European Cuisine

I don't like food.

Well that's not entirely true, I just don't really like flavor all that much. I guess flavor isn't all that bad, but if given a choice I'd rather sit down with some fruit, vegetables, and a plate full of plain noodles. Which works great for me in America, but not so well in say anywhere else in the world.

This has the potential to spell disaster on a two month trip through Europe. Fortunately, I'm also a big fan of adventure and what's more adventurous than trying strange food in strange countries? Well, lots of things, actually. But it's still an adventure and one that has turned out well so far.

Yesterday we took a day trip to Toledo, an hour south of Madrid. At the crossroads of Muslim and Christian culture, the city been captured and recaptured countless time. This means that Toledo's architecture has has strange relics from very different background and it's amazing to see how the history of the city is intertwined with modern buildings. Watching a brand new Audi slowly squeeze down a medieval alley is something you'll definitely never see in America. And this is to say nothing of the incredible cathedral. It was a bit hard to get a feel for the cathedral from the outside (unless you were a long way away, but once inside the place was overwhelmingly beautiful. (and the rest of the Toledo pictures here).

But Toledo was also our first foray into Spanish cuisine. Famous for it's mazapán, a chalky, pasty, dessert that tastes exactly how it sounds: chalky and pasty. It wasn't terrible, but it's not a dessert I would ever willingly eat. But I could imagine children growing up eating mazapán could develop a sweet tooth for it. I'll stick with chocolate and cookies, though.

Arriving back in Madrid last night my sister and I headed out for some tapas, Spain's famous snack dishes. Avoiding the seafood dishes, I decided to start with a beginner plate: ham sausage slices soaked in a mildly spicy sauce. To eat you grab a slice of sausage, place it on a chunk of bread, and create a small open-faced sandwich. The end result was extremely tasty. Which is good news for me, there will be lots of tapas in the next month. And walking around Madrid at night was beautiful, we had a nearly full moon that light up the evening.

Today we headed out for a second day trip, this time up to Segovia. Segovia is famous for it's enormous aqueduct. It did not disappoint. Originally nine miles long, the 2500 remaining feet are still impressive. Built by the Romans over 2000 years ago (without any mortar!) this aqueduct stands high on my list of oldest things I've ever seen. We spent the better part of an hour walking around in the shadow of the aqueduct, climbing on it, and just in general just staring at. Of course, Segovia also has a cathedral, which Rick Steves aptly described as a very flamboyant display of gothic architecture.

And we had a chance to stop at one of Kelsey's favorite restaurants, Pan & Company. They sell small, cheap (and delicious!) sandwiches. It was a great small meal to keep us full until we could get back to Madrid... because waiting for us at Madrid was our next meal, Casa de Tortillas. Kelsey's favorite food in the entire world is a Spanish tortilla and, as it's name suggests, this place knows how to make a tortilla. We split a tortilla covered in a garlic mayo sauce for just $5 Euros.

We're now stuffed, happy, and exhausted for two day trips. Tomorrow we've got one more full day in Madrid (featuring two museums, a park, and a bullfight!) before we head off to Barcelona on Monday (when the "normal" part of my vacation starts).

We Must Be In Europe

I've been in Madrid for about 48 hours now and (of course) I'm already having a fantastic time. This is the first time I've traveled internationally and not really had any real plans. And it's a great way to travel. I've started both mornings with a meandering jog through town. This could be my new favorite way to explore a city. I cover a lot of ground and get to follow pretty much any whim I have. I've seen a lot of Madrid that I would have never normally see. I also get to see a lot of local stores and people, not just life around the major sections.

Anyway, two days is more than enough time to make some snap judgments about Madrid, Spain, and Europe as a whole. :) Stepping into Madrid airport, the first thing I noticed was the smell. The smell of smoke. How long has it been since I've been in a building where people can smoke indoors? A long, long time. The airport does have a "smoking room" but it's just a 10 foot by 10 foot booth in the middle of the terminal... the smoke escapes fairly easily. It's something I'll have to get used to here, everyone smokes in Spain. (I think this explains why I haven't seen ANYONE else out running in the morning yet. Sure smoking will take years off your life, but it keeps you thin!)

The other very obvious social difference is the way Europeans greet each other. Not content with just a handshake or a hug, the Spaniards always throw in a quick, two cheek kiss. I spent close to six hours in the Madrid airport (a story for another day) and I saw more kisses than I've seen in the rest of my life, combined. But I gotta say, I like it. Like all Americans, I'm a firm believe in having my own personal space, but a quick kiss on the cheek seems to set a friendly atmosphere from the get go.

