Brent Trim stepped onto Sitcum Glacier in the early morning hours of August 31, as a horrendous storm closed in around him. High on the route he paused twice to take a reality check; once mid-span on the glacier, and once again at about 8:00 a.m. at the base of Sitcum Ridge. He had traveled over one thousand miles on the Pacific Crest Trail from California's Mount Lassen, climbing as many of the peaks along the way as seemed "reasonable." "Why do I feel driven to climb this mountain in a storm?", he wondered. "I've never done this before. Why do I feel compelled to do so now?" After each time-out he shook himself off and continued on and up through the whiteout. Having walked so far in his journey up until then, he must have been wondering, "Why this time?" 

For me, the storm was building like castles in the sky of fear. A whiteout had closed in for good a couple of hours earlier. I had long since given up on any visitors passing by my little camp that day. Ice blasted the tent as I stared aimlessly into space when someone shouted "HEY". I kept staring. Then came another "HEY! Is anyone in there?" 

This finally reached my senses . . . I unzipped the tent door and jammed my upper body out to see if someone was really there. A climber was descending from the south knoll yelling something against the wind. I shouted something back while waving my arms frantically - apparently too frantically, as he now seemed hesitant to come closer. From there he yelled back to me from a safe distance that he was hoping for even a moment's shelter inside my tent. As it turned out, although I told him to "come on over," he would never get a break from the weather inside my tent. Little did Trim know that only a few minutes later, he would be carrying part of that tent down from Glacier Peak. Welcome to my hell buddy! 

With our packs loaded we struck out for our descent. I was struggling badly. At the crest of Frostbite Glacier we stopped cold, as I knew I wouldn't have the strength to descend a 70 degree, 40' stretch of water ice without taking a tumble down the hill. Brent read the situation and searched out a rock pillar from which we could descend to a path leading to the top of Sitcum Ridge. Surely, I would do better descending a sheer pillar of rock than I would an ice coated sheet of glacier. 

Within an hour we were hopelessly lost on the glaciers of Glacier Peak. Our combined experience in the Cascade Mountain Range - which was considerable - suddenly didn't amount to a hill of beans. We crossed beneath a steep slope neither of us recognized. A couple dozen car sized rocks had recently fallen from a huge wall above us, and were laying in place as we passed through this all-too warm glacial cavern. I didn't think my knees or ankles would hold in place were I to follow Brent down the next, extremely steep slope. "I can't make it, pal," I shouted down to him. 

"What choice do you have?" he shouted back up to me. He had a point there. 

Adrenaline was leaking out my ears by the time I reached him at the base of this slope. Once there I yelled in his face, all pumped up, "that was a pussy cat. Now, show me the real thing!" (He did). With a slight smile and without a word between us he led up and over indiscernible cliff walls, through deeply crevassed glacier beds and eventually onto a ledge above a 2,000-foot cliff of mixed rock and ice. My knees were on the brink already and my left foot was about to give way (it was still weak from my crash on the porch). As I had guided some 40 ascents of Washington's volcanoes over the years, I should have been doing better than this. Instead, I was now stumbling along in a daze. 

My guide was a quarter mile ahead of me looking for a way back to the main route - trying to save me from having to retrace our steps - as I focused my everything on simply reaching his next footprint in the snow. The path he had taken led down a stretch of nearly solid glacier and onto a ledge above 1,000-foot rock cliff. Unable to keep my crampons flat at that angle I was soon forced to traverse onto the rock face, where I quickly found myself in a real pickle of a situation. I've never been much of a rock climber anyway. 

When a waterfall blocked the way ahead, I opted to descend directly down the cliff face. Water ran over my gloved hands as I groped for a hold. Finally I reached a dead end, where I was unable to go up, down, or to the left or right. I was stuck, scrambling for my very life above a tremendous drop, and terrified to the point of heaving. One slip from there would have sent me into a fifty foot moat between the glacier and the rock beneath (neither of us was carrying a rope), or over that burly cliff to an obvious death. Take your pick. My 70 pound pack tried in every way to pull me from my stance. 

In a moment of sheer desperation I spotted Brent out of the corner of my eye, a few hundred feet below. He was busy trying to dodge the torrent of rocks I was kicking off onto him when he finally heard me. 

"Is there any way you can come up and take my pack?" I shrieked well past the point of panic. I was unable to hear his reply, nor was I able to see past the icy death that awaited me was I to fall. A few eternal minutes later I heard him calling up words of encouragement to me. "I'm on my way, Glenn, just hang on. I think I found the route." He had not, of course, and was only trying to give me something to "hold on to." Not a second too soon did he lift the burden from my back as I continued to claw at the mushy rock beneath the waterfall. Finally I found a way to turn around. A small ledge a couple of feet below provided me an escape. One serious jump over the moat and I was back on my feet on the glacier. 

