I recall being in the car one afternoon with my dad and sister - I was probably 7 or 8 and my sister 3 years younger. It had been raining and we were just poking up over the West Hill of the Kent Valley near the home I grew up in. As we crested the hill the clouds began to part and a huge rainbow - definitely the biggest and brightest my young self had ever seen - revealed itself, spanning the width of the massive valley. My sister and I exclaimed in amazement and one of us, or maybe both of us, wondered as to how big IS the pot of gold that sits at the end of a rainbow this size?! My Dad turned to us in the backseat and said, “should we find out?”
We spent the rest of the afternoon (or maybe it was 15 minutes) chasing the end of the rainbow - driving up and down residential streets, my dad dramatically hitting the gas pedal when we caught a glimpse of what could be the end. We conjectured that there must be elves hiding and moving the pot of gold and that they must be on to us... because we were the closest I've ever been to the end of a rainbow. His focus, dedication and obvious know-how left an impression.
It was clear this wasn’t my dad's first rainbow chase.
Eventually the sun came all the way out and the rainbow dissipated. “Ah, well. The elves won this time! There will be more rainbows!.” My dad shrugged and smiled and both my sister and I were okay with that resolution. This time, elves, but next rainbow is ours.
Flash forward a couple of decades and you get to take turns sitting in the front seat, the rainbow chaser gets a bigger vehicle and there's less side streets involved.
This chasing rainbows experience incorporated itself into my subconscious and then drifted away until one afternoon when I was 18 years old. I was living in New York, September 11th had just happened and I had just lost my job as a result.
I didn’t know how I was going to make it in ‘the Big City’ and felt the pressure of all those who’d sent me off expecting great things... namely, Me. I walked from my first floor apartment off of Broadway in Astoria, Queens the 5 or so blocks to get to the East River. The air still smelled of the burning of lower Manhattan, making me wonder if the overcast September day was from clouds or the final settling of smoke.
The dark river seemed an appropriate backdrop to my mood and I wandered down along to a spot I frequented - a little slice of pristine sand along the not-so pristine East River. Hidden under an overgrown tree and tucked precariously behind some graffitied rocks, it took enough effort to get to that most didn’t. I would spend hours there, reading, writing, watching my new city. This day I had gone there to sit and be alone and decide if this New York City thing was such a good idea after all. As I sat on my clean sliver of beach watching the lapping of the river and the skyscrapers of Manhattan, the clouds began to part, revealing a hint of blue sky that might still exist in New York. And then, right before my eyes, a rainbow appeared. Half a rainbow, really, with its curve cut off on one end by haze and clouds, the other end shielded by the Empire State Building.
My memory flashed to the backseat of the car and my dad chasing the rainbow to see about that pot of gold. I had no idea what it meant, but I smiled. ‘You got it this time, elves...’ I thought. But the next one is mine. I don’t know that the rainbow sealed the deal, but a week later I interviewed in the Empire State Building, got the job, paid my rent another month and so it was. I stayed in NYC another 5 years.
Since then I’d embraced rainbows as a personal sign. They seemed to appear during times of great hardship, a symbol of hope or encouragement. The morning I missed my flight to the funeral of my best friend’s mother, sitting in the stalled subway car watching the airplanes take off without me, one at a time. Or the day after my heart was broken for the first real time as an almost adult.
Then, every so often, in moments of pure joy or contentment. A rainbow appeared the day after I met the man I spent 10 years of my life with, and on day 2 of our journey across the country when I finally did leave my beloved New York and returned to Seattle. The afternoon in Vieques, Puerto Rico practicing yoga next to the pool listening to the thousands of birds. Or the afternoon before a half marathon in Missoula sitting on the back porch of my Uncle's craftsman home, looking out to the Montana hills - the place I feel most at ease.
Inevitably, and in all these situations and the many more I won't remember here - rainbows have marked change and shifts in my life, or times when I've felt knocked down or at the end of a journey. More specifically, though, they have served as a reminder that there will, most certainly, be other rainbows.
I was in my late teens, when my Dad summited Mt Rainier. I recall feeling peripherally proud of him, and knew it was a big deal (mostly because my mom spent the entire time in low-grade panic mode). I also remember wondering if this is something that maybe I could do... I mean, Dad did it. Climbing mountains was very outdoorsy though, and I was on my way to being a very indoors-y person in my city life.
It took over a decade from his Mt. Rainier summit for me to find the love of being outdoors, hiking, backpacking and eventually mountaineering. I summited my first mountain - Mt. Adams - in 2014 and have since done quite a bit of adventuring, making it to a few other summits since, including a climb up Rainier. Although we have yet to climb a mountain together, my Dad is very much an interested supporter when it comes to my outdoor endeavors as it resonates with his own adventurous spirit.
Coincidentally, I find myself doing important things on Fathers Day weekend. One year I called Dad with my sister from the bottom of the Grand Canyon, another year, nearly 11 years ago, I quit smoking - a huge feat (and still the hardest thing I've ever done). This year, I found myself attempting to solo summit my old friend Mt. Adams.
Mt. Adams the evening of June 15th, 2018. Looking sharp in the setting sun.
I can’t explain why certain places and features capture you - but for whatever the reason, Mt. Adams has a bit of my heart. He's not a particularly interesting mountain from a climbers perspective; the route is straightforward and arduous with very little payoff along the way. The weather was going to be less than ideal, but I felt ready for the discomfort and anxious to get this peak off my list for the year. I was familiar with the mountain and had talked my plan over with my Dad who was reluctantly supportive of me climbing solo. “It’s really just a hike with snow...” and he’d nod, remembering his training time on Mt. Adams years ago.
