Entries By ben luedtke

RMI's four-day climb, led by guides Nikki Champion and Ben Luedtke, reached the summit of Mount Rainier this morning at 6:30 a.m. The team reported high winds on the mountain, so they tagged the summit and promptly began their descent toward Camp Muir at 7:00 a.m.

After regrouping at camp, they'll continue their descent to Paradise and return to Ashford later today.

Congratulations to all the climbers and guides on a successful summit!

Tuesday, June 30, 2026 - 9:37 pm PT

Hey daily blog readers,

For whoever you are reading this blog for… well now is the time to call them. Ring them. Yes now. 

They have a story for you. 

Thanks for following along ✌️

That’s a wrap. 

❤️

RMI Climber Devon Levesque

Monday, June 29th

It’s been 3 days since we touched the summit of Denali. Yesterday we dreamt of burgers and beers in Talkeetna—we should be sitting at the bar right now. But today it is still a dream. 

Last night we left 14K camp at 8pm to make the 12-hour descent to the glacial airstrip at 7K, where we hoped to hop on a 9am plane to Talkeetna this morning. The same frozen airstrip we landed on nearly 3 weeks ago; though 3 weeks of warm summer rain have surely changed the shape, image and safety of the Kahiltna glacier. 

By 2am we made it to camp 1 at 7.8K feet, where we first slept on June 11th, still 5.5 miles and 4 hours away from the airstrip. It was a total whiteout in a freezing rain storm. Navigating was nearly impossible and the temperature was too warm to cross the lower glacier due to the risk of breaking through a crevasse. 

Our guides made the right decision to bunker down and pitch our tents for a few hours, with the hopes of waking us at 5am, giving the glacier a few more hours to refreeze. Warm whiteout conditions persisted all night and all morning. I write this at 3pm, weary, wet, dehydrated and tired; we’ve been resting and waiting in the tents all day. 

Last night’s march from 14K to 7.8K was a true test of patience, resilience and will. We each pulled heavy sleds and carried heavier packs loaded with 3 weeks of gear, garbage, extra food, dirty clothes and full poop buckets. Freezing rain stuck to our glasses and made the trail hard to navigate in our snowshoes. The snow was deep yet our steps felt firm and slippery; it was too wet to make a snowman, but not yet slush. The night was dark and white. We wandered in procession, 11 people deep, for endless hours. Our spines ached, our shoulders burned, and our toes tried to punch through the front of our boots. I must say, the air tasted delicious, heavy, and nourishing. Though it felt like we’d never reach our destination. 

But we pressed on, motivated by the dream of loading up the plane and flying toward a hot shower and cheeseburger. We had visions of beer and salads, clean clothes and haircuts, familiar routines and comfy beds. Unfortunately, that dream is delayed. For now, we sit in the tents in a white out and wait indefinitely. The seconds feel like hours and the hours feel like days. We’re munching on the stale snacks that we avoided eating for the last 19 days. We call this point of the trip our “Shackleton” era. This mountain is a mental battle as much as it is a physical one. Today might be the most challenging test yet. 

We achieved our goal, but our mission is far from complete.

A 5.5 mile, 4 hour trek awaits as soon as the weather gives us a window. We are ready at a moment’s notice. Then, shortly after we hope a plane can meet us at the glacial base camp and bring us back to the real world. 

We are close but we are not done yet. We miss you and we cannot wait to celebrate with you soon. 

Love from a rainy tent somewhere on the lower Kahiltna glacier, 

- RMI Climber Jimmy D 

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.

 - RMI Climber Hudson
 

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
 

1/11 Denali Team 7 dispatch.

Friday June 26, 2026 11:45pm PST

To those who visit the slopes of Denali: Be ready. Be prepared. Be patient. Climbing a mountain can mean a lot of different things for every single one of us. A mountain like Denali can draw us in by sight, it can draw us in with curiosity, or it can draw us in by the challenge it represents. What it won't tell you, however, is why. That is on our own to figure out or understand. Some things to consider:

1. Who will you meet? Whether arriving alone or with friends, we are sure to leave this place with a bond that will never fade. We need each other out here just to survive.

2. What will you learn? No matter your skill set, Denali will become your teacher. You will develop a whole new set of understanding of what it means to be a mountaineer.

3. How will I make it?! Well, that will take a lot of MDeal, a sprinkle of Farkle, cooking on high heat (always), some light yoga, a few walks down Main Street at 14k, and probably a dash of good luck when it comes to the weather.

