Ron was driving his old ford van as we headed south. It was a desolate road on the western end of Wyoming that hugged the Rockies. A few days earlier we stood on the very top of Rainier. It was the climax of five days of learning how to climb and respect mountains. Rainier is the highest elevation in the lower 48 some practice for Everest there.

Our guide started by teaching us how to walk and breath. One step forward, one breath, lock the knee and rest for a second, then the next breath and foot, lock and rest. Slow but with it you could climb great heights in a days’ time. We tied on our crampons and started at 6,000 feet. He told us to look up and all around, to see and witness the beauty of the mountain above tree line. Slowly the climbing turned into a rhythm, as our eyes were bathed in white and wonder. By days end we were at 10,000 feet, Camp Muir.

The following days were filled learning how to stop if falling down the steep grade, building ice caves for survival and climbing vertical ice walls. But most important was learning how to climb in teams of six or seven. Roped together about 15 feet apart the six or seven became one. We learned how to scream “falling” if we were, so the remaining would drop and slam their ice axes deep, into the ice and snow, bringing all to a stop. For if the last one fell and said nothing there was a good chance a domino effect would rapidly begin and they could end up in a crevice. Some of which we saw were 100’s of feet deep.

There were a couple of times at the end of the day; I would sit with the guide. We would face west to the Pacific Ocean down below and talk. One evening the others were in the cabins and the sun was setting. I told him that I didn’t understand why when a small group of people forms there seems to be some sort of jostling for social hierarchy. It seemed he didn’t understand either. But something happen the next day for the jostling faded away. We all seem to became one.

The guide would walk us over distance and crevices. He would poke his ice axe in front of him making sure it was just not a thin covering and we would follow.

The last night before the 4,400’ vertical rise to the top we talked again. He told me how the clouds and skies we had for the past days were most unusual. Rainier has the most snowfall in the lower states, but yet the skies had been crystal clear. He then told me I had what it takes to be a guide. It was a most wonderful thought. We watched the skies begin to darken and then he said; there would come a time when the mountain will drop you to your knees. Then in all the sorrow and sadness it would be up you to rise again, to change and live on with the experience or stay on your knees and dwell in depression.

We rose at 2:30 am. With headlights we started in the darkness. The rhythm followed. Looking up the steep incline my fellow men and women climbing were high above me. We watched the sun rise around 12,000 feet. It came across the ice lighting our faces. And we looked higher.

That day every one made it to the top. Ron and I walked across the crater, to the tiny peak. There was nothing above us but sky. Everything else was below. We saw into Canada, the Pacific Ocean, south to Oregon, and east toward Idaho. Ron & I hugged each other and had our picture taken.

All these things were in our minds traveling south in the old ford van. The evening had turned to night when looking out the windshield a very large brilliant star raced across the dark sky, splitting in two it traveled in different directions, seconds later, gravity landed both on the face of the earth.

We looked at each other and said nothing. There was a wonderful smile on Ron’s face. And then in the silence we looked back to the road again.