On the fashion front, Madrid has been nothing short of fascinating. I'm happy to report that while the American mullet has been on the endangered species list since the early '90s, the European mullet is still alive and thriving. I've never seen so many variations on the standard mullet. I think I'll have to spend at least one day on a mullet safari; attempting to capture images of the mullet in it's natural environment. I'm not sure if Spaniards are comfortable with a tourist walking around taking pictures of the back of their head, so it will have to be a covert operation.

On the female side the (surprisingly disturbing) trend is the use of extremely sheer white pants or skirts. Usually worn in combination with a pair of brightly colored (and quite often patterned) skivvies, it's hard not to stare. And sadly, it usually means staring in terror. The sheer clothing phenomenon isn't limited to young, fit women (i.e. the ones that can get away with it). No, it's a non-discriminating fashion foul and is equally likely to appear on... well with out getting into too many details, let's just say that this is a risky look to pull off. If things go wrong they go very, very wrong.

The only thing I've failed at so far is in the picture taking department. What can I say, while I love looking at buildings and monuments, I'm not really interested taking pictures of them. You can find those pictures in any book. But today my sister and I are headed off to Toledo for a day trip. It's going to be my first medieval experience in Spain, I'm sure I'll be back tonight with a ton of corny pictures!

Airports and Planes

And we have liftoff!

My absolute least favorite part of traveling is ... well the traveling itself. It starts at the airport. The airport could be the most depressing place I know of (a quick review of my most painful memories reveals that no less than three of my top five bad memories involve an airport). On top of that, I'm convinced that the entire system is designed to test our ability to cope with society. Long, slow lines, screaming children and mind boggling "security" laws are enough to mentally destroy even the most patient traveler.

Once airborne, things don't get much better. For those who don't know, I am not entirely comfortable putting my life in the hands of another. Yes, airline pilots are extremely talented and experienced, but that kind of logic is thrown out the window when I'm actually on the plane. The bottom line is that flying is a distinctly non-human trait. If we were supposed to fly we would have been given wings. Blatantly flaunting the air gods like this will not go unpunished forever.

I've flown a lot so I've become better at combating my irrational fear (or at least learning how to appear calm on the outside). But turbulence is still an extremely unpleasant experience. I'm usually okay for a certain amount of turbulence -- like some sort of turbulence meter. When the bumps first start I usually chuckle quietly to myself and think rational thoughts ("It's almost impossible for turbulence to take a plane down! The plane is only moving an inch or so max, that's hardly anything! It should be shaking more than that anyway!"). I also keep myself busy, intently reading the SkyMall magazine or something. But eventually my body starts to realize that the plane is, in fact, bouncing around and things start going down hill. And once the turbulence meter is full I'm officially a mess. I sit still, willing the plane to stop shaking and my heart actually starts pounding a little bit, which of course makes me a little clammy and even more uncomfortable.

Unfortunately for me, the flight from Seattle to Philadelphia was a pretty bumpy trip and I hit "stressed out Colin" at some point over Michigan. This meant I had zero tolerance for bumps on my flight to Madrid (and as an added bonus: bumpy flights while you're over the middle of the Atlantic ocean? No bueno!). So instead of enjoying some shuteye on the way over I spent 11 hours fighting the urge to scream and whimper like a 4 year old child. Good times.

But the flights had plenty of highlights too. The person to my left on the flight from Seattle to Philadelphia was from Spain and spoke no English. Watching her interact with the flight attendants gave me first glimpse into my life in Spain. It was not a pretty picture. :) However, she was able to ask me "Live Seattle?" and one other question that made me realize she knows infinitely more English than I know Spanish. She asked if I spoke Spanish and (after consulting my phrase book to find the word for sister) I responded "Oy hermana habla Espanol." She, unfortunately, didn't really understand me. It turns that "oy" isn't actually a word. It's my gross combination of "soy" ("I am") and "yo" ("I"). Not that "yo" would have been much better: "I sister speak Spanish?" Ugh, it's going an interesting linguistic month.