4. What will I tell others? Tell them the truth. It is f-ing hard climbing this mountain. Right out of the gate, we drag sleds loaded with 22 days of food, fuel, and gear to live in an inhospitable place. We climb everything from 8,000 feet to 16,200 feet twice to make it all happen. All this, and then we wait. Sometimes longer than we want to, but we wait for the mountain to say "OK." It's a roller coaster of emotions. You freeze or fry; there's no in between. You worry. You wonder. You pace. You run through every possible scenario in your head. And then, if Denali says "go," you push yourself to a limit you never thought existed. If all goes well, finally, you stand at the highest point in North America.

And that's what we did. A HUGE congratulations to this team for sticking it out, working their asses off, and standing on top of Denali. We will walk away from this climb knowing that we did something extremely difficult. We are grateful. Grateful for the opportunity. And best of all, a Twinkie never tasted so good over 20,000 feet, but only one of us got to see what the inside of a glacier looks like up close.

RMI Guides Ben, Mike, Avery, and Team.

Thursday, June 25, 2026 - 12:55 am PT

Denali Dispatch 6/24/26

Thoughts on Patience:

As Ben says, if this mountain teaches you anything it’s patience.

Patience with the weather, with the conditions and with each other. It’s easy to forget on the days of warm sun, calm winds and endless views that Denali isn’t always this way. That she can change her mind in a moments notice and have you walking in circles from whiteout conditions and cursing her tent rattling winds as you try and sleep.

But one way or another patience always pays off. To remeber that the sun is always shining somewhere above the clouds and that these glaciers and rocks have been here long before us patiently observing each passerby. Our time on this mountain is short in the grand scheme of things and I know everyone here will soon miss the simplicity of life on Denali. The rhythm we have found over leisurely breakfast conversation, camp walks, reading, writing and excess games of M-deal. Our time here is utterly human- working as a team to do what we need to survive.

So as today marks day 8 of being at 14,000' Camp and waiting to see when the mountain will invite us higher. We once again practice patience. Waiting in this jaw dropping alpine amphitheater for the mountain to tell us we have been patient long enough and it’s our turn to try and touch the top.

So as we get excited and motivated to move higher. We must remeber to move at rhythm of the mountain slow and steady. Observing, listening and being. Always remembering that in a moments notice she can decide to test our patience once again.

It is such a privilege to be among these echoing cliffs and snowy spines and I’m so proud of our team for keeping their spirits high among the waiting game. There is so much time to still be had here and I feel lucky I get to practice my patience with each and every one of you. 

Now let’s patiently wait to see what tomorrow brings!

With love from 14k camp,

RMI Guide Avery Stolte and team!

Tuesday, June 23, 2026 - 11:34 pm PT

Egg muffins kicked off our snowy day,

and Farkle helped pass the time away.

With plenty of group talks in the den,

and camp strolls now and then,

We rested while weather held sway.

Monopoly Deal took the lead,

And castle walls got what they need.

Now we wait and we see,

What weather will be,

And hope for summit bound speed.

RMI Climber Ethan

Tuesday, June 23, 2026 - 1:11 am PT

June 22nd - Day whatever.

Today was the teams first unplanned rest day. A storm is moving through the area over the next few days, and while we are unsure of how severe it will be, we are sure we don't want to be high on the mountain until it passes. We are also sure as hell up to the task when our time comes.  Today we enjoyed excellent breakfast quesadillas (send hot sauce) and built up our fortifications around camp. These fortifications are 4-5 ft high walls made of quarried snow blocks, complete with a 6.5 ft arch the ancient Greeks would approve of. Shout out to Jimmy's vision and passion to this beautiful piece of work.  Bob the builder ain't got shit on him. After a short break we jumped right into a quick yoga session. Amanda led us through an excellent vinyasa... in the snow, at 14 thousand feet, we are not in Kansas anymore. After another short break Dr. Nick gave us a wonderfully compelling, if not sobering, lesson in the basics of wilderness medicine and the benefits of a tongue piercing.  I feel compelled by the many elegant writers in our group to expand beyond the literal in this writing, and the reflection of Nick's question seems to be the jumping off point for this so here goes...

What makes you feel alive? This is a very individual question with no proper answer. Personally nothing challenges me, fulfills me, or motivates me like the wilderness. Nothing gives me perspective, closure, or meaning  like the places in the world where nature still reigns supreme. 

