paved highway, and the deep peace of the wild to the discontent bred by cities.… It is enough that I am surrounded by beauty.” Ruess scaled remote canyons,

Tears in the corners of my eyes—of pure emotion—joy—happiness … I feel totally unburdened. The load has been lifted off my back, off my mind. I have to do nothing more to prove myself. This is not for others but for me—and to me. Observation Mountain is a beautiful place. A beautiful rare mood. A few precious moments of ecstasy somehow not meant for—or translate-able into—words. Language fails where the tears begin.

Most active winter bugs can supercool their bodies to a range of–6 to–12 degrees Celsius, going lower by producing more glycerol and dropping the water content in their bodies.

Only a fool has never climbed Mount Fuji; only a fool has climbed it more than once.” I needed that once. John I became disoriented

In the 1840s the Nisqually Glacier reached about nine hundred feet past the Nisqually River bridge on the Paradise Road. Today the terminus sits more than a mile upvalley. The Carbon is currently in mild retreat; the ice at the terminus is melting back faster than the motion of the glacier can push it ahead. It has shrunk twenty feet every year since 1986.

My father’s desire to climb the mountain was so strong that it had crushed one of the deepest instincts bred in the human bone: the sense to not look silly in front of the neighbors.

One of the most famous aphorisms in science is the British biologist J. B. S. Haldane’s answer to the question, What might one conclude about God based on a study of His creation? “An inordinate fondness for beetles.

Learning to climb a mountain is like repeating infancy. First you master the act of breathing, move on to walking, then accept the challenge of falling down without bonking your head.

A lot of these ridges formed during the ice ages,” he explained. “Imagine filling all the existing valleys with ice, then sending lava flows out along the margins of those glaciers. When the flow hits the ice it hardens and creates a dam, so instead of flowing onto the glacier it continues down the ridge. When the ice age ends, the glaciers melt away and you get pretty much what you see now.

In the deep forests of Mount Rainier, the sun doesn’t rise, it leaks in thin bands through the trees.

On July 13, 1925, Walt and Lillian were married. They spent their honeymoon at Mount Rainier. On their wedding night, Walt had such a bad toothache that he couldn’t sleep. To take his mind off the pain, he left their room and helped a porter shine shoes all night. The next morning he went to a dentist and had his tooth pulled. It certainly wasn’t the most fun way to start off a marriage. But Walt had a good story to tell.

The rain is here because of the mountain. Warm, moist air from the Pacific Ocean flows over Western Washington and bumps into the Cascade Range. The air cools and condenses into clouds; it rains. From on high it looks as if a barn of cotton blew in and snagged on the jagged ridges of the Cascades.

The approaching storm” is a hollow phrase in the city, where it’s impossible to see much of anything approach, let alone witness a storm ride a five-mile sky. Skyscrapers shrink our view to a series of slots. We live in trenches. On the mountain, weather can’t be ignored or outrun;

Falling water has always been a healing balm when I find myself with a despairing mind and cracking soul. The winter rains of Puget Sound, which never start and stop but only drizzle on, signal the cool comfort of home.

When the sun shines, the Wonderland Trail is an exhausting but not unrewarding trek. When it rains, the Wonderland’s a downright bitch.

The barometric pressure at sea level is 760 torr, a unit of measure named after Torricelli. By 10,000 feet the pressure has dropped to 525 torr, and at the 14,410-foot summit of Mount Rainier the pressure is around 440 torr, or more than forty percent less than at sea level. Most of the air collects at the bottom of the troposphere. When you stand atop Mount Rainier, almost half the weight of the world’s air floats beneath you.

Allow his spirit to be peaceful, but allow it to roam free. Let him race up and down the slopes with the wind, let him trickle slowly through the canyons, let him spread completely and gracefully across the land with the setting sun. [He] deserved many things in this life he did not get, but he most assuredly deserves these things.

The Pacific Northwest boasts a long and honorable tradition of rain-soaked misery.

During their coastal wintering, Lewis and Clark and their Corps of Discovery enjoyed a total of twelve days without rain.

People used to avoid mountains, but now we seek their company. We come for the pretty sights, but also to find a place still free from those life-saving constraints. We come to the mountain seeking beauty and terror.

of uniformed and plain-clothed officers, and a tent, and the allure was too much to resist. Even the tourists were ignoring two of the region’s most iconic views—the booming image of Mount Rainier dominating the

A novel is like a mountain. Like Mount Rainier. You ever seen Mount Rainier? It's like you're looking at God. It's so gorgeous and dynamic and powerful and meaningful. Then as you walk toward it, Things change. At one point, it's not even a mountain anymore. There's an incline, but you don't see the whole thing. There are different levels. When you get to the top, you look out from the mountain and it's just as majestic because now you're looking from God's point of view. So the novel is a mountain. Now, the short story is an island --- some trees and a beach and a little creature running around. You go on the island, but then you realize that underneath it is a mountain, but it's just underwater, so you never see it. You have to describe the whole mountain, but only from the point of view of that island. Whatever detritus gets washed up, whatever the weather is there, whatever is happening underneath, you have to somehow give that to the reader without making it explicit.

Mount Rainier stood guard over us, recording our history in its bones.