My second flight started off in a similar fashion. "Hola," the girl next to me said as I sat down. I responded with an hola as well, thinking "oh another flight of pointing at words in my translation book..." She then asked me something in Spanish, while grabbing a big bag and handing it to me. I assumed she asked me to put it up in the overhead compartment (which was correct!) so I said "sí" and put it away. 20 minutes later I was talking to the flight attendant (in English) and my isle-mate asks me afterwards, "Wait you're American?" Turns out she's American as well (we'll Hispanic, living in LA) and we were able to continue the flight in a language that we both understood...

So with that as my Spanish primer I'm now ready for Spain proper. I'm off the plane and I can't express how great it feels to be in Spain. No more planning, no more stressing, going out and doing things!

Here We Go Again!

Fifteen months ago I put life on pause, packed up my snowboard gear, and spent eight fantastic weeks in New Zealand and Australia. Tomorrow I'm setting sail again, this time for Europe! I'll be joining my sister for a month in Spain before venturing off in November to check out Morocco, England, and Iceland! There will be (of course) lots of great adventures, stories and pictures.

We're off to Madrid first, where my sister and I will spend a week with my cousin (who's spending a semester there for school). On October first we're moving into a small flat in Barcelona for a month. We haven't even left yet and I've already got a ton of things to talk about. Unfortunately that won't happen tonight. I've got a flight in 6 hours and I'm finally packed up and as ready as I'm always going to be.

So for now it's time for bed. I'll be in Madrid in two days, jet lagged and (hopefully) ready type some more. Until then!

Climbing Rainier

I've spent the last two weeks nursing my sore feet and slowly internalizing my trip to the top of Mt. Rainier and back. I had hoped that if I thought about things long enough I'd be able to conjure up a concise and cogent tale of my summit climb. Sadly, that's not going to happen. Climbing Mt. Rainier is a huge emotional and physical investment; I certainly don't have the literary skills required to adequately document the endeavor. But, as with everything else in life, I'll give it my best try. This post will be long, meandering, and quite possibly incoherent. Just don't say I didn't warn you.

Our journey to the summit begins on the (quickly melting) snowy slopes of Rainier, on Wednesday, September 5th. Our first day on Mt. Rainier was awesome. I haven't been to Rainier in a long, long time and was shocked to rediscover how breathtakingly beautiful the mountain is. Late August and September are especially spectacular as the snow has finally melted off the lower slopes, allowing the vibrant wildflowers to bloom. But we're not here to admire the flowers, we've got serious training to do!

We spent the day learning the essential mountaineering skills: hiking in crampons, performing self-arrests with our ice axes, and walking as team, roped up to the rest of the group. What this basically boils down to is a spending the day playing in the snow. Sliding around to practice self-arrests, kicking our feet around to practice walking with crampons, and all that good stuff. It's been nearly five months since I've seen the snow and, quite honestly, I've been missing it. Walking around in the slush reawakened my inner snow child who was very happy to see the white stuff again. I managed to resist the temptation to start a snowball fight but I may have snuck in a quick taste while no one was looking (and yes, I realize that the snow has been sitting there for the better part of 8 months, but I dug down a couple inches first where it's still clean!).

Aside from learning the mountaineering basics, this was also our first chance to size up the rest of the group. Teamed up with James and I are Phil from Chicago and (my personal favorite) the New Jersey boys: Bill, Nick and Joe. Naturally, Bill, Nick and Joe refer to each other as Billy, Nicky, and Joey. So far things look good. James and I are the youngest, but Phil competes in triathlons and the New Jersey crew has been training all summer. Our group is led by Alaina, a twenty-something mountaineer who has been leading groups on Rainier for three years. She also spent two years in the Indian Himalayas and five years on the US national rock climbing team! Needless to say, we're in capable hands.

After a few hours on the mountain we're deemed "ready to climb" and head back to our bunk house for one more night of fitful sleep. Do I feel like a dependable mountaineer yet? Decidedly not. But could I stop myself if I slipped and fell? Eventually, yes. Besides, there's really on one way to learn: doing it when it matters. :)

Thursday morning finds us up early and ready to get started. Our goal for the day is camp Muir: 4.5 miles and 4500 vertical feet away. It's certainly not a debilitating hike, but with a 40 pound backpack, crampons, and extremely rigid mountaineering boots on it's no stroll through the park either.

