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neoyeppuda · 7 years ago

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A Little More - Seungkwan [30]

30. “One more chapter.”

Word Count: 1951

Type: fluff, dad!au, a bit of angst???

A/N: Oh my god it’s been months I am so sorry it’s been so long but I hope you guys enjoy this!!!! :> This was really cute and I loved the story idea I instantly thought of!! I pray I can post more often again :@kpopbreeze for beta reading this one!!!! I’ll see you guys at the next fic :> -Clar

He had no time for you.

That fact was the first thing registered on your mind when words of love and romance ambled off his lips with utmost sincerity. Whatever time he had for you now would diminish into one or two hours together over a few weeks once he’d take a step onto the silvery debut stage in front people that would now know him as Seungkwan of Seventeen.

You knew he wouldn’t always be there whenever you were stuck in a rough patch; nor would he be there as a pillar you could lean on whenever the need arose. Those were things you had to know before you even considered dating an idol, and you knew them very well.

To be brutally honest, you wouldn’t have considered accepting any of it when bubbles had only just begun rising from the pit of your stomach. The feelings that he had stirred up weren’t initially very difficult to brush off. But he did so more often, and more; you could no longer disregard the fact that it brushed against your heart the faintest of red shades.

Before you had time to even notice it, the soft spot you had for him began sprouting and blooming flowers that were the sweetest of roses. You could say you had already loved him; ardently and passionately, like the ambition that drives an artist to breathe vivid life into their creations.

Love had bloomed at the bottom of your heart, flourishing as it touched every crevice and every nook of the rosy walls around it.

The answer had already been decided upon as the earliest of rose buds began peeking out into the open; you knew what you were going to say.

“I like you too,” the instant the sweet syllables left your cherry lips, his face lit up like how stars did on the black canvas of night the day you admired them all twinkling in galaxies light years away from the very spot you were sitting on.

A breath of chilly wind tickled your cheeks as you shuffled to lean on Seungkwan’s shoulder, wrapping arms around the thick coat that clothed sinous muscle.

There was a shooting star on that day. Ever so bright as it glided across the vast darkness, the celestial body plummeted a little past the bustling city’s numerous skyscrapers. When your eyes fluttered close, Seungkwan’s own watched you and the sweet little curve of your lips make a wish that you hoped had zoomed across the stars to reach the heavens where it would be answered.

The moment in itself was what had made him fall deeper into the velvety sheets of red and passion fruit; honestly, the only thing he could do was love you more.

With the lights of windows slowly flicking off, the city gently embraced a sweet slumber. You had packed up the picnic cloth and the jacket that Seungkwan had swathed you in when little trembles against his fingers told him you were cold.

Everything was tidied and only a flattened patch of grass was left swaying in the wind. Whirring of the engine filled a wide silence that wedged itself in between both of you on the way home; a consistent tune that accompanied the peaceful night perfectly. It lulled you to a brief nap as the trip didn’t take too much time until you were at the front door of your house.

He bids you good night with a bashful smile, waving his hand and all before he returned to the comfy seat of his car. The vehicle pulled away smoothly and left once you stepped a foot into your household.

Rushing to the bedroom, you stubbed your toe into one of the numerous walls found in your house. But the pain didn’t matter to you at all. You slipped out of your outfit and into cozy pajamas, throwing yourself onto the wide bed as dreams completed your wonderful evening.

And your wish?

You’ve held onto it for years, until one day, you let go of it.

You had no reason to because at that one moment, he had already made it come true.

He got down on one knee with a bashful smile on his face. His hands shakily produced a small box that he opened for you to see its contents and your heart leaped, even though you knew it was coming.

“Marry me,” the words you dreamed of hearing from the man who you had been with through numerous years finally left the very same lips that kiss you in the morning as they whispered sweet nothings into the curve of your ear. Just like the day he confessed to you, similar words of romance left his smiling lips. However this time, it held promises of eternity.

And you were willing to accept the “forever” he talked about.

You brought a little angel into the world; and with her rosy skin and bright eyes, she took her first look at the awestruck faces of people she would soon come to know as her parents; with her silvery voice and the sweetest of smiles, she spoke her first words; with sturdy legs and a mind brimming with curiosity, she took her first steps.

The fragile baby that you once cradled around in your arms was now growing up and you couldn’t blink or you’d miss it. Seungkwan knew that; and with the kindness of his manager, those little hours grew into more and more during the early years of your daughter’s childhood.

“My manager is a kind angel,” Seungkwan sighed with admiration and gratitude. Only high words came out of him whenever the topic arose as she was the reason why he had so much time for Eunbyeol.

However idols will be idols, and Seungkwan had a world tour he absolutely had to be there for.

It was a day before their departure and this time, Seungkwan was given a whole day off. He was enthusiastic regarding the relatively long break, so despite it being hours earlier than usual, your husband was already up and about. He was outside playing with Eunbyeol for majority of the wonderful morning, and breakfast had slipped his mind.

They came home from the nearby park tired and starving, before devouring the pancakes and bacon you had laid out for them. “I told you to eat before you guys left,” a litany of scoldings came out of you as they finished off the rest of their food in silence.

“Is daddy reading to me tonight?” Eunbyeol hands you her plate with a mouthful of food.

You answered with a nod, washing up the licked-clean plate. “Which book do you want?” Seungkwan nudged the little kid with his elbow, eliciting another bout of giggles. Eunbyeol nudged him back with all the force she could muster, practically throwing her body at him which did not make much of an impact on Seungkwan as he was around thrice her size.

