TulaneLSU's Top 10 hikes of Rainier National Park

Dear Friends,

As Mother and I continue our explorations of the Pacific Northwest, we have been less than welcomed by the average resident of this land. The residents of this land are, for the most part, aloof, self-centered, and uninterested in the world as it does not pertain to them. We have seen much of the worst in people, with the riots and lawlessness of Seattle and Portland. I wish I could say we have seen the best in people, but that would be dishonest.

This land is a strange land, more so due to its inhabitants, rather than its distinctly lusciously rugged beauty. Although Mother prefers city life, Mother had enough of Portland, and decided that she would take us to Mount Rainier National Park via the Longmire entrance.

My first experience with Rainier was 2003. I had recently graduated high school and was preparing to matriculate at Tulane. As part of my graduation gift, father surprised me with a complete set of miniature Lord of the Rings figurines. The problem was I never fancied LOTR as books and I certainly did not enjoy the films. I tried to make it through them several times and each time failed to stay awake. I still have the figurines stashed away somewhere in the attic, or perhaps Mother sent them to Goodwill after the Katrina cleaning. I have not seen them in more than a decade.

The other part of my gift came in a very large box. Affixed was an envelope, and as a grateful receiver, I opened the envelope first. It was a generic Hallmark card signed, “From Father.” The rest of the printed words said, “Congratulations on graduating, Son.” That was it. I hoped there would be more, perhaps a postscript or a little hidden thought, but all he would sign were those two words. Inside the card also were two tickets: a first class and a coach ticket to Seattle.

“Father, are these for us?” my eyes certainly were shining as I asked.

“Yes, Son. Go on. Open the box.”

It was Christmas in June for me and I tore through that paper like a gator on a hog leg. The contents of that large box? A helmet, metal poles, rope, Oakley goggles, a strangely shaped axe, crampons, and a bottle of dexamethasone.

“What does it all mean?”

Father responded, “We are going for a climb with Charles.”

Charles was father’s college roommate. I had met Charles six times previously: three of them at father’s alumni weekends on campus, twice in New Orleans, and most recently in the Swiss Alps. Charles was of the Boston Brahmin, and he was a ninth generation legacy at father’s school. He is a man of impeccable taste and immaculate manners. The first time I met him, he elegantly let me know that Boston’s haberdashers were better than those in New Orleans, and that my wardrobe from M. Goldberg’s and Rubenstein’s needed updating. Within an hour of meeting him, he had me on Joe Calautti’s alteration fitting platform at Rizzo Custom Tailor. And I confess, he was right about New Orleans’ clothiers.

Charles grew up on the top of the social ladder, and he always wanted to be on top of the world. Although Charles is a genius and a man of distinction, he has never needed to work for anything. Like many in that situation, he has not truly worked. Yes, he sits on the board of some investment firm, but I have never seen work interfere with anything he has wanted to do. And what he wants to do is climb mountains.

He is one of the world’s most respected mountaineer hobbyists. I know he has summited Everest twice and K2 once. I once asked him how many days a year he spent on mountains. He responded, “About 200.” He and father tackled several impressive peaks in the Northeast, including the windswept Mount Washington as well as multiples in the Rockies. Father never had mountain fever like Charles, but something had stirred in him to decide to bring me to Mount Rainier.



I believe it was the British Captain Vancouver, who after noticing the towering rock while sailing the Pacific, named it after his friend, Peter Rainier. The Native Americans called it Tahoma. John Muir and the Sierra Club played an essential role in having the mountain and surrounding lands designated as a National Park, something Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia all lack. Talk about topographic discrimination. Muir was beholden by this beautiful patch of God’s earth, calling it “the most luxuriant and the most extravagantly beautiful of all the alpine gardens I ever beheld in all my mountain-top wanderings.”

Rainier became the nation’s fifth National Park, and its proximity to Seattle-Tacoma, just 90 minutes away, has assured that it is filled with people in the non-winter months. Although it is just a couple hundred feet under the highest mountain peak in the continental U.S., it is unquestionably the most majestic of our mountains, rocketing from the surrounding lands. Its prominence is over 13,000 feet, while Whitney’s is just 10,000.

The details of that climb I will spare you, as most people, when I share the details, claim I am rodomontading. And, after all, this is a list of the ten best hikes in the park, not a place for me to retell mountain stories. The short of the story was we reached the summit after a night at Camp Muir. It was quite Baltic and a storm blew in for our last few hours, slowing our climb.

Father, despite taking prophylactic dexamethasone, developed a mild case of acute altitude sickness. Or at least that is what we tell people. It makes some sense because we did not acclimate to the elevation, as is recommended. Charles disregarded father’s condition. “He’s just out of shape.” I took it more seriously, and offered to carry all of father’s equipment while also shouldering part of his weight for the final 500 feet and much of the descent. Remarkably, once back at Paradise, he seemed fine. Maybe Charles was right.