I stammered the first part of my mantra to Trim: "That was . . ." 

"I know, Glenn," Brent finished, "it was a pussy cat." 

"Yup." 

Although we were still lost as could be, we were at least down and off the most dangerous part of the glacier. Things had worked out well so far, as they always seems to on my camping trips: I had always wanted to see that side of the mountain, anyway. Brent put a considerable distance between us quickly. I was moving better now that we had switched packs. Step, step, and it was time to take a break. Step, step: time for another break. Step, step: and another. I was about to leave the seemingly never ending glacier when I vomited up my breakfast - and then some. Looking dumbly down at a large glob of blood in the snow at my feet, I couldn't help but notice that it was happened to be right next to the first green thing my eyes had laid eyes upon in quite some time - a cactus, of all things. 

Now we had more than a thousand feet to go in an "up" direction to the next pass. And so I made the fifteen hundred steps through a blur of pain and illness, one trudge at a time. 

Through the whiteout an hour later I spotted Brent as he reached another high pass now only a few hundred feet above me. My heart sank as we looked down into the fog from the crest sometime later. That which lay beyond was by no means Boulder Basin and the way home. Not even close. Ahead lay another pass, at least 1,000 feet above us. Over the next hour we wandered up and over and through some of the strangest and most painful territory I have ever traveled. 

Brent waved excitedly back from the rise. As I reached him I heard that long lost sound of the waterfalls of Boulder Basin. My pace quickened to one step every ten seconds in the excitement of the moment. Minutes later we struck gold in them thar hills.. 

In desperate levels of pain I passed the same waterfall that I had washed myself in one sunny day four weeks before, in the company of Steve, Jeff, Jon, Patrick, and Adam. And what a month it had been . . . I had been privileged to capture on film some amazing stuff. The most important thing now was to get that exposed film home - and then to a lab, and into my safe deposit box at the bank . . . I came to when something popped in my left knee. One step later the same thing happened to my right knee. Someone - I think his name was Tim - graciously took my pack (Trim's pack) and carried it out of the rocks to the forest's edge a few hundred feet below. 

Hobbling, Hobbiting as I reached the first tree on the route I stopped and wrapped my arms around it. It was so good to be alive that it is simply beyond words. And for the foreseeable future I could eat pretty much whatever I wanted; a quart of chocolate ice cream for breakfast each day, for instance; a full plate of biscuits and gravy for lunch, etc. These are the things that keep me coming back for more from these volcanoes; photographs and adventure are really just an excuse. 

We reached the confluence of the Sitcum Glacier route and Pacific Crest Trail just before sunset and made camp in one of Glacier Peak's many old growth meadows. The next morning Brent had disappeared without a trace, as he thought I could use some extra sleep. Once I had dragged myself out of the tent, completely disoriented as to where the heck I was, I found a kind, detailed note showing me which way to go on the trail. He was headed north into British Columbia on the continuation of his journey; I was heading south toward home. 

Late that day I reached Kennedy Hot Springs and made a make-shift camp in a quiet stand of woods near a stream that ran across the trail. I was living deliberately as would have Henry David Thoreau: "Time is the stream I go fishin' in." In that very steam I waded through the night in the greatest physical agony I have ever experienced. I was literally sore to the touch; every movement was excruciating, and yet exhilarating. Even if I had gone too far this time at least the film was safe and I had my story written on a pad buried deep within my pack. Nothing could get me now: storms, the mountain, my own frailties, nor mortality itself. I was safe, and in only a few hours my friends would be there to help me out. 
Friends and virtual strangers alike filtered into the springs at about nine o'clock that unforgettable Saturday morning, all on my behalf. One of the first to reach me was 'The Bear', Michael John Yde - who had taught me almost everything I know about mountaineering. His wife, Nancy Ferrell, followed him closely, as did Bill DeYoung, Adam Bly, Jim and Brian Carlson, Mark Brewer, Alisa Webster, and Bruce Stuntebeck. Last in line in the group and suffering from acute food poisoning, was Steve Peterson. Peterson felt he just had to be there to see me down from the mountaintop as he had three times before. 

Half the group left Kennedy Hot Springs and headed up the trail hoping to reach the summit the next day, and carry my gear down: Mike, Nancy, Bill, Alisa, Mark, and Bruce. The rest of us struck out for the parking lot five miles away, and then to the nearest restaurant. Michael, Bill, Mark, and Bruce made the mountain top the next day and found my stash during a brief respite in the storm. Thanks to all of the kind, considerate, and adventurous people who contributed to the expedition in some way, the final page of this adventure was now at a close. Well, sort of. 