“I want Charlotte’s Web,” Eunbyeol chimed with sparkles in her round innocent eyes. The beloved novel was her favorite despite her initial struggles in understanding the story as it showed her the yellow brick road -as she described them- towards the world Charlotte had lived in.

The afternoon was spent outside again, with the two loves of your life running out and dirtying their clothes to pick several flowers for you. Seungkwan had offered to weave them into your hair, neatly separating the bouquet by color to arrange them properly.

“I want to help!” your daughter exclaims, scooping up a bunch of flowers with her tiny arms. They both made a lot of tangles here and there, as it was their first time doing something like this. However, in lieu of harsh words and expressions of disappointment, you simply smiled and brushed their apologies off. Seungkwan rubs the back of his hand against your warm cheek and your eye shuts as the hand draws a little to closer to it.

“It’s messy,” you giggle, unconsciously touching your hair in an attempt to ease the wild strands of hair standing up.

“It’s a mess but it’s still beautiful,” he chuckles and your smile mirrored his. As Seungkwan watched the breeze gently blow your hair back and forth, he noticed the specks of white that began twinkling in the gray sky behind you. A pang of pain struck his heart as the impending separation was approaching faster than he wanted it to. His plans were forlornly ruined as he realized that time would not wait for anyone, and that midnight would come in five more hours.

Back at home, Eunbyeol ran around in her silky pink pajamas. “Where’s the book?” she rummaged through her chest full of trinkets and toys she has had over the years. The hardbound book was the only one that wasn’t on the shelf like the rest of her books since it -according to her- was special, and it deserved a prestigious spot somewhere in her toy chest.

“Maybe it ran away,” Seungkwan teasingly smirks with hands behind his back. The instant she saw the look on his face she knew the book had been with him the whole time.

With an arm raised, she confidently asks for the novel. To which he replies with feigned innocence that was as transparent as glass.

“Daddy give it back!” Eunbyeol demanded her book.

His smile grew wider and he reveals the book from behind his back. “I knew it!” she exclaimed as a knowing smile graced the girl’s face, and it was off to bed with her.

Seungkwan tucked her in and small hands gripped the edge of the blanket tightly. Eager eyes watched her father flip towards the first page of chapter one and the magical journey began.

In your opinion, Seungkwan was a great storyteller. Whenever a character spoke, he’d deepen or soften his voice to fit the personality they had; whether it be arrogant or soft-spoken - he could do it all.

Bubbles of laughter erupted from the cold bedroom; waning as the little ray of sunshine slipped into a sweet slumber. Seungkwan’s voice was a little above a whisper, continuing the story despite no one listening.

The low growl of his phone vibrating against the leather pants drowned his voice in its dreary tone. He felt a tap on his shoulder as your presence filled the space beside him. The heart situated at his chest dropped along with his spirits.

He didn’t want to go just yet.

“Isn’t it almost time?” you asked quietly. Seungkwan hesitantly nodded, hoping to ignore any further questioning by averting his gaze from your being.

You checked your watch and the clock’s hands were dangerously drawing near to his departure time. “You should go,” he did not look up no matter how much you shook him as he knew any imploring look from you would convince him to leave.

With a slow shake of the head, he refuses.

“One more chapter,” he pulls you down next to him as he tells you in a soft tone. You sat on the chair beside him and leaned against him, taking in his cottony scent before he left. “You have to go soon, okay?” whispering to him as your eyes fluttered close; you shuffled in your place to rest your head on his shoulder. He nodded again, brushing his cheek against your head as he droned on about Charlotte’s exciting adventures.

“Have a safe flight,” upon hearing those words come from his sleepy wife, he let out a small chuckle before resting his head on hers.

And for a little more, his face lit up like the stars on that night.

#ily #forgive me #seventeen #sfwseventeen #write-svt #seungkwan #boo seungkwan #seventeen seungkwan #seungkwan scenarios #seventeen aus #seventeen fluff #seventeen imagines #seventeen scenarios #seventeen drabbles #seventeen smut #seventeen fics

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shikungigi · 7 years ago

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Someone keeps saying I should do more travel pieces, but I keep fighting it, in the spirit of keeping things under wraps. But something changed this time, and I thought it’s good to talk about travelling in its true unInstagrammable form. It started with missing my flight. You do not want to ever miss your flight, friend. If you are going somewhere in the evening, just make sure you are at JKIA by afternoon, honestly. I fought against my very instinct and ended up leaving way later and then not using the bypass. So once we were stuck in Upper Hill traffic, I knew we were done for and just pretty much gave up.

You will meet drivers who think they know Nairobi shortcuts, those that lead you straight into the bowels of the traffic glut itself claiming there is less traffic in the tiny roads. It is painful. And, I, for one, will never take a bodaboda from CBD to JKIA to beat time. I am not crazy and I love myself too much. To cut the long story short, we ended up at the gate right at the minute it closed. After confusing ourselves for another many minutes and taking the wrong escalators and turns. LOL. Also, I was not laughing that time.

We had to make very quick decisions and pay the penalty for the next flight out at midnight. Through it all, my colleague thought I was in denial. I was so collected – like, this happens to me all the time sister, relax. My dad called and suggested I ask where Miguna had been staying so I can spend the time there as well. SMH. I counted the notes at that customer service desk and it all felt so surreal. The total penalty was more than the original flight cost. But later on my colleague reminded me to count my blessings. It could always be worse. The price of a lesson learnt far outweighs the experience. We might not even have had that money in the first place and could have missed the next flight altogether. I was supposed to be mad at someone for this but I was not. Did I forget to mention the part where I left something in the Uber because of the rush? I had to smile at so many men to go backwards through departures to the starting point to meet the driver at the terminal. This involved leaving my passport behind too and coming back to an immigration guy who wanted to play with my head and freak me out by not giving it back immediately.