(Aside: I just realized that I haven't talked about mountaineering boots yet. Mountaineering boots are NOT regular hiking boots. They need to be completely waterproof (obviously) and very, very rigid. The stiff boot allows crampons to be more effective. We ended up renting boots, which almost look like ski boots. We're also told to tie up the boots extremely loosely. Like loose enough that you can fit your entire hand between your shin and the front of the boot. If tied too tight the boots will slap into rub against your shin, resulting in the ultra painful phenomenon known as shin-bang. If wearing loose fitting ski boots to go hiking sounds strange to you, good! I'm glad I'm not alone. But aside from the extra weight, they were surprisingly comfortable on the way up. And back to the story!)

We left Paradise (the parking lot) at 10:00am, arriving at camp Muir a little after 4:00pm. The hike up was great. We got above the cloud level at around 8000 feet and I ended up hiking in shorts and a t-shirt. But once we hit camp Muir, I quickly realized that the rest of the trip wouldn't be quite as relaxing. It was announced that lights would be at the improbably-early hour of 6pm! And in the next two hours we needed to unpack for the night, prepare and eat dinner, change and then jump into bed. I sadly put my deck of cards back into my backpack; there would be no leisurely games on this trip.

We scurried around camp and two hours later I was stretched out in my sleeping bag. This leads to the next problem. Sure, getting in bed by 6pm is nice, but... how are we actually supposed to fall asleep? Not only is it just 6pm, but it's impossible not to be pumped up and simultaneously terrified of what the next day holds. Our guides just spent 15 minutes explaining (in great detail) what the next day would bring and it sounds... well terrifying. My mind is racing and my heart is pounding already. Fortunately, I have a secret weapon.

As we were going through our last minute preparations on training day we asked out guide for any tips about things to bring that wouldn't be mentioned on our checklist. She glanced around for a second and, seeing that no one was nearby, said, "I'm probably not supposed to encourage this, but if you go to the corner market they sell small, plastic, single servings of wine. One glass of wine will do wonders for you when you're at 10,000 feet." James and I, needing no further encouragement, both found a little extra room in our packs.

I'm happy to report the the wine helped settle my mind and heart. However, it was no defense against problem #2: spending the night in a wooden shack with 12 strangers. You would think that it wouldn't be that hard for people to relax and lay down, but there was a constant bustle. And not just sleeping bag noises! Between people getting up to go to the bathroom and the occasionally gassy outburst (yes, really!) it sounded like a zoo at night or something. I had ear plugs, but they were no match for the mass of humanity inside our shack.

After lying in my sleeping bag for what feels like hours I finally drift off a couple times. Which can mean only one thing: it must be time to get up! We're jolted awake at 11:30pm! We have exactly one hour to dress, pack, and eat. That is definitely not enough time when it's 11:30pm and you're operating on about one to two hours of sleep. The shack is a hive of activity, though and everyone manages to stumble out the door by 12:30. We're cold and tired, it's windy and dark out, but it's time to climb Rainier!

Aside from a little breeze it's a beautiful night. There are stars everywhere! We group up into teams of four (a guide plus three climbers) and move out. I start hiking with my head on a swivel, taking in the stars and the headlamps of the groups ahead of us on the trail. About 20 seconds outside of camp Muir I happen to take a look down and am greeted by the frightening sight of nothingness. Just in front of my foot is a small (say 6 inch wide) crevasse. Certainly not big enough fall into, but certainly big enough to step into. I point this out because from this point on I spent at least 95% of the time staring at my feet. I'm sure there are millions of things to see on Rainier, but I did not see most of them. From 12:30am until 1:00pm my universe consisted of my feet and the two feet in front of me.

Hiking by headlamp is an odd feeling. To me it felt like walking a dream. The world seemed to be in black and white. Well, mostly black. There is absolutely no light, save for the 20 or so headlamps emanating from the train of climbers. But the light from the headlamps doesn't do much to pierce the darkness, I can't see more than 15 feet in front of me. In fact, everyone on our rope team is about 20 feet apart and I can't see James, who's roped in just ahead of me.

But we trudge on, slowly, through the darkness. The plan is to hike for an hour then rest for 10 minutes. We'll repeat this for 7 hours, arriving on the summit around 8:00am. The first two hours are fairly uneventful. We have lost two of the three Jersey boys and Phil from Chicago, though. They decided that they were not ready for Mt. Rainier and elected to turn back. And it's hard to blame them. Hiking in the darkness is not for everyone. It's easy to look around and get scared. If you trip and fall you have no idea what you'll end up in. Again, another reason to keep your eyes on your feet. Also, I've heard that dying isn't fun either. And that's actually a possibility in the next section.

