Skinning Up Mount Rainier with Breast Cancer Forced Me to Take the Journey One Step at a Time

My older daughter, Nina’s, birthday means it is time for Mount Rainier. Every June, my husband and I make a pilgrimage to Mount Rainier with our two daughters to admire the massive volcano, hike up the snowfields, and earn some early summer ski turns. Our trips began with toddlers and sledding near the parking lot, then progressed to little kids happily hiking fueled by special treats with parents lugging kid skis and boots in big, heavy backpacks. As the kids grew bigger and stronger, they started carrying their own gear, and we’ve been able to climb a bit higher, gaining a few extra sunny turns. The year Nina turned 16, she was bound and determined to reach a new high point of base camp, Camp Muir, by skinning up on her own skis.

We planned months in advance. Our scheduled Rainier date approached and miserable white-out blizzard conditions prompted us to make a rational decision. No Rainier for the birthday weekend. We would wait.

When a sunny window opened up a couple of weeks later, we pulled Nina out of school for a day and headed south. My husband, Hans, had a work project he couldn’t break free from, so we enlisted our friend Anna, a fellow emergency room doc and skilled mountaineer, to join us. Anna was fresh off a month living and working on Denali as part of a high altitude mountain rescue crew, and Nina was a strong teenager fresh off the tail end of a full spring of 2.5-hour daily rowing workouts.

And me? Well, I was taking an oral chemotherapy medication for my metastatic breast cancer, my third line of treatment in the four years since I’d been diagnosed with an incurable disease. Translation: I was feeling fatigued and mildly queasy but enthusiastic by nature and powered by optimism.

We started skinning up, chatting along the way, gaining elevation, and passing by tourists in running shoes slipping around on the snow near the parking lot at Paradise. My decades-old backcountry boots and skis felt inordinately heavy beneath me, and I wondered why I hadn’t yet sprung for a long-overdue upgrade to modern, light backcountry gear. On steeper sections, I silently rued my over-practical frugality, laughing at myself when I acknowledged that cancer treatment might also be making this a bit harder than usual. Easier to blame it on the gear.

As we ascended I started feeling some nausea, and the steps became more difficult. My body wanted to rest, but I was also determined to help Nina reach her goal. We hit a viewpoint and assessed our timing. Feeling my heart pumping, I told Anna and Nina that I needed to just lay on a sunny rock for about 20 minutes, and that they should keep going ahead. They both told me they were sure I could make it. I told them I thought so too, but that I needed to just sit and I wanted them to get Nina up there. After a bit more back-and-forth and some hugs, they clicked back into their skis and headed uphill together.

Asking for a rest is not in my nature. I’ve always pushed, knowing that it’s worth the effort, reveling in the feeling of accomplishment when I’ve endured to make it to a peak, a mountain lake, a new destination. My husband and I have an agreement that if we are ever debating doing some outdoor activity, it’s 99 percent of the time better to say yes and just go. It’s a yes-person approach, one that has filled my life with many wonders. Asking to stay on the sunny rock was a different me. Remarkably, it felt pretty amazing.

I put my feet up on the sun-warmed rock, laughed at a fat marmot galumphing across the snowfield below me, chittered back at a bold chipmunk who came by asking for a treat, and said yes to what my body was asking me at the moment. I drank water, ate a handful of gummy bears and a cheese stick, and let myself rest as I gazed out on a field of volcanoes outlining the southward heading fault through the mountain ranges in the distance. My nausea cleared and my heartbeat slowed to a comfortable rate.

I silently rued my over-practical frugality, laughing at myself when I acknowledged that cancer treatment might also be making this a bit harder than usual. Easier to blame it on the gear.

After a while I peeked upwards, happy to see the progress Nina and Anna were making. And suddenly I felt ready to go again. I clicked back into my skis and thought, “They said I could do it. I know I can do this.”

I started up the snowfield, 8,000 feet higher in elevation than where we woke up that morning in our Seattle home. My heart was pounding. I started counting steps. At 100, I let myself rest, look around, and wait for my heart to calm down. When I started up again, I looked down at my ski tracks, focusing on my boots and skis as they slid slowly upward, counting in my head. Sometimes I got to 100 and felt strong, so I kept going for another 100 steps, stopping at 200 instead. Keeping my head down while ascending meant I got to surprise myself each time I looked up, excited to see progress 100 steady steps at a time.

I got into a rhythm, and just as base camp came into sight, Anna and Nina reappeared. We did it! I loved finding a compromise between the rest I needed and pushing just enough to reach a goal. Nina’s ear-to-ear grin and the soft spring-skiing turns that led us back to our car were worth it.

Cancer treatment has a rhythm like my 100 steps. There have been times when the best I can do is to put my head down and count the 100 steps between treatments, like with early chemotherapy. There have been other times where the steps have been easier, 100, 200, 300, and more without rest, like with 2.5 years of stability on my first targeted anti-cancer medication. My latest treatments have a rapid cycle of visits and scans, with scans every six weeks to see if the treatment is working or not. Unlike hiking up Mount Rainier, however, the steps are leading in a more uncertain direction.

What is certain to me is that each batch of 100 steps is worth it, for the beauty, the journey, and the time outdoors with the people I love. And though my journey up Mount Rainier now is markedly different than it was before my diagnosis, every step is a precious yes.