Not the perfect start to a travel story, right? Wrong. This is the real deal.

Entebbe. Until this trip happened, it had not hit me that Entebbe is the main airport in Uganda, even with the movies made about the hijacking in 1976. I always thought Kampala had another. It’s like JKIA being in Limuru. I am not even kidding you. It takes about 50 minutes to fly to Entebbe. So when you get your stamp and head out through security, you realize how small the place is compared to where you came from and that you are 40km away from your destination. Also, the cars here are slightly older than the ones you see in Nairobi, but it is another Toyota land. A lot of Ubers and Taxifys are Spacios, Ipsums, Raums and whatever other Toyota that is in this family of cars. The driver educated me a lot during that one hour trip in the middle of the night. Apparently Toyota Wish is now taking over the taxi industry and the people who run the country are about to pass a bill reducing the age of cars allowed into the country like us.

Petrol stations. They. Are. So. Many. The whole stretch from Entebbe to Kampala probably has a hundred petrol stations. Or more. Or I am just exaggerating. One person told me it’s because no one travels on full tank here, so they need to have filling stations everywhere when the inevitable happens. There is a good amount of road construction going on to fix the traffic situation this side, but because kids were on holiday, I did not get to see the famed traffic in action.

So we get to Kampala Boulevard, our home for the week and who welcomes us? A napping security guard. No surprise there. I announce our final destination and he offers to walk us up. I almost fall over when he gets up and turns around. A huge AK 47 is hanging from his shoulder across his back. I look at my colleague in disbelief and she gives me the you-ain’t-seen-nothing-yet look – she has travelled to Uganda a lot before. I will have to do further research into how much safer Uganda is with guns as compared to Kenya and our detectors that I have always doubted do much at all those entrances.

The suite is real nice with a great view of this side of the city. The buildings are not as high as Nairobi’s. It’s also not cold. The warmth that I experience the next couple of days just makes me want to stay longer. Even when it showers, the change in temperature is minimal.

Café Javas. My friends. Have you sampled CJ’s on Koinange Street yet? You know, the beautiful new restaurant that’s almost all glass with the most beautiful popping menus I have ever seen and equally good food and service? Well. You ain’t seen nothing yet until you go to one of CJ’s mothers in Kampala, Café Javas. And in case you did not know why it is CJ’s, the two had previously fought the trademark battle in court in Uganda when Java was seeking to register its trademark in the country. Java won and now has branches in Kampala. We already know Uganda is very agriculturally rich, right? I mean, we nearly wept on our way back to the airport looking at tomatoes the size of fists sitting pretty in the sun in various markets along Kampala-Entebbe Road. Meanwhile, we’re buying beat-up tomatoes like gold on this other side of Lake Victoria. Sigh.

Anyway, back to Café Javas. In addition to the huge servings you get, with additions that make you want to ululate in exhilaration like Njugush, it is still cheaper than its equivalent in Kenya. I literally camped here the whole week, despite how packed it could get. Juzi I got a milkshake from Java and I wanted to cry. I felt so cheated. It suddenly felt watery. The shakes at Cafe Javas are heavenly. Did I mention the Pina Coladas! (Without rum, of course.) I guess I will never look at anything food related the same way again after Uganda. LOL. It suddenly makes more sense why the British with all their resources insisted on cutting through thickets, man-eaters, tribes with different temperaments, mountains and rift valleys to get to Uganda, the Pearl of Africa. I cannot even begin to get jealous. Idi Amin really did some serious injustice to the country.

Museveni. My fellow Kenyans, I was mistaken about him. This president is brilliant, very sharp and focused for his age (73) and he does not read speeches. At least he did not read one here. We were at the Africa Blockchain Conference when I changed my mind. Let’s try to forget that our gadgets had to be taken away because he was in the building and focus on this: He was speaking about blockchain and cryptocurrencies from a very informed perspective, referring to handwritten notes he had been making throughout. Before he stood up to speak, the Bank of Uganda governor had read out a very scary speech which had me wondering why we were there in the first place. You know, the usual we will not entertain anything that is about crypto because it is scam. Enter the president. He urged the governor to be more inquisitive about such technologies – not to be dogmatic – and then broke down the blockchain concept in such an easy-to-understand way that I felt challenged. I have been doing everyone who has asked me about bitcoin and blockchain an injustice the past four years. I can now break it down in one simple sentence from the president: The blockchain is like a global organization/sacco in which people trust each other, put everything in public record books so that anyone anywhere can know how many bulls Museveni has in I-don’t-know-where. He spoke a lot of Baganda too, so 5% of the jokes were lost on that.

Allow me to digress a bit. For some strange reason the conference organizers chose to have scams over too, exhibiting and all that. And that is exactly who the Ugandan media chose to interview too. This beats the whole point of trying to educate people about the benefits of new technologies. Dear Ugandans, please stay away from OneLife/OneCoin and any other thing that cheats you out of your money. Seriously. Fight the urge to get easy money. I mean, even a simple Google search tells you what is a scam and what is not very easily. The funny thing is we keep telling people to stay away from these schemes, even in Kenya, but get-rich-quick schemes always have followers. And things always go south. End of digression.

