Entries By mike bennett

This morning at 6:30am, the Four Day climb led by RMI guide Mike Bennett and Stella Johnson reached the summit of Mt Rainier. They were leaving the crater around 7am and are currently on their way back to Camp Muir. They will return to Ashford this afternoon. 

Great work everyone!

The four-day climbing teams, led by Nikki Champion and Mike Bennett, reached the crater rim just before 7:20 a.m. this morning. After a brief touch-and-go at the summit, the team reported clear skies and a windy ascent.

The teams are now descending to Camp Muir, where they will reset, pack their gear, and continue down to the trailhead. They are expected to return to Ashford later this afternoon, concluding a successful four-day climb.

Way to go, climbers!

A thunder and lightning storm rolled through the area yesterday evening which kept the Four Day Climb July 20 - 23 from making their summit attempt.  The teams led by RMI Guides Mike Bennett and Sam Hoffman were able to ascend to Ingraham Flats around 8 am to see a bit of the route and use their glacier travel skills.  They will descend from Camp Muir later this morning.

The Four Day climb led by RMI guide Mike Bennet and Ray Holt reached the summit this morning. They reported strong winds at the summit, depsite low wind speeds throughout the climb. They were leaving the crater around 7:55am and are currently on their descent back to Camp Muir. They will return to Ashford this afternoon.

Great work up there!

RMI's four-day climb led by guide Will Ambler made it to the summit of Mt Rainier this morning around 6:30am! They reported high winds but blue skies. They left the crater around 7:15am and are currently on their descent back to Camp Muir. They will return to Ashford this afternoon. 

Great work team!

The Four Day Climb teams led by Mike King and Mike Bennett reached the summit of Mt. Rainier at around 7:15 am this morning.

The teams endured high winds up top, so they touched the top and started their descent back downhill after a quick break.

They'll make the journey back to Camp Muir, down to Paradise, and hop on a quick shuttle ride back to Ashford by the evening.  

Great job climbers!

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