[This Mountain Profile essay about Takhoma/Mt. Rainier originally appeared in Alpinist 88, which is now available on newsstands and in our online store. Only a small fraction of our many long-form stories from the print edition are ever uploaded to Alpinist.com. Be sure to pick up Alpinist 88 for all the goodness!–Ed.]
In the middle of a sleepless night on the Ingraham Glacier, I hobble out of my tent to pee. The Milky Way is projected overhead as I squeak along the firm, cold snow; my hometown of Yakima, Washington, twinkles in the night around 11,000 feet below. Although I do not long to be down there, I feel lonely on the mountain—no one up here understands my connection to this place, to Takhoma. My midnight saunter on the moonlit glacier feels fleetingly special and melancholy to the bone; I feel it is only mine, but it is not. Such a moment has belonged to so many before and will to many after me. Returning to my North Face “Assault” tent after my bathroom break, I relish the tent’s contrast to my existence—a Native American mountain guide working on his ancestral homelands. Sitting in a proper conquistador’s shelter, the “Assault,” I ask myself, How do I value the summit and the storied landscape surrounding it?
It has taken quite some time for me to publish my story, as doubts often circulate in my head: Is it worth it? Will people care? But then I think of my younger self or my young cousins on the Yakama Reservation, each like a wandering star above Takhoma searching for a connection to place and time, stifled by a colonial belief of “wilderness,” a place devoid of man and “untrammeled.”
Everyone in my family has had a connection to the outdoors, whether through fly-fishing, running (which was initially how I experienced the outdoors) or raising cattle, like my grandfather. Growing up, as I learned more about my family’s history and exploration throughout the Yakama Reservation, I became curious about their journey to the mountains. Most of Takhoma (Mt. Rainier) is visible from town, while Pahto (Mt. Adams) is the centerpiece of the valley my family grew up in. When I was younger, my grandpa told me a story about a young Yakama man who sought the summit of Takhoma in search of a buried treasure. He tried three times, and then, on the fourth, he found himself atop the great white mountain. As he stared into the fiery lake on the summit, his reflection expanded out of the lake and took the form of Takhoma’s spirit. Concerned for his safety, he threw the treasure into the lake and fled. Returning home without the treasure, he had no proof he had made it to the summit, and his friends laughed. If only I had heard the moral of this story as a kid, because it all makes so much sense now. Upon my first summit, I, too, thought it was everything. It was the first time I was beholden to the subscription of a summit as a portal to success—I just did not know it was a lie. The true gift of Takhoma is not on the summit; it is all around him (Takhoma’s spirit).
Yakima is known for its hops, actor Kyle MacLachlan and not much else, especially not political correctness. So when I left my hometown for Seattle to attend the University of Washington, I was floored to say the least. Prior to college, I had not readily embraced my Native American heritage. All I knew was I had a Tribal ID for some reason, treaties were generally a farce and I did not look like an “Indian.” Arriving at the UW campus, I was quickly overcome by culture shock. Simply telling people I was Native (American) was enough to earn my place in this new, diverse metropolis. Soon I learned my yearning to “look Native” had been a form of internalized racism, a new term to me. Eventually, I entered the American Indian studies program, pursuing classes on culture and US and Canadian federal law. But as the walls of academia shrunk around me, I habitually skipped class to be outside. The freedom of movement I found running had blossomed into mountaineering, and it was all I craved. It wasn’t long before I was spending every waking moment mountaineering in the summer and then wishing I was in the mountains when I was at school.
In 2017 I started skiing, and consequently I attended only a portion of the winter quarter as I obsessed over this new mountain activity. My gluttony for time outside inflated. It was an era of consumption and conquering, and I did not want it any other way. I know colonization when I see it; after all, I am Native American. But even I adopted a dyed-in-the-wool conqueror’s mindset when approaching mountain climbing. Alpinism as a concept is overrated, but as an activity and pursuit, it began to fuel my life. Sometimes this was to the detriment of deep relationships, while at the same time it ignited new ones. What a clichéd story, though, right? The man-boy with Peter Pan syndrome who pursues mountains while neglecting relationships and emotional health. You can throw a dime in Seattle, Denver, Bozeman or any other mountain town and hit someone with a similar story, but mine has more nuance and irony.