At one point, we went to this French place in a very upmarket part of Kampala. Holy Crepe. From the moment we sat down, in addition to a beautiful view of the residential Kampala, all we saw were people jogging up and down the hill. At 5PM. I found that very strange. At another point, a friend took me to another hotel, Mestil Hotel & Residences. I would expect the prices to be off the roof, and again, I was shocked. A good meal here ranges from USh 28,000 USh to 35,000 UGX. Brethren, this is way under KSh 1000. Sijui nirudi Uganda?

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But on the other hand, that money is confusing. You have so many zeroes in your pocket, but you literally have very little money. It confused me the whole time I was trying to pay for some stuff. I had to keep reaching out to Google to help me convert to Kenya Shillings to see if I was being ripped off. Then every time you get into a taxi (apparently, they also refer to matatus as taxis), the driver will close the windows very fast and rhetorically ask if you want your phone to be snatched. Turns out this is the order of the day in Kampala. Nairobi you are not alone. I also gave up on Uber here and stuck to Taxify. For some reason the latter drivers have it together than their Uber counterparts.

Also, there is no way I am spending my life on bodas. Bodas are so part of the system, there is UberBoda. I had to get on bodas thrice that week. The first time, I felt like I was going to go nuts. I never touch the rider leave alone hold on to him, so I have to find something to grip behind me. And all along way, you see women sitting sideways on these things. I am like, are you kidding me? And helmets are not a thing here either. The second time was riding down to Owino market because everyone in Kenya could not shut up about that place. First of all, it’s not all that but clothing is actually pretty cheap. Everything is under 1000 bob. No one has a mirror or a fitting room when you try on stuff because apparently, they are all doing it wholesale. *Rolls eyes repeatedly* I did not spend too much time here, because we were running a tight schedule, but it reminded me of a lesser organized Eastleigh. And that is saying a lot because Eastleigh is NOT organized. Did I mention the seller dudes who grab your arms and not let go like they are your boyfriends? That annoyed me bigtime. Hata afadhali makanga wa Kenya sasa. Also, people in the market try to speak some Swahili unlike everyone else Kampala. Or probably these are just the same Kenyans we know here.

I might keep going on and on – the little bit of Uganda I experienced felt so different yet so much like home – so let me stop. And I bet I only caught a glimpse – I have not done the city any writing justice. Yet. You can only learn and see so much in a few days.

Road trip to Jinja, anyone? I am ready to see more of Uganda. ��

Kampala Goodness Someone keeps saying I should do more travel pieces, but I keep fighting it, in the spirit of keeping things under wraps.

#Blockchain #Travel and Tourism #Uganda #Work

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bhaktapur · 7 years ago

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8.1 - Climb for Hope

Anna and I flew into Portland on a Wednesday evening. We were scooped up at the airport by a guide with Rare Earth Adventures, the company that graciously donates their time and energy to Climb for Hope. After a quick introduction, she loaded our hefty bags into the back of the van and mused, “I thought you guys were going to be older!” Once we were deposited at the group’s homeshare, her comment started to make a bit more sense. We were greeted by the three other members of the expedition, and all had a decade (or two!) on Anna and me. Darkness was already descending on our suburban Washington backyard-for-rent, and we gathered around the furnished treehouse (a major selling-point on the Air BnB profile) to exchange pleasantries. The air was thick with a tension not inappropriate between strangers about to entrust their lives to one another, and the weight of what we were about to attempt settled in a bit as we shared stories of past adventures. Andy, the trip organizer, had attempted Rainier thrice and summited only once before. The two other climbers had both tried, and failed, to reach the summit, once stuck in a tent for over 30 hours awaiting a lull in the weather that would never come. On that particular trip, winds had blown a ladder into a crevasse, effectively cutting off the summit from an entire side of the mountain. Facing this literally chilling possibility, Anna and I opted against the treehouse, and we settled into one of the upstairs rooms for the night.

After a quick gear check in the morning, we loaded into a van and set out for the mountain. The car ride offered us the first opportunity to really get to know the team with whom we would eat, sleep, suffer, and – hopefully – summit. The trip was organized by Andy Buerger, a climber and entrepreneur out of Baltimore, whom I met - albeit briefly - through connections in the natural food industry. He founded Climb for Hope after losing his sister Jodi to breast cancer, and expanded its mission after his wife and climbing partner was diagnosed with MS. Andy struck me as a man of great emotional depth, though his busy mind seemed to hold this at bay much of the time. He works incredibly hard to keep his symbiotic ventures chugging along, and was even caught sneaking work emails during our downtime at camp. Possessing a wicked deadpan, Andy settled into the role of sarcastic diva for much of the trip, slinging outrageous insults and complaints at guides and climbers alike in a way that clearly said, “I’m genuinely happy we’re all here.” Indeed, that seemed to be a general mantra for Andy, clouded only slightly by his survivor’s guilt, and his aura of gratitude helped remind us all that our suffering – both on the mountain and off it – was merely a window into the daily experiences of those who fight grave illness back home.

Andy’s long standing climbing-partner-in-crime was Danny, a DC policy-worker able to switch breathlessly between discussions of eastern philosophy and the particular qualities of his selfie stick. Self-deprecating, yet charming, sophomoric, yet wise, Danny was effortlessly easy to get along with no matter his mood or fancy. He and Andy had the report of two long-since-graduated fraternity brothers, and were at the root of an ever-expanding ring of scatological pranks that would chase us up and down the mountain. He seemed to be the unofficial marketing guru for Climb for Hope, and he worked doggedly to document the trip. With equal gusto, he pursued both cheesy, Instagram-ready bits of content and one of the great challenges of the adventuring life: capturing the scale and beauty of what we do in the mountains in a way that inspires a love and respect for the natural world.

