RMI Expeditions Blog

The four-day climb led by RMI guide Dominic Cifelli attempted their summit of Mt Rainier last night. They turned around at the top of the Disappointment Cleaver due to high winds. 

Nice work up there!

The five-day climb led by RMI guide Ray Holt used their second night at Camp Muir to attempt to summit Mt Rainier. Due to high winds, they turned around at the top of the Disappointment Cleaver. 

Great effort everyone!

Sunday, June 28 - 9:15PM PST

Sleep came easily for most of us last night. What had been a few hours at 17 was closer to 10 at 14, and we rolled like cats in the sun when Ben called us to breakfast at a leisurely 9am.

Rations have run low, and breakfast burritos are a distant memory. Faced with the choice between granola, oatmeal, and mountain house meals we swore to never eat again we chose freeze-dried, splitting biscuits and gravy and a breakfast scramble.

Kitchens are gathering places the world round, and here is no different. We lingered around the warm stoves and laughed about memories from the summit.

Soon it was noon and we gathered all of our remaining rations for a picnic lunch. Some were down to shredded pop tarts, others *cough Jimmy* still had ten pounds of food to spare. We traded, tasted, and Mike hoarded pounds of candy for the hopeful hike out.

Then games, music, movies and laughs as the snow gently drifted through the tent door. Ben told us the hope is to hike out through the night, but we’ll have to see about the weather.

That uncertainty has become the mark of this mountain and our trip.

There were a half dozen times as we pushed to the summit that Ben almost turned around. Avalanche risks were a-plenty, even 150 feet from the summit. If we did turn, that would have been the right decision.

So we could hike out tonight, or tomorrow. There may be more avalanche risk, or there may not. Our bodies could feel strong, or weak. The winds may be calm, or pick up. The glacier could be frozen when we cross overnight, or it may have cracks that add hours to rain at the airfield until the clouds clear.

This could be our last day eating gas station food, or it may be longer than that. As I turn 40 this year that’s the thing I keep thinking about - delays.

Many of us fashion our lives to take the straight line from this to that. We’re at 14 camp and thinking about Talkeetna. I often want to be someplace other than here.

The lesson I’m being invited to learn is that all of life is here in front of me. What’s more, the interruptions and detours are not only the spice but the substance of life.

(Please know - there is also tragedy, suffering, and injustice unequally distributed in the world. Those things aren’t fair and shouldn’t be wished on anyone).

But I do wish bad weather, on me and on you. That’s what refines our character, holds us still while our roots grow deep, and leads us from comfort to greater adventure. It can’t always be sunny out, we equally need the night.

I guess what I’m saying is that, while I need a summit (or airfield) as a heading, I want my heart to be where my feet are, especially when it’s not what I would have chosen.

That's the only way I would have learned that crampons can be trusted on ice. It’s how, as a 100-degree-Texan, I learned that life in the snow isn’t what I feared and that cloud cover keeps us warm. As an only-child and introvert, I learned that I can live in a tent the size of an elevator with two grown men for 20 days.

We should celebrate when life goes well and smoothly (like our first week here). And when our flight’s canceled, business slows, relationship ends, or we feel adrift I hope to remember that the interruptions, storms, and false summits have a gift that I wouldn’t find any other way That’s doubly true when you have a friend, sibling, spouse, climbing partner, or fellow guide to find the mystery in the moment.

I’m excited to get home, and grateful it will take a few more days than we expected.

— —

I woke up early this morning after the first good sleep in a few nights and the frost-coating on the tent wall fell over our boots and sleeping pads as I eased into the crisp morning air.

Yesterday, we awoke fitfully at 17 after summit day, and almost universally felt ill. There was nausea, headaches, loss of appetite, aching muscles, raspy coughs, and - equally - a cheerful determination to start our hike home.

So, in parkas and mittens we forced down oatmeal, packed tents, and turned our faces towards the gentle snowfall. Dear reader, the hike to 14 is no joke. We first navigate the west buttress ridge, affixed with running belay to hold us to the mountain while tap dancing over narrow ledges and frozen shelves. Our intrepid guides make the ropes short, then long. They go ahead, then follow behind - all to ensure our safety where a misstep has 1,000 foot consequences. “Anchor,” “climbing,” became our mantra and our prayer.