My first night back at home a storm swept in and buried the tent under several feet of snow and ice. I awoke in the predawn hours under a weight bench in my bedroom, trying to escape this icy tomb. My heart was racing full bore as I slowly awoke; I was drenched in sweat, screaming, gasping, convulsing, and even weeping as I frantically climbed the walls of the room in search of a way out. Let us say that the decompression I experienced from the Glacier Peak ordeal took a shattered Humpty Dumpty over the edge a number of times. Nightmares are always just part of the "coming home" process. Within ten days I was able to walk without assistance, and within two weeks I was able to drive solo again in relative safety. However, a nagging double limp persisted through year's end. 

While bad dreams from four expeditions may never end, I can live with this better than a life unfulfilled. 

For sure the toughest of all my adventures were those I spent atop two icons of the North Cascades: Mount Baker and Glacier Peak. These were also the most rewarding experiences personally and professionally for me. In as much as my mother had constantly warned me to be extra careful on this particular expedition for some strange reason, never could we have imagined that she would fall terminally ill while I was away atop this particular volcano. As a testament to their enduring 56 year love for one another and as her body began to fail her that summer, my elderly dad gently set a chair out in their garden each day. 

Mom had always provided a place for me in her gardens. As a wee one, with her help, I thought the sunflowers of my imagination could grow to the very sky. >From an early age she also encouraged me to have as many pets as I wanted, as long as I took care of them. The first of them was a series of tortoises; all of them named "Willie." By the time they had all wandered off I had graduated to the fifth grade, and to baby chickens, turkeys, ducks, and geese, and even the occasional piglet I kept in an aquarium in my bedroom. One time when my favorite runt piglet came down with pneumonia, mom sat up with me through the night nursing "Penny Pig" with bottles full of milk and medicine. I remember us snacking on Cheerio's and cheddar cheese on crackers, and talking through the night while caring for my tiny pink-nosed friend. 

At 11 and 12 I often called over my best friend, Steve, to adore my collection of pets. Even well into my thirties I had squirrels, ducks, blue jays, and other wild animals stopping by inside my house from time to time to pay a visit. More than anyone else in your life, your mother can set the stage for your personality and traits. And few more difficult things will you ever experience than her passing. 

From their garden in the summer of 2000, they tended to her vegetables and flowers for as long as she was able. Likewise my parents had attended faithfully to their four children the best they could: their five Grand kids, and an equal number of Great Grandchildren. 

It was over Thanksgiving Day Weekend that Katherine Williams was diagnosed with advanced stages of Multiple Miloma, the most excruciating cancer of the bone. Walking into the door of my folks' home the day before Thanksgiving, I fell into the arms of this once spry woman I hardly recognized anymore and nearly passed out from a tide of emotion washing over me. All of my goals, even my mountain dreams, dropped by the wayside and into the greatest of valleys that dark day. All in a few months I had gone from the the highest of highs to the lowest of lows. 

Just after Christmas, Steve insisted upon going to visit mom, and my dad, at Mother Joseph's Nursing Care Center, in Olympia, Washington. We knew this would be our last time together in this life. Right away she called us close to her bed so that we could hear something important she had to say. Whispering directly to Peterson she said, "You know something, Steve? You guys get more and more handsome every time I see you! Although I wept openly as I took pictures of them, and us together - the most challenging photographic session imaginable for me standing there on the windy edge of a great emotional abyss - we tried to keep this as light-hearted as possible. 

As I finished up with the camera several more close friends joined us. Two Pastors were 
present: my dad, and another man. And yet the single sweetest and most beautiful moment of a 
lifetime came when Steve Peterson led us all in prayer. 

"Dear Lord, we commit to you this special moment. We feel your very presence now in this room . . ." 

Steve's Christmas present from my folks that year had been some books from my dad's library, collected over his astounding 56 year ministry. They were being given away as his sight and hearing were fading from him. Inscribed inside the cover of one of the books was: 

To Steve: 
Our "other" Son, with love, from your "other" parents: Katherine and W.D. Williams. 

While Steve offered this ever so eloquent prayer, I thought back upon our long friendship - then approaching 33 years - and how we had been through virtually all of life's struggles together. But nothing like this. And so goes the true measure of a man, and of a friend. 

Stars twinkled from a black sky and a light breeze blew from the West the night my dear mother passed from earth and into the very Thrown Room of God. American Bald eagles had come to my ranch that morning, as they do every winter. The timing of this seemed peculiar to me, though. I knew something big was up: that angels would most likely be celebrating an arrival in Heaven by the end of that "day". 

When the telephone rang that Friday evening I didn't need to look at the caller ID to know that it was my dad calling, and why he was courageously phoning each of his kids one at a time. Tuesday prior, I had sat up through the night with my mother in the hospital like setting of their home. The cadence of an oxygen machine filled the room with its periodic pump, compression and hiss, while the rest of my family slept exhausted from their sweet, somber vigil. For the first time in nearly thirty years my three siblings, Sharon, Jeremiah, and Rebecca, and my parents and I were all under one roof at the same time. We had the shattering experience of saying our hello's and good-bye's each in our own time, each in our own way, to a woman who knew what she wanted in life and had the courage to reach out and grasp it! 