The third, and oldest member of the expedition was Tiger, a boyishly energetic anglophile who imports small-batch craft cider from the UK. Despite his gentlemanly inclination, he happily adopted the role of “Creepy Uncle Tiger” simply because it was so damn funny. His gasping giggle was so infectious, his stories often left us all in hysterics, even if no one really understood what he had said. Tiger - himself a cancer survivor - was fiercely dedicated to the cause, and carried photographs of friends and family fighting the disease back home. He also carried a well-worn letter from his daughter, which he would discover for the first time described him as the strongest person she knew, not strangest, as he had happily assumed for over five years. As we would discover, Tiger was both strong and strange, as well as perceptive, generous, and absolutely hilarious.

A rare moment on flat ground

For our final night before undertaking the climb, we stayed just outside the gates of the National Park, in a wooden bunkhouse built by loggers in 1912. Out of respect for the altitude and challenges that lay ahead, we resisted the temptation to settle our nerves with a beer, but despite dinner conversation revolving around the possibility of going ten days without a bowel movement, I devoured a mediocre burger without taking a breath. Anna, on the other hand was slipping deeper into the world’s worst-timed cold, and scarcely ate. We were both clearly worried over her worsening condition, but didn’t dare discuss the implications, so she loaded up on Nyquil and we settled down in our 4-person room for one final night on a proper bed.

Rainier National Park is - deservedly - a huge tourist destination. Temperate rainforest covers much of its area, dense with intricate ferns, large-leafed clover, and enormous nurse logs impossible to find in the heavily-logged areas that surround the park. On our drive in, the forest would occasionally drop out from under us, and we would find ourselves on a winding bridge spanning a vast scar in the vegetation, canyons full of grey volcanic talus where the receding glacier had pulverized the landscape ages ago. In most cases, water rushed through the middle of these canyons, carrying glacial melt down to Seattle, the Sound, and the Sea. Rainier remained hidden for much of the approach, but once the titanic thing slipped into our view from behind the surrounding peaks, it was there to stay. As we pulled into Paradise, the trailhead where we would begin our climb, Rainier drew our gaze with an almost supernatural force. The mountain was tall - no doubt about that - but it was also wide, filling your entire field of view and almost seeming to wrap its imposing walls around you in embrace. A few mountaineering teams were already beginning their push, but mostly Paradise was filled with day-use visitors, picnicking, snapping photos, and generally basking in the magnificence of Rainier’s singular presence here. With this din casting an odd irreverence over the moment, the team exchanged some quiet words of encouragement, inspiration, and caution, then began up the trail.

All smiles at the trailhead

Our objective for Day 1 was Camp Muir, and to my great surprise, a trail marker not 100 yards into our hike indicated that it was only 4.1 miles from the Paradise parking lot. It helped to explain the crowded trail, full of day-hikers in shorts, sometimes carrying nothing more than a water bottle. What a sight we must have been to these untroubled families, lumbering sternly upward, already sweating under the weight of packs so full of food, fuel, clothing, and shelter that axes, pickets, crampons, shovels and avalanche probes had to be strapped to the outside. By nine, I began to worry that Anna and I had packed for the entirely wrong season. I was wearing my lightest layers, a long-sleeved cotton tee and fully-taped Gore-Tex pants, and sweating mightily. Still, the weather was undeniably incredible. The slightest breeze rustled through the intertwined noble pines, and sloped meadows of wildflowers glowed under the morning sun. Huge golden marmots loafed on rocks by the side of the trail and lumbered through the fields chomping on the purple blooms of lupine. In their careless company, even the distant peak of Rainier seemed welcoming.

Despite the short distance, the hike stretched on for hours. Paved road gave way to packed dirt, then to rocky switchbacks, and then to slush. At the foot of the Muir Snowfield, Anna and I were already exhausted. The snow was soft enough that crampons were unnecessary, but this made for painfully slow progress under the weight of our equipment. While many day-hikers had turned around at the snowline, some pressed on towards Camp Muir, the highest point on the mountain accessible without a wilderness permit. Their light footfalls and happy chatter was brutally demoralizing as we trudged up the glacier, where the monotonous landscape deceived depth perception and seemed to stretch on endlessly. Even worse were the whoops of delight from climbers on their descent, many of whom glissaded down well-traveled slides on tarps, stuff sacks, or even sleeping bags. Anna in particular eyed the descending parties with envy, as the morning dose of pseudoephedrine was now long gone. At about 9000 feet a few small structures came into view, and we pushed for camp with a renewed vigor. Anna and I fell in step behind Tiger, who demonstrated a technique for “micro-resting,” pausing momentarily every third step to lock the knee in your back leg. I didn’t find much rest this way, but the surprisingly difficult coordination of stepping, counting, and locking gave me something to think about besides the camp that seemed to draw no closer.

At last, we crested the top of the ridge and arrived at Camp Muir. 10,080 feet above sea level, the camp sat at the south end of a large, rippling snowfield, speckled with rockfall and greyed with the volcanic dust that seemed to be everywhere at this height. To the south, from whence we’d hiked, the forest stretched endlessly out towards the horizon. Across the valley three large mountains stood in a neat line: Mount Adams, wide and glaciated, like Rainier’s slightly stunted cousin; Mount Hood, symmetrical and improbably steep, like the mountains a child would draw on an imaginary map; and Mount St. Helens, pointing her jagged crater directly at us, a warning to all who tempt fate in the shadow of Rainier (due to its proximity to Seattle and relatively high levels of geothermic activity, Rainier is considered one of the most dangerous volcanoes in the world). We set about making camp for the night, flattening the snow with our avalanche shovels to make room for our tents, while the guides got to work boiling water.