Then we’re at the fixed lines, a long stretch of carefully secured rope for steep terrain. On the way up, we use a tool that holds us securely. On the way down, you wrap your arm around the rope, step carefully, and hope for the best.

 - RMI Guide Hudson
 

Sunday, June 28 - 9:30PM PST

Forecasts suggested we’d get a little break from the snowstorm this morning, so we were up early. It is tough, this far up the mountain, to be up before the sun makes its way around, but we were motivated. We set out climbing at 8AM and the clouds and snow came back in about then. We went uphill anyway, in the hope that things would change for the better before we got on the fixed rope section. Two hours took us to 15,300ft but the weather got no better. We were in a swirling snowstorm with very little visibility or contrast. We figured it wouldn’t work to take on the more technical terrain above. So we turned around… the carry of food and fuel could wait. We got excellent exercise, we broke Sidd’s altitude record, we got out of our tents for a few hours… it wasn’t a bad day. But we’d still love to get that full carry in tomorrow.

- RMI Guide Dave Hahn

Sunday, June 28 - 12:10pm PST

The day after the summit.

Yesterday we stood on the top of North America. Today we feel like shit. But no, that doesn’t begin to describe the feeling. The day after summit day is a mood all of its own. Joy, relief, exhaustion, confusion, fullness.

Last night, we got back to 17’ camp at 9:15pm, 12 hrs after embarking on an epic summit day. In a daze, we ate Mountain House meals from the warmth of our tents. Sleeping at 17,200’ is a challenge of its own. Snoozes are regularly interrupted by snores, sneezes, coughs, aches, and residual adrenaline. It’s best not to look at your sleep score, “body battery,” or any other wearable metric in such conditions—unless you’re the special one being studied by University of Montana researchers.

We woke up to the sun breaking through a white haze that moved in overnight. Our summit window really was just that. Two days of sunshine sandwiched between rolling snow storms. We looked back up at the Autobahn in the light snowfall, grateful it would now be at ours backs, and saluted Denali’s treacherous gateway.

As altitude headaches slowly subsided, aided by coffee, water, renewed adrenaline (and maybe a pop of Dex), we roped up for the climb  down the West Buttress ridge. One rope team after another, we moved down the running belays, regaining oxygen with each pitch. This time, my mind did not wonder; my only thoughts were about placing my next foothold, maintaining the rope interval, and moving clips efficiently at each anchor. At each pause, I watched the team behind us emerge from the white fog and the team in front of us disappear into it.

At times, it felt disorienting, moving away from the pinnacle we spent so long pursuing. The day after summit day is always bittersweet. And because everything is bigger on Denali, today hit like a wall. The banter at the breaks was notably lacking, but we all now share something that does not need to be and really can’t be put into words.

The fixed lines were the final challenge between us and 14’ camp. We steered ourselves down the ropes over the steep icy slope disguised by a foot of new snow. My crampons dug into the ice with all 24 points. After climbing over the bergshrund at the bottom of the fixed lines, we moved swiftly down slope as snow sloughing off the top fed into the crack. The “walk” back to camp took all we had left, plunging into deep snow for a half hour before the red tents emerged from the white out. Home! We made it back home to our cozy oasis at 14,200’.

As much as we are ready to go back to our real homes, we are also bracing for the culture shock of returning to those lives that have felt fairly distant for 17 days. I’m amazed by how adaptable we are living out here in the elements. It strips life down to the basics. Much of our days are doing the work required just to meet our basic needs: eat, get dress, sleep, poop, stay warm, hydrate, eat. If we’re talking in terms of Maslow’s Hierarchy, we do those things in pursuit of something that could be positioned at the top or bottom of the pyramid: some sort of higher enlightenment or the most basic of needs. I’ve realized that that’s so something we all share. Time in the mountains is not just about self actualization, it is fundamental to who we are. The mountains sustain us. And though Denali took a lot out of us, she gave back to us magnitudes more.