Hour three is where things get very interesting. We enter a section that the guides have dubbed the "no fall zone." What does that mean exactly? Don't fall. If you do you will probably die. Oh, and if someone else on you rope trips and falls you'll probably die too. There isn't enough time to react (and probably not enough room to perform a self-arrest on the trail anyway). We'll be climbing a 60 degree slope (steep!) on rock solid ice. The only silver-lining right now is that my rope team is now just me and our lead guide. So if I go down I've got no one to blame but myself.

Hour three lived up to hype. My heart would have been pounding, but it was absolutely paralyzed with fear. This section is firmly entrenched in the top 5 scariest moments of my life. I've made this comparison before, but this is infinitely more scary than bunjy jumping or sky diving. Those events take just a split second of insanity when you will yourself to jump off a bridge or plane. This, however, is a solid hour of heart-stopping fear. And once again, I survive by staring intently at my feet (noticing a theme yet?). Each step I take I have to kick the ice repeatedly, ensure I have strong purchase against the ice. This may have been one of the longest hours of my life.

However, the reward was sweet. Sunrise over Rainier is one of the most gorgeous things I've ever seen. Sadly we were still hiking just as the sun crashed over the eastern horizon, but watching as the snow around us slowly transformed into harsh redish hues was magnificent. We finally took a break as the sun continued to rise and I was able to take my favorite pictures of the trip.

The rest of the hike up is an exercise in mental and physical endurance. The technical sections are distant memories and you're left with endless switchbacks and nothing but your own mind to keep you company. Fortunately for me, I enjoy my own company. Physically speaking, Mt. Rainier is probably the hardest thing I've ever done. But -- thankfully -- my training regimen provided me with more than enough oompf to get to the top. The altitude made breathing a little more difficult as well, but didn't any other affect on me. So all I'm left to do is hike. Slowly. I try to keep a steady beat with my feet, counting off the beat in my head.

And suddenly, we're at the top! Well, the top is a bit of a misnomer. The top of Rainier is a crater, with the edges being higher than the rest of the peak (as you can tell from our picture). Which means that while you're on top of the mountain, you can't actually see anything. Also, our "gentle breezes" of the early morning have turned into a full on wind storm. So while the temperature isn't all that low (around 20 degrees), the wind chill is significant. Of the 12 clients on this hike, 6 make it to the top (including 3 of our 6 person group). Although this sounded low, it's fairly typical. Wikipedia notes that "about half of the attempts are successful, with weather and conditioning being the most common reasons for failure."

Sadly, there isn't much to do on top of Mt. Rainier. And, as much as I wanted to appreciate my accomplishment, we were still only half way done. Having just completed a 7 hour hike we still had 8 more hours to go. And my mind was already thinking about the "no fall zone." What would that look like now that the sun was out? Would the wind die down before we got there?

The answers are: even more terrifying and no, the wind did not die down at all. If anything, it picked up. Twice we were forced to stop and lay against mountain as the winds were dangerously close to blowing us off the mountain. I also discovered the only thing I dislike more than hiking up a sheet of ice: climbing back down it. To ensure that your crampons stick into the ice you need to stomp each step into the snow. By the time we reached the no fall zone we'd be hiking for nearly 10 hours. Do you know what my legs did not feel like doing? Stomping down as hard as I could on every. single. step. I literally had this conversation with myself as my legs were burning: "I absolutely cannot take another stomp step down, my legs don't have the strength. However, if I don't stomp the step, I will probably slip on the ice and die. Okay, stomp steps it is!" In case you can't tell, I didn't like this section any better on the way back down.

Thankfully we were able to get back down to camp Muir without any incident. We arrived shortly before noon, nearly 12 hours after leaving. Arriving at Muir I finally started to feel like, "YES I climbed Mt. Rainier!" No more crevasses, no more ice sections of death, just 3 more hours of hiking and I'd be home free. It turns out that the hike down from Muir was the most painful part of the trip.

The 4.5 miles back down are just "power through" mode. We're walking fast, taking few breaks, and just trying to get back to Paradise so that we can get off our feet. But remember those loose mountaineering boots I mentioned? Well they are not good for going downhill, especially if you're going fast. My foot slides forward and back a good inch on every step, rubbing my soaking wet sock against. By the time we reached Paradise the bottom of each foot felt like one giant blister (and, much to my dismay, each foot was in fact a giant blister...). We arrived at Paradise a little after 4:30pm. Everyone was tired, sore, and just generally drained. Mt. Rainier gave every one of us all we could handle.