Our intrepid guides, Brandon, Julie, and Cody

Boiling water (or more specifically, boiling snow to make potable water) was a seemingly endless chore on the mountain. Algae grows everywhere (generally invisibly, though pink “watermelon snow” is a common occurrence), and ingesting it is a sure path to digestive unhappiness. Incredibly, the guides insisted on doing this work themselves, in particular Julie, who continued to surprise us with her ability for selflessness and empathy. Freshly returned from non-profit work in Peru, Julie was an adventurous soul with a calm demeanor and easy smile. As the only other female on the team, she was hugely supportive of Anna throughout, and indeed to us all. She seemed to have a sixth sense for sniffing out a client in need, and was always ready with first aid, toilet paper, a snack, or simply a well-timed story when the crunching of snow underfoot was about to become unbearable. Like the rest of the guides, she had an arsenal of horror stories skillfully spun to paint our climb as a tropical vacation and make us all feel like Navy SEALS in comparison.

The lead guide on the expedition was an unassuming badass named Brandon. As we would learn later, Brandon had left a lucrative career to care for his ailing wife, but he gave no indication of dissatisfaction. In fact, he clearly thrived in the mountains, hiking tirelessly on hardly any food, bearing what was clearly the heaviest pack in the expedition. He was quiet and patient, a stark contrast to the grim-faced corporate guides literally pulling their charges up the mountain, and described himself as risk-adverse. Incongruous as this may seem for a professional alpine mountain guide, there was clearly truth in it. In silent moments you could almost hear Brandon’s brain humming, chewing through the calculus of our chances as our collective will pushed against the mountain. He described hours spent pouring over accident reports and YouTube videos of disasters and rescues alike. Taking on the responsibility of training us in avalanche response and alpine safety, he imparted both a sobering seriousness and self-assured calm on the group. Under his tutelage, we learned to arrest a fall on the icy glacier with our trusty ice axe, to scan the debris field of an avalanche with a beacon in a sprinting zig-zag, and to dig in to the buried victim of an avalanche rather than down. When I stabbed myself in the leg with the spike of my ice axe (putting a hole in brand new pants, despite my $100 investment in gaiters that aimed to avoid this very thing), Brandon seemed to pull Tenacious Tape out of thin air. For like Julie, Brandon was keenly aware of our needs and jumped at any opportunity to make our lives easier.

The third guide was Cody, the youngest of the group, but the most experienced on Rainier (Brandon had summited for his first time less than a month prior to our trip). He was a vocal Buddhist, and lent a peaceful spirituality to our alpine rituals, burning Nag Champa during our rehydrated dinners and leading simple – but earnest – pujas before big pushes on the trail. Despite the wisdom that surpassed his years, Cody radiated a contagious energy, a byproduct of his love for the natural world and the grateful disbelief that he got to scale mountains for a living. He was the social glue of the group, eager to chat with anyone about philosophy, biology, music, climbing, medicine, meditation, or any other subject you were keen to submit. Somehow, even in the most arduous moments of our endless climb, his enduring enthusiasm never wore out its welcome. Like his colleagues, he was an inspirational example of patience, willpower, and kindness as our steps grew slower and gripes louder.

Danny captures Tiger, Tim, Andy, Cody, and Julie in his signature selfie

In the flurry of emails that circulated prior to our trip, the second day of the expedition was described as a “rest day,” intended to let our feeble, squishy, organs acclimatize themselves to the harsh realities of life above 10,000 feet. In reality, the word “rest” was here clearly misapplied. The day started innocently enough, the guides boiling more water while reminiscing about other times spent boiling water. Once, Brandon said, they had hosted a few "Georgia Boys” on the mountain. “Big guys, but strong.” The water boiling responsibilities has apparently pushed the guides to the brink of madness, with empty Nalgenes piling up faster than they could be replenished. For our part, we moved through our water at a slightly more reasonable pace, though Andy was playfully belligerent over his need for fresh coffee. The man was unapologetically addicted to caffeine and, more specifically, bulletproof coffee. He adores Ancient Organics Ghee for this purpose - insisting that I bring a healthy supply for the expedition - and though we ultimately decided against dragging glass jars of the stuff up the mountain with us, he coated the inside of his mug with enough ghee that he was able to supply himself for several days on residue alone. After coffee, Danny led the group - and a few stragglers from around camp - in some morning yoga on Camp Muir’s small helipad. Though it was obviously the staging point for many an emergency rescue, the helipad was more commonly used for airlifting 55-gallon drums of poop off of the mountain. It was one of a few structures at Camp Muir, all built in the style of the century-old guide hut and bunkhouse, scavenged rockfall framed with logs and cemented together with mortar. After the yoga, however, all semblance of rest went the way of airlifted poop, and we stowed our tents and packed our bags to relocate to high camp. Anna seemed to be getting sicker, and had skipped yoga, but she dutifully strapped on her pack and affixed her crampons for our first steps into technical terrain.