Mt. Hood at sunset. The view from the forest road as I drove to the trailhead to catch a few hours of sleep in the back of my car.
My alpine start had clear skies - the stars particularly bright in celebration of the New Moon. The weather changed 2 hours and 1000' from my intended long break, and snow showers began making me less sure of the otherwise straightforward route. When I finally made it to my break spot, I huddled in to some rocks and layered up, taking a few minutes to decide if I should continue on. The weather, although less than ideal, was in line with what I expected and I felt there would be this break in the clouds right when I'd need it. Despite my decision to push on, I was definitely feeling the voices in my head begin the pondering of, "And why again, are we doing this?"
At 9500', I saw the first flash of lightening. "you've got to be fucking kidding me." I said, out loud, to the nobody that I was climbing with. I began the conversation that you would have when you are climbing with a partner, except less surprising because you are your own opposition.
"So, something about metal poles, like the ones in my hand, and the aluminum ax sticking out from my pack is triggering my alarm bells....
"But then again, it still seemed maybe not right overhead...
"I don't know, that seemed right overhead...
"Next time we should count, did you count? It felt like at least a second between thunder and lightening, right? Next time count, and then we decide...
More Lightening. Thunder. Maybe at the same time.
"I'm already cringing at the comments in the article they write about me in the Trout Lake Times. This is definitely borderline stupid human trick...
"Or are you just cold?
"If it lightenings one more time, then....
More lightening. Thunder. Definitely not at the same time but for the sake of the story they were right next to me simultaneously and potentially broke the ground underneath me (not really, but you get it).
"Nope. This is not happening."
End Scene.
I turn around, heading back down to my rest spot which feels safer even though its still above treeline. I sit in misery for another half an hour before deciding that climbing another 3000' in this is simply not worth it. Or maybe I'm wimping out. Equal thoughts occupy me as I descend.
The snow storm continues for another hour before dissipating long enough for me to question if I'd made the right decision, then quickly returns with darker skies and stronger winds. As I wandered to lower elevations, the snow turned to rain and everything became muddy and cold and dark. When I made it back to the car, none of the other campers and climbers had stirred from their tents, enjoying the protection from the unyielding rain. I turned to look at the mountain, but all that was there was a treeline with a backdrop of dark clouds.
Since my first summit in 2014, I have had a 100% success rate on my mountain climbs. In mountaineering, you always talk about it in terms of 'making an attempt,' or 'a summit bid' because you are openly acknowledgeding the fact that some climbs are not intended to include the summit. Weather, physical conditions, group dynamics, time can all factor in to whether or not you make it to the top of a mountain. I had been graced with a winning combination of enough of those factors that all of my summit bids up until now had been a success.
I like success. It's in my star chart.
Not making it to the summit was not something I had considered. Even though I inherently know it to be a potential - I had not prepared for what it might feel like to drive away from a mountain having not climbed it. I might have cried. A lot.
The road from the Cold Spring Campground where you begin the climb up Mt. Adams is very windy, loose gravel and wanders through a forest torched by fire. New trees budding among the burned carcasses, clearing the view to the south and southwest - a hint every so often of Mt. St. Helen's comes in to view and then, directly in front of you is Mt. Hood just across the state border into Oregon. The rains began to lighten a bit and eventually I turned the wipers off. I came to a switchback in the road that concealed my view to the south momentarily. The road curved back around and ascended a slight hill, revealing again the southern view as I crested the hill. I made the turn and my eye-foot coordination worked immediately as I slammed the brakes.
Directly in front of me, was the start of a rainbow.
I parked the car and stood on a stump, looking south to the rainbow. "Well then." I turned around to look at Mt. Adams behind me, his summit still completely shrouded in storm clouds. "Elves for the win," I muttered.
On to the next rainbow... or mountain... or .....
This year has been a big time of change for me and for a lot of people I know around me. We're moving or remodeling or changing relationships or changing jobs. It can be overwhelming, especially when these big life structures start to shift simultaneously, as is my experience. I like to climb mountains because they are grounded, yet heavenly; putting me on top of the world, yet still feeling earth below my feet. There's a stability there that is reassuring. And yet, like life, it's a false security as mountains shift. Ice melts, snow avalanches, rocks loosen, mountains call and force a weather rhythm all their own.
I'd love to write this sweet conclusion that offers hope and inspires, but really - I'm bummed about my mountain. I still question if I made the right choice or if I should have tried to wait out the weather a bit longer. In some ways I know I was due a failed summit bid and it was forcing me to confront this part of me that I've comfortably tucked away: a true metaphor for my life experience right now. Truly, this Mt. Adams knows me, and he knew exactly what he was doing.
After I saw the rainbow on my journey down from my climb, I recalled the original afternoon of rainbow chasing and the look on my dad's face in the front seat... the casual way he shrugged when he said, "There will be more rainbows!” I thought of my Dad and how he'd be sad for me, but supportive of my decision to turn around, getting sentimental knowing how lucky I am to have a Dad to call or text and that he's not just a regular old Dad, but an engaged, supportive, funny and kind Dad. It all seemed a fitting end to my Father's Day Weekend adventure.
I texted my Dad as soon as I returned within cell range, telling him I'd turned around and why.
He texted back a few minutes later: "Wise Choice. The mountain will still be there another time."