They'd been warned of the dangers and the difficulties of going nine thousand feet up and nine thousand feet down in two days amidst broken and churning glaciers and falling rocks and cold, inadequate air. And the news had certainly reached them all. Even if the television images hadn't yet, telling them that the world had changed. Yet they lugged their packs and spikes and axes into the guide shop up at Paradise, Washington, on that brilliantly sunny, tragic morning after. We got together and milled about some, and I carefully avoided eye contact...and smiling which I was worried I might still do just out of long habit at the beginning of a climb.

I was a little perplexed and even angry as I gathered people in for initial introductions and instruction. Perplexed as to just what I should say to them, angry because I didn't feel like facing them, or anybody in such circumstances. What to say really came down to what not to say. I thought it important to remind myself that I was only up in front of them because of my experience in mountains and not for some expertise in politics, philosophy or spirituality. Don't tell them to do this for their country or the victims, not when a storm or an aching back and tired lungs could turn any of us around same as ever.

As I called out their names and began the introductions, I cautioned myself that poor leadership might be worse than no leadership. Stick to what you know, and to what they really need... advice about walking and breathing. Then I was listening to who they were, where they were from and why they needed such a challenge which transported me to when I sat on the same bench 17 years ago, before my 250 attempts on Rainier, when I didn't know if I could get up and down it once. Sure enough, these folks had that same mix of excitement, ambition, and fear and I began to feel the link to them that allows me to do my job.

The link strengthened unexpectedly as I listened to one quiet climber explain that he works across the street from the World Trade Center and lives, "maybe," a block and a half from it. "Maybe," because it was difficult to know if the building still existed.

And there was the woman from Pennsylvania, near where Flight 93 went down. And the guy who works for United Airlines. Just normal folks out to climb a mountain together.

And like nearly everybody in the country, they had more of a link to this horror than was fair and they had reason to be crushed. But as it came back to my turn to speak, I realized they weren't allowing it to crush them, and neither would I. "All right. We'll try to climb this mountain. We can't forget what is going on. We can't and don't want to hide from the reality, but we'll try to climb Mount Rainier." And they clapped. Not a courtesy clap, not cheering, but a unanimous show of agreement and determination.

So what was different about that climb? What wasn't? For one, the mountain was empty, the way it used to be in September before climbing got so popular. For another thing, it was quiet. A quiet that had me thinking of similar days in Antarctica and Tibet when there will not be a single aircraft overhead for months on end. That kind of quiet, so strange to experience it so close to Seattle-Tacoma International Airport, Boeing Field, and McChord Air Force Base.

My boss, Lou Whittaker, was always telling me at the start of my guiding career to shut up and simply listen to the mountain, a thing I was never good at. On these days I was. Better to tune in to the majesty of tons of ice thundering down across the way than to converse. Small talk would be just that at such a time and we all knew it.

That first day of climbing, I got looking over at the beauty of the Nisqually Glacier and I got thinking of those 350 firefighters. I glanced at my assistant guides and I realized that nearly everybody I've teamed up with over the years would have made the decision to run into those burning buildings and they'd all be dead. I had to keep shifting my eyes to other wonders, like Mount Hood or Mount Adams to the south, Gibraltar Rock on Rainier. Anything so as not to focus too long on any one feature and hear too much of what it had to say. Tears from the climbing team leader wouldn't help anybody.

It occurred to me that another of my reasons for not climbing had been proven wrong. Standing at 9,000 feet in the snow, I wasn't "missing the story" at all. The mountain was speaking more eloquently and passionately of heroism and loss than any number of TV personalities and politicians ever will. I began to feel lucky to have this climb "forced" on me. To have my mental wandering centered by the familiar burn in my legs, chest and shoulders. To have simple things like dehydration and sunburn and exhaustion to guard against for my climbers.

We reached 10,000-foot Camp Muir at nearly three in the afternoon and started making final preparations for the summit. John Muir had done the same thing back in 1888 when he climbed the mountain, except that his route diverged from our "modern day" one at that very point.

I wasn't thinking of such ancient history that evening as darkness came. The distant past seemed irrelevant in the new and awful world. I turned on one of those tiny palm sized TV's borrowed from another guide. A day before, I hadn't known that such technological marvels even existed, but looking at it in the cold and dark stone hut after everybody else racked out, resting for the midnight start to the real climb, I could not muster up any wonder at the gadget. It simply was a way to know what was happening, to see those terrible images that kept churning out. I burned the batteries and plugged in some more, unable to go to sleep, and not because of the usual altitude and adrenaline mix.

I was relieved when the time came for the summit bid and everything got so busy and intense the way it always does when you walk off the ridge onto the glacier and into the dark. Helmet, harness, rope, axe, crampons, pack, avalanche beacon, hammer, anchors, bivy gear, GPS, compass, altimeter, radio, cell phone, repair kit, first aid kit, down parka, gloves, mittens, headlamp, food, water. Check. Big, crunching steps of boots and spikes on the frozen surface of the glacier. The guides chatted briefly on the radio over how strange it was to be in perfect conditions for climbing without having dozens of other rope-teams out and about. But, as expected, we found that to be safer when it came time to negotiate the passages exposed to ice avalanche and rockfall.

It was fine to be so busy at the rest breaks, fast strategy sessions with the other guides, coaching the climbers on how much energy they needed to have left. how much to expend and where. Eat, drink, climb. Basics. And then the summit, finally, with everybody who'd started from high camp; 100% of the team standing in the crater. It was near unheard of these days to have such success.

A normal climb in this day and age, even in fine conditions, will still see plenty of opting out before the top. We don't drag people up; we don't talk them into it. We do it all quite conservatively these days. To the top if you are strong and able, turn around if you are less strong or unsure of yourself. But on this day, all of these people were sure. It was the best of climbs in that way. We gave the means to get things done, people supplied their own resolve. It seemed a stronger resolve than normal.

Standing with my teammates on Columbia Crest at 14,411 feet, marveling at hundreds of miles of spectacular planet and goals that were nearing fulfillment, we shook hands and hugged and pointed out features of the world to each other. Someone had a flag and I was happy to see it so high. I heard a climber behind me say that we should have a moment of silence for those back East. I knew that the others hadn't heard him, and I suppose it would have been my job to organize such a ceremony, but I was already well into my own private observances and I suspected the others were as well.

I picked out the buildings of Seattle and Tacoma, so small and vulnerable in the distance. It was such unfamiliar irony to be "safe" atop a mountain while so many were now at risk in offices. My eyes wandered to the Olympic Range, and the Cascades. They found volcanoes, rivers, forests and deserts from Oregon to Canada. Words drifted into my brain; "Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees." John Muir wrote those lines, the guy from that ancient world where they couldn't have dreamed of jet planes and skyscrapers and unlimited hatred. Yet the words were still good and they still got it about right. We had rejoined his footprints on top of Mount Rainier. A temporary peace was found, which is about as good as one can do in this new world.

— Dave Hahn, MountainZone.com Correspondent