Was climbing Mt. Rainier worth everything? The price, the pain, the terrifying no fall zone that I'm sure took a couple years off my life? Absolutely. In fact, the pain and anguish help enhance the experience. This was, without a doubt, one of the craziest things I've done in my life. Would I do it again? Possibly. No, I definitely would, if the opportunity arose. Never again in three days though. 16 hours of hiking is just too much.

Whew! I told you that'd be incoherent. It's now approaching 2:00am. I know I lost my literary drive somewhere in that story, but I told myself I'd finish it in one sitting. So there we have have it. I've already thought of lots of stories and details that I forgot to mention, I'll just have to save them for another day.

Success!

I made it to the top! I've got so many stories I'd love to tell, but I'm still slowly absorbing the whole event. So no great stories yet (I'll get something posted this week), but I do have a few pictures uploaded.

Training for Rainier

I'm three days away from starting up Rainier and I can't wait to get started. Of course, climbing Mt. Rainier isn't just about the three day climb. Most of climbing Mt. Rainier is the training beforehand. RMI — our guides on Rainier — recommend a six month training window, minimum. I'm fairly certain that I'm in better shape than your average American, but I didn't know I was going to be climbing the mountain until the beginning of August so I've only had about a month of dedicated preparation time.

A compact time line has lead to a very aggressive training schedule, I've taken one to two days off per week, max. So while I feel like I've made the most of my time, there's still a nagging concern in the back of my mind that I'm not 100% physically prepared. But it's just two days of pain, right? How bad could it be?

There have been a couple of, um, "highlights" during my training. Mt. Rainier is essentially like climbing stairs for two days so I've spent a lot of time on the infamous Crestwood stairs (211 uneven, oddly sized railroad tie steps in Kirkland). I quickly discovered that there's really no good way to ease into doing stairs. After my first session on the stairs (1 hour with a 50 pound backpack on) I was unable to stand on my own. My legs were quivering so badly that I couldn't keep myself vertical without the aid of the railing. After a 15 minute recovery period I felt better and decided it was time to go home. I attempted to back my car out of the parking lot but I had absolutely zero fine motor control in my legs. They were shaking like mad as I tried to shift into reverse and I immediately stalled my poor car! Fortunately your muscles get used to the new form of punishment quickly and I'm happy to report that there have been no stalls since day one.

I've since upgraded from the stairs to a somewhat short but extremely steep hike just outside town. On my first trip out I didn't know exactly how far it was, but figured starting the hike at 7:00pm would give me plenty of time to get to the top and back before dusk (9:00pm). I arrived at the peak on schedule, at 8:00pm. After a quick victory lap around the summit and started my hike back down, figuring I should be back at my car by 8:45 at the latest. This is where I learned lesson number 2: hiking downhill is much, much slower when you're carrying a lot of weight. Hiking downhill is usually faster than going uphill and I was shocked to learn just how slow I ended up going when saddled with 50 extra pounds.

So where does this extra time down leave me at 9:00pm? Not at the bottom, I can tell you that much. It was so dark that I couldn't really even see the trail anymore. Desperate for a source of light I pull out my cell phone and use that to illuminate my path. However it gets so dark that I really can't see a thing. I end up taking 2 or 3 steps at a time and then stopping to sweep my cell phone around, looking for some sign of a path. Not a well designed plan.

It gets so bad that I even ponder calling home. I run through the conversation through my head: "Hi mom! It's dark and I'm still on the trail and I can't see where I'm going. Can you and dad drive out here with a couple of flashlights and come rescue me?!" That's a phone call I wasn't looking forward to making. Fortunately, just as things start start looking hopeless, I smell a very powerful and wonderfully familiar scent: the stench of a pit-house bathroom! That can mean only one thing: I'm very close to the trail head. Much like Tucan Sam, I follow my nose and and am able to successfully navigate the final couple hundred feet to the parking lot. That's the first (and hopefully last) time I've been thankful for the stinky sanitation of overused trail heads.

Speaking of sanitation, have I discussed how that works on Mt. Rainier yet? Maybe that's a story for another day... Today was my last big training hike: a 6 hour monster trek through the Cascades that has left my entire body exhausted. But do I feel like I could do it again tomorrow, if it meant getting to the top of Mt. Rainier? Absolutely yes! I think I'm ready, but there's only one way to know for sure. :)