These five hours Katherine Williams spent alone with her youngest born, from midnight to 5:00 a.m., were perhaps the last that she was fully conscience in this life. Nothing I have ever experienced in the mountain realm could possibly compare to the depth of beauty or height of emotion I experienced then. Much of what transpired will forever remain between us, just as throughout this book I have included very little regarding my personal life. However, now, I realize that this may be the most important part of any tale. From a very early age this woman pushed me onward and upward, and inspired me to express myself via the written word. She was always my harshest critic as well, and would simply not put up with bad writing, inaccurate typing, or poor penmanship from me. I will forever be trying to live up to that mandate. 

And so now I impart to you a story at its most personal level. 


Just after midnight she suddenly recognized me, and whispered "Glenn, you're here!" 

"Yes, it's me, mamma," I said, weeping long and hard in one gasp over her emaciated frame. "I'm here with you, and I love you so much that I can't put it into words. We all do." She smiled and squeezed my hand twice with a trace of a wink, her sign of comfort to me since I was a baby. Mom had returned for a brief while to comfort me. I could never escape those brown eyes and tell a lie. She always knew. Instead of saying everything would be o.k., I told her a story which surely was ingrained within her memory as it is mine. 

"Do you remember the time that you made Steve and I some play dough on the stove, in our Woodinville farmhouse? We had only recently met, and were no more than 11, and 9 years old. We fashioned it into rings and necklaces. You gave us some of the watercolors from your beautiful paintings, and we painted them with it. All day long we talked of how we would make it in the jewelry market in Seattle. We were going to dominate this industry, at Pike Street Market. By next morning what we had made didn't look so good." She smiled. The jewelry had dried and cracked. So, we gave up on that, and headed up to the creek to look for gold. 

"Mamma, we have finally made it financially. I landed our first order from a major store chain just the other day. We'll use this as a cornerstone for the largest retail chains in America with our prints, cards, and calendars with photographs from my expeditions. I'm going to form a foundation, using a large sum of money, as did Bill and Melinda Gates. I'm going to take hundreds of kids out of refuge sites around the world through the Christian Children's Fund, World Vision, and other organizations. It will be called the W.D. and Katherine Williams Foundation, in honor of you and dad." 

When she smiled and squeezed my hand two quick times again, I knew that she knew that her son and best friend were a success, after so many years of failure and defeat. I took out my Bible to read her a verse within our white and canopied world, and shamefully didn't quite know where to turn at the single most important moment of my life. A sense of calm and inspiration came over me as I randomly opened the Bible they had given me long ago, and read what was directly before me. It "happened" to be from Psalms 100:

Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth, 
Worship the Lord with gladness, 
Come before Him with joyful songs, 
Know that the Lord is God. 
It is He who made us, and we are his; 
We are his people, the sheep of his pasture. 

Enter His gates with thanksgiving 
and His courts with praise; 
Give thanks to Him and praise the name. 
For the Lord is good and his love endures forever; 
His faithfulness continues through all generations.

At 3:00 that morning, mom signaled to me that she would like some Cheerio's. I went to the kitchen and poured cereal into a tiny bowl, and then some milk. All the while I was in a kind of surreal state, knowing that I would always remember these moments and those to come, and that the most important thing I would ever do in my lifetime is get that bowl of cereal for my dying mother. She ate one spoonful after another with great dignity, as I dabbed her chin as needed. Her eyes shone up at me, a mirror of the same. This would be Katherine Williams' last meal upon this earth. The last thing my mother ever said to me, was literally all she could muster: "Go eat!" I did, by finishing her Cheerio's, mixed with milk and my tears. 

I will probably suffer the same fate, or something similar. We all will at some point, in one way or another. This same cycle of loss, pain, sorrow and gain has been repeated an infinite number of times since the very dawn of human history. This is my story, and into this great carpet my family weaves one tiny thread. As my mother confirmed that she would meet me at the gates of Heaven in what to her would be one second or one million years - I said my final goodbye to my mother. Moments later my siblings and I lined up for a picture according to our age, from left to right. Even in his profound grief, my dad stood out from us and said with his usual remarkable humor: 

"So, this is the order you came in." 

One morning I was up before the sun, as usual, sitting drinking coffee in the back yard of my home. As the sky turned orange above the rolling, snow covered hills of Central Washington, I looked west at a growing alpenglow on the summits of Mount Adams and Mount Rainier. There side by side was part of my past and part of my future. It is with utmost humility and perspective that I tread this ground, as time is fleeting for us all. 

Copyright @2001 Glenn Williams