From this point onward, we moved as two four-person rope teams. Trekking poles stowed and ice axe in hand, we snaked our way up the glacier with about five meters of static line between each climber’s harness. In steep, rocky sections, a prussic (slide and grip knot) would be used to shorten this distance and lessen the danger of rockfall. No more than 100 yards from camp, we crossed our first crevasse. Though a casual step easily spanned the 10-inch gap, we still called out “crossing!” and “across,” partially to practice for more dicey crossings ahead, and partially out of respect for the depth of the thing, which - though narrow - stretched hundreds of feet into the ice below us. We crossed several additional crevasses as we traversed the cratered snowfield, then climbed an iceless section of rock. Here we stopped to marvel at a gushing waterfall of glacier-melt, the color of chocolate milk, which was dislodging toaster-sized rocks with alarming frequency. This was neither the first, nor the last, time that I was struck with the fleeting nature of Rainier’s alpine environment. In rock climbing, I am accustomed to laying hands on stone that has sat unmoved for millennia, if not eons. On historic routes, one can clip pitons driven into the rock decades ago by the revered forefathers of our sport. On a glacier, however, everything is transient, temporary, and temperamental. The trail that we climbed was vastly different than the one Brandon had taken just weeks prior, and in fact would again be different on our descent less than a day later. At every opportunity, Brandon prodded other guides, climbers, or rangers for information. Was there a ladder up? Had the cornice collapsed? Where did the high trails converge? He listened attentively to every response, redrawing the map and the itinerary in his mind, plotting our point on his invisible graph of safety and speed.

Anna on the glacier at sunrise

Though the hiking was slow, the afternoon required only 1100 feet of climbing from us, and we reached Ingraham Flats with the sun still high in the sky. This time around, tents were dug in deeper and stakes buried under piles of snow, as the high camp was more exposed to the wind and we would be leaving our tents here during the push for the summit. Ingraham Flats had no permanent structures, and from here on out we were entrusted with “blue bags” for ferrying waste off the mountain, so we ate an early dinner contemplating digestive cause and effect with a weight rarely afforded to the subject. While the guides busied themselves boiling snow, we settled into our tents around six o’clock to try to scrounge a few more hours of rest. At first, it seemed like sleep would be impossible. Basecamp for a joint expedition between National Geographic and NASA was set up nearby, testing equipment that might one day explore underground Martian lakes. They were receiving a fresh batch of scientists, many of whom seemed to be reuniting after much time apart. Nervously contemplating our chances on the mountain, the weather, Anna’s condition, I listened silently to their backslapping, to the tour of their camp, and with regular interval, the cracking explosions of not-so-distant rockfall.

Eventually, sleep did come, but it was not to last long. Cody roused us at 10 PM to begin final preparations for the summit push. Our “rest day” was officially over. Anna downed some more pseudoephedrine and we rushed to organize our gear and rope up, Brandon hurrying us along to stay ahead of a trail of climbers pushing up from Camp Muir. Unnatural as our early (or late?) start seemed, most followed suit. It is extremely dangerous to travel on the glacier during the afternoon, as warming temperatures dislodge rocks previously locked in the snow and shelves of ice pull apart to form new crevasses, so our timing was intended to help us reach the summit and descend before this point. Of course, in the fog of our fatigue, we didn’t consider any of this specifically, we merely slipped into autopilot and trudged along behind the gentle tug of our rope team.

The air was still, but cold, and for the first time we set out looking properly dressed for an alpine expedition. We had stowed layers of down clothing at the top of our packs and any time that the teams halted, these were hastily extracted to prevent our core temperatures from dropping too low. Once on the trail again, however, these layers had to be removed, as the climbing had become much more strenuous and one could easily overheat. Not far outside of camp, we started up a stretch of exposed rock, a steep, chossy formation known as the Disappointment Cleaver. True to its name, this section proved one of the most difficult of the entire expedition. The rock was incredibly loose, and every step sank and slid backwards under our weight. Crampons made crossing this terrain even more difficult, directing the force of your steps in unpredictable ways and threatening to steal a lazy footfall from underneath you. Everywhere, softball to microwave-sized boulders sat beside - or directly on - the trail, so precariously balanced that they almost seemed like intentionally-laid traps. Physically demanding as the trail was, the mental challenge was by far the greatest crux of the Cleaver. The trail ascended a steep set of switchbacks, so knocking a rock loose could maim or kill a climber below. Each step had to be made carefully, with your full weight held in reserve. In the near total darkness, we scanned the path in front of you for these hazards, tensely awaiting the unmistakable sound of stone sliding against stone or, even worse, the shouts of “ROCK!” from parties above.

Crevasse Crossing in two rope teams

At the top of the cleaver, the route typically takes a direct westerly route up to the cone of Rainier’s summit. However, rising temperatures over the last few weeks had created a hazard along this route that was impossible to ignore. The “Tsunami” was a teetering curl of glacial ice overhanging a couloir, a 100-yard gauntlet guarding the only path on this side of the mountain, threatening to drop at any moment. When Brandon had summitted Rainier a few weeks prior, he had described this path as “puckering” and attempting it now, after even more of its support had melted away, was beyond reason. Instead, guide companies had trod a new path, descending slightly and wrapping north along the mountain, eventually meeting up with another established trail to the summit. While a welcome reprieve for our already-burning legs, this detour ultimately added both distance and elevation to our summit push, and the thought compounded a creeping sense of dread that was welling up in me.