Nothing makes me feel alive like being in the mountains. Everyone on this mountain, not just this team but the true spectrum of humanity that coexists in this frozen paradise has a common goal, and in this goal we are united and supported by each other in ways that don't always persist off the mountain. We are far more than surviving out here, we are thriving and growing and learning in ways that you cannot replicate in a classroom.

Life is weird and trippy and completely uncertain, but in these moments and in these places we are present and living to the fullest. We are very very lucky, and very very smelly.To avoid writing a thesis, I think what it boils down to is to find your mountain. Find what makes you feel alive, whatever it is and keep climbing until your knees give out. Then maybe crawl for a little bit. I want to thank my parents and siblings for supporting me while I chase my dreams across the world. I love you guys, and I miss my dog.

RMI Climber Matt Gates

Sunday, June 21 - 11:30PM PST

Day 11! Wow. How far we have come from the Denali Brew Pub in Talkeetna - freshly showered, wearing shorts, and eating fresh greens. But what an incredible 11 days it’s been.

11 days of living in what feels like a simulation where the vistas in every direction look like a green screen.
11 days of seeking daily validation from Ben, Mike, and Avery-- “Avery, how many layers are you planning to start the day with??” “Mike, how’s my knot looking??”
11 days of squeezing one last M deal game in after dinner.
11 days of singing Ariana Grande’s God is a Woman in my head to power me through the final 500’ of our 3000’ vert days.
11 days of worshipping the sun each morning as she peeks over the mountain tops and drips down into our camp.
11 days of shitting in a bucket with a bunch of dudes and somehow feeling more at peace than I have in a long time.
And 11 days of feeling entirely and fully present.

A couple of days ago, Nick asked us to describe what the mountains mean to us in three words. I said, “Here I am.” Meaning, on the mountain, there’s no other place I need to be, no deadlines to meet, no notifications to check, no messages to respond to. It is a rare and special feeling. Insert a comma and you have “Here, I am.” On the mountain, I simply exist. I’m not worried about what I look like  or performing in a way that others expect of me. I am me. And that’s enough.

This morning started like most of them have - peeling off our eye masks as Ben’s voice breaks the silence: “hot water in 15!” And we embark on the 15-20 minute ordeal that is getting layered, putting boots on, getting out of the tent, and braving the icy air outside. We gathered in the kitchen tent for hot coffee and the long awaited pancake breakfast. Pancakes fluffier than the powder that surrounds us. Mid chow, Amanda finally started the kitchen tent rave she’s been begging for, hooking up to the Bluetooth and blessing us with Soffi Tucker’s banger “Throw Some Ass.” Just as the  beat dropped, Ben turned around and flipped a pancake twice the size of his head a foot into the air catching it flawlessly back in his skillet. The crowd went wild. After the flapjack show, we split up into our rope teams and made the short walk to the “edge of the world,” an iconic rock outcropping at 14K camp that looks thousands of feet below into the “Valley of Death.” The rest of the afternoon Jimmy, Hudson, and Dev built ice walls around our camp to protect us from the incoming weather. Avery led a clinic on avalanche beacons and rescue, and we got “knotty” with Mike. These rest days are important both for acclimatization and to let our muscles recover before our hopeful summit bid.

At this point in the trip, we have completed our preparation and have put ourselves in position to summit this thing. We should be proud of that. Yesterday we finished our final cache up to 16K. It was intense navigating our way up and down the steep terrain digging our crampons into electric blue sheets of glacial ice while simultaneously moving our ascenders up the fixed lines—a first for several of us. But the whole team crushed it.

And now we wait. Wait for Mother Denali to invite us to her peak. I often say, “the mountain doesn’t care.” She will not coddle you or temper her forces to make you feel more comfortable, more at ease. It’s one of the reasons that preparation and respect are a requirement (though not a guarantee) for success up here. But for the past 11 days, it feels like she knows we are here and is not only showing off her treasures but will help guide and protect us on our way to her summit.

As we patiently wait for our “summit window” (i.e., 72 hours of clear and calm weather that will allow us to safely move from 14k camp to 17k camp to the summit and back down), I feel so much gratitude for my mental and physical strength and the opportunity to explore some of the farthest corners of this beautiful planet (doing it with my husband and little sister is the cherry on top). And I feel confident that we’ll finish this climb the same way you get anywhere else you want to go in life: by putting one foot in front of the other.

PS Happy Father’s Day Dad (and to all the dads out there)! You are with us every step of this journey. We can’t wait to share stories and photos with you soon! ❤️

PPS Thank you to all of the friends and family who have been following along! Your love and support mean the world to us. We’ll see you all soon.

With love from 14K,
Allison