So here we are, sitting back at 14’ camp and where the summit now feels like a fever dream. Maybe it just hasn’t sunk in yet. Maybe it will forever live as a dreamscape in my memory. The day after summit day invites the question, what comes after the summit? We sit slurping down warm ramen, mending crampon punctures, comparing new face wrinkles, probably avoiding the question. I began by describing the feeling of fullness. But there’s also a looming emptiness that often follows achieving a major goal. Most of us will put another summit on the horizon to keep feeding our appetite. But Denali was about much more than the summit. In this spectacular corner of the Alaska Range, this mountain teaches you diligence, patience, teamwork, guts, gratitude, awe—and when your lungs and legs are about to give out on Pig “Hill,” just take one more step. That’s what I’m carrying back down the day after summit day. 

 - RMI Climber Amanda from 14 camp
 

The four-day climb led by RMI Guide Joe Hoch turned around at Ingraham Flats this morning due to unfit route conditions. They have returned to Camp Muir and will descend to Paradise later this morning. While they didn't make it to the summit, they enjoyed a classic Little Tahoma sunrise!

Great work up there team! 

Saturday, June 27 - 9:30PM PST

The latest storm moved in slowly this morning. For a time we thought we might sneak in a carry, but it was not to be.  Clouds and light, but persistent snow swallowed up the mountain.  Luckily, there hasn’t been wind to accompany all the moisture.  We stretched out breakfast and then everybody found a few chores to do outside, moving snow blocks around here and there. Most of the day, we did the Denali Hang, sitting in our tents - reading and napping. It was great to have RMI Guides Ben, Mike and Avery come out of the fog at midday with their successful summit teams. They set up camp not far away to wait out the snowy days.  Miles and Jack prepared a big jambalaya pot of dinner to cap off a quiet day and the team ate every morsel in our now familiar dining tent.

- RMI Guide Dave Hahn

After an early morning gear-check in Sedro-Woolley, we arrived at the trailhead to find front row parking. We made last adjustment to our packs and began our hike. Despite the forecast heat, we found pleasant hiking temps thanks to a cloudy sky and light but steady breeze. On the Railroad Grade we were treated to the peak bloom for Meadow Penstemon and Spreading Phlox. We made camp and were treated to a 2-hour sunset light show. 

On School Day we made a short trek downhill to our site, a small valley that overlooks the Demming Glacier Icefall. We spent the morning building skill and confidence with crampons and ice axes. After lunch our focus turned to safety techniques like Self Arrest and Rope Travel. During the rope travel practice time we made our way to an overlook and admired the icefall for a moment. 

That evening we were down before any sunset lights could begin. We awoke at 0100 and started our climb at 0200. Step kicking from camp we made quick time up the snow and rock from Sandy Camp to the Easton Glacier. We donned the rope and continued through delightfully firm slush (contradictory as it sounds). The glacier provided mostly easy travel, with only a 1,000 or so feet of frustrating breakable crust. At the crater we marveled at the constant hissing and rumble; we may have snickered at the accompanying smell. An hour later we were on top, with relatively few others around. The summit views were spectacular, with clear views of Rainier, the Cascades and the Tantalus. After a quick descent, we packed up camp and tromped our way down the trail to our cars. 

- RMI Guide Joe Crawford

The Four Day Climb teams led by Seth Burns and Jackson Breen reached a high point of 12,300 feet on Disappointment Cleaver before making the decision to turn around. Despite the clear skies above, recent storm snow, challenging route conditions, and difficult travel all contributed to the call to stop their ascent short of the summit.

Well done to the team for their hard work!

Friday, June 26, 2026 10:44pm PDT

Certainly, colder up here at 14K. We ate breakfast in the shadows before the sun came around the mountain at 9:20.That made it a lot easier to prepare for our 10:15 mission to reclaim our cache at Windy Corner. It was a pleasant walk down, naturally -with light packs. The Ravens had not disturbed our carefully buried supplies. We loaded up and set ourselves to the two-hour workout to get back up to camp. The weather was perfect with clear skies and no wind, and we were happy to hear Ben’s RMI team on the radio, heading toward the summit. The rest of our day was. Spent resting, rehydrating, and training for a climb on the fixed rope section of the West Buttress tomorrow.

RMI Guide Dave Hahn & Team