Among other tribes, Owen also comes from the Chinook, at the mouth of the Columbia River, which, historically, is just a stone’s throw from the Yakama and Cowlitz Nations (where I come from). Undoubtedly, our tribes have been linked since time immemorial, so we quickly became brothers bonding over college antics, singing along to the hits of Snotty Nose Rez Kids and reminiscing about the (mis)adventures of young manhood.
After I convinced Owen to spend his bottom dollar on mountaineering boots, we climbed Dragontail Peak in October 2018. I thought I would blow his socks off—larches, alpine lakes, mountains, surely he would leave a changed man! How could he not? I had found solace in those spaces and I believed he would too. Stopping for water along Colchuck Lake, he looked all around. Then his eyes met mine and he said, “Look around, Calvin. You come from these places. Colchuck is even a Chinuk Jargon word, something from our people. No wonder you like being here, this is what it’s all about.” I chuckled and brushed it off without fully knowing what he meant, but I knew he was right. There we were, in my haven from all stressors, and this newfound brother blew it all up. With his simple gesture, the gravity of decolonization pulled me into a special moment in place and time. I thought, What other mountains or lakes use our language, Chinuk Jargon, and how do I relate to that?
I graduated college the following spring, in 2019, and the next day I started my job as a mountain guide on Takhoma. Ready to throw myself into the crucible, I worked roughly twenty trips on the mountain that year, acquiring a dozen summits. My youthful exuberance shone brightly as I eagerly shared my knowledge of decolonization with clients, along with the whole truth of the mountain. But it turned out that my explanations of Manifest Destiny and childhood labor camps (aka Indian boarding schools), combined with the irony of my being a mountain guide, did not translate too well. The discourse and cultural acceptance I found in college did not follow me into the “real world.” Clients, often coming from different cultural backgrounds, found it hard to relate to my perspective, and some even questioned my role as a guide, given my focus on decolonization. At first I took it personally. But all I wanted was to share everything the mountain could provide, not a narrative of “wilderness.”
I wanted to share these ideas because I am the Native American mountain guide who was (is) obsessed with peak-bagging and deconstructing his colonial mindset while also reconstructing a stolen Indigenous identity. The catalyst for this revolution was Takhoma, a cultural centerpiece for many tribes and a nexus of energy, one that budding mountaineers have coveted for nearly a century and a half. Natives from tribes around the mountain—Taidnapam (now Cowlitz), Yakama and Nisqually, among others—provided guidance for early climbers during the first known ascents, a legacy I perpetuate. I see myself walking two roads: One has me charging with an intent to inflict domain and gorge like an uninvited guest. The other invites me to walk gently, to observe how deeply my culture is connected to the land and to tune in to everything except a summit. I wonder if the first Native guides also balanced this line. Did their clients lean into what they could learn? Did their employers celebrate all they had to contribute and welcome critiques alongside the summits?
I think back now, after six years of guiding on Takhoma, throughout the Cascades and into the Colorado Rockies, to the story my grandpa told me about the Yakama man who found treasure on the summit of Takhoma. It was not until I received an education from my peers, elders, community and mentors that I earned this treasure—a commodity more valuable than buried gold—and it is my turn to pass this wisdom on: to the other two-legged who seek to conquer the wilderness, to the urban Native kids who do not have community or identity, to my clients when they rope up with me. To those who seek Takhoma’s summit.
During my days of peak-bagging and conquering mountains, I, too, was lost like the Yakama man, searching for mythic treasures buried high on mountain summits. This gift is never truly yours; it belongs to the next person to come and to those behind them. It may come in self-restoration after trials and tribulations or in a sense of accomplishment after triumphing over physical or mental boundaries. Whichever it is, once you find it with Takhoma, be sure not to wield it. Knowledge and education are not weapons. Walk with it. Share with those in your community what you will do with this new knowledge. Utilize what you were gifted and educate your family and community; abstaining will spoil Takhoma’s gift and it will rot from the inside out.
Whether you reach the summit or not, Takhoma has given you energy. I ask that you redirect it so that it may enrich others.