Still climbing in the dead of night, we pushed upwards and upwards, settling into a sort of trance fed by our bizarre environment. The icy switchbacks were cut through endless fields of penitentes, jagged pillars of ice resembling man-sized colonies of coral. Created by the sublimation of glacial ice directly into water vapor, these otherworldly structures take their name from their tendency to form facing the sun, as if bowed in penance. They left little opportunities to diverge from our chosen path, and we fell into rhythm with the switchbacks, wordlessly stepping over the rope and shifting our axe to the uphill hand with each reversal of the trail until a tug from a slowing teammate on the rope behind startled us out of our stupor. When the going became steeper, or the walls of ice grew taller around us, we would change our hold on the axe, no longer gripping it by the head, as a cane, but by the shaft, swinging it pick-first into the snow. In either case, it was rarely seated firmly in the ice, and even missing your plant altogether would not necessarily precipitate a fall. Rather, the axe sort of floated along by your side, tapping the ice as it sloped upwards, a gentle reassurance that the world was still there beneath your feet. The prevailing sound on the trail was the crunch of ice under the spikes of our crampons, but even that faded away as the hours pressed on. In its absence, I began to notice the peculiar noise that the shaft of the ice axe made in the moment between dropping the spike into the snow and removing it, as you stepped past its temporary fulcrum, tilting it like the hand of a clock jumping from eleven to one. The sound was an unlikely sort of slow squeak, not unlike a playground swing swaying in the breeze.

I can’t say how long I spent pondering this sound, spinning the aforewritten paragraph in my mind so many weeks before I’d commit it to type; time seemed to stretch and skip in the darkness. Occasionally, we’d pause to catch our breath and marvel at the view. While the moon remained hidden behind Rainier’s still-imposing shadow, the stars shone brilliantly in the thin air. On the horizon, you could see the shimmer of the Seattle metro, surprisingly close given our feeling of remoteness. Impossibly far up the mountain, an eerie train of glowing headlamps bobbed slowly upwards. As we rounded the Eastern face of the mountain, the sky took on a faint red glow, and soon after we lifted weary hands to toggle off our headlamps. While my lamp would serve no further use for the day, I dared not expend the energy to actually divorce the thing from my helmet. By this point, I was brutally exhausted, deprived of sleep, calories, and oxygen. Anna voiced no protest, but it was clear that she was digging deep for the will to continue. Already, Brandon had taken us aside for a check-up, explaining that the rope team’s current pace would not put us on the summit in time. Though he didn’t say it, the subtext was clear: “Are you guys gonna make it? Do we need to turn around?” We had steeled our resolve and given Brandon our understanding nods, but now I was beginning to waver.

As the sun rose on Sunday morning, we gained the Emmons Glacier and began our final push for the summit. The climbing became steeper, and the intersecting trails put parties close on our trail. At 13,500 feet, I started to receive some troubled glances from our guides. The altitude was wearing mightily on me, and my vision became spotted with little glowing auras. Twice, I swallowed my pride and gasped for a quick break, pulling the team off the trail and secretly praising the climbers that nipped at our heels as we waited for them to pass us. Still, we were too close for me to possibly consider surrender. If I had made it this far, a few more steps would certainly not kill me. We pressed up a particularly steep section, clipping our rope into pickets hammered into the snow to protect our team, then gained a large flat snowfield just below the summit. It was now six in the morning, and the sun shone brightly on us. The final 100 yards were free of snow, and I worked my way up the dusty trail a dozen steps at a time, falling to my knees and gasping for air more times in this short stretch than I can now believe. Anna mustered only the most meager encouragement, patting my foot as she passed me by, now free of the rope that had kept her in line behind me. I stumbled to my feet behind her, and with a few final steps at last stood atop Mount Rainier.

As we reflected on the climb later that day, Andy would describe the summit as “kinda weird”. The first time he had reached the top, he had been overcome with emotion, brought to tears by the weight of the accomplishment and the tragedy that had set his climb in motion. While we were certainly ecstatic to have reached our goal, I think what Andy meant by this was twofold. First of all, we were quickly chased off of the top by the weather (now that we had stopped moving, the dusty winds quickly chilled us to the bone and would occasionally threaten to knock you off your feet). More importantly, I think Andy was vocalizing something that we all felt, that the summit was but one tiny part of an adventure that, even at its most bleak and desperate, was at every moment a beautiful and revealing experience. As I look back on the expedition now, I rarely contemplate our summit. Rather, I think back to that breathtaking moment when the blood red sun first peaked above the horizon. I remember the careful measurement of our steps meant to keep the rope between us taught and the faint, but proud smile on Anna’s face when I would turn to check on her. I remember Brandon’s lessons, Julie’s stories, and Cody’s words of inspiration. I remember Andy smearing zinc so thick on his lips that he looked like a powdered donut fiend. I remember Danny duct-taping his phone to his selfie stick to get the perfect shot. I remember Tiger stowing rocks in people’s packs, then laughing too hard to get away with it. Mostly, I remember Rainier, and the shared moments of monotony and hilarity, pain and pride, despair and triumph, and that brief, uncompromising look at who we are and what we are capable of.

My time on Rainier has left me with a profound gratitude that I will carry with me for the rest of my life. I am forever indebted to Andy, for his vision and inspiration, to our guides, for their wisdom and compassion, and to our partners, for their camaraderie and motivation. I am grateful for the mountain, which allowed us to pass unscathed, for my body, strong and healthy enough to undertake this challenge when others cannot, and for my incredible girlfriend and climbing partner Anna, who drives me to dream, to persevere, and to live a life for the benefit of others. And of course, I am grateful for our donors, who gave us the opportunity to test ourselves in and incredible new way, and the chance to prove that climbing is not only a selfish pursuit, but a force for good in this world. From the bottom of our hearts, thank you.

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