I pull over and dump in a stashed quart of oil.  The light continues to beam.  Driving real slow I detour to Cle Elum.  The all-night mini-mart provides a big 'ol jug of oil, a 20 oz co-cola, and some cheezy freetos.  Ten miles up the Teanaway River road I realize that "check" means "it's time for the 60K service".  Sure enough, a glance at the odometer reveals "60014".  Duh.

Eight AM, I'm at the lake.  Stuart's been in and out of the clouds all morning.  Right now it's out.  I should probably use this vantage point to burn the correct gully into my brain before the clouds reblanket the West Ridge.

An hour later, I'm on the ridge and in the fog.  The granite is cold. I'm Glad I put that tape on just for the insulation it's providing.  The sun's supposed to come out soon.  It'll warm this place right up.

Up this big gully of white rolling granite.  Scoured by a snowfield half the year it's real clean but it's still got some grain.  This is where the first rime is.  It's pretty sporadic.  The little bits of dried grass poking through the cracks are crusted with the sparkly sugar.  The climbing would be better without it, but it's not slowing me down much.  The sun's gonna burn through.  It'll thaw all this. Looks like the next gully over is in the sun.

Cresting the rib, the bright sun glares and a blustery cold wind is whipping clouds about the lichen-peppered towers and crags.  I'm making good enough time so I hang out in the warm sun and wait for it to do its work on the now more-prevalent rime.

Back at it.  I've opted to stick to the crest rather than head for the notch above Long John Tower.  I was patting myself on the back for a couple hundred feet, until now.  I'm on this ramp that traverses below a ten foot step.  There appear to be a lot of options through the step, if it were a dry day that is.  But here and now, the slick white crust has a firm hold, and it's not letting go anytime soon.  The rock and I are lost in the clouds again, hidden from the sun.

I won't commit to ice-covered holds.  I'm stuck.  There looks like a way around to the north side but I'm reluctant.  It looks exposed, icy, and uncertain to lead anywhere.  After pawing at my other options a bit more, I take the plunge.  Around the corner, I crab across icy blocks perched on a ledge.  The clouds are closer on this side.  The only sightline is straight down the cliff to the Stuart glacier a few hundred feet below.

There is indeed  passage through the step on this side.  It's an icy wide crack but laid back enough to be doable.  I'm not enjoying the thought of a possible downclimb, but no need to worry.  The sun should be burning through any minute.  This climb will be great when it's thawed.

Up and over the crest of the ridge, I find an eddy in the rime.  Free of the slippery stuff I start having a good time.  I make up a little song/mantra/hum, "leaving that rime behind...", repeat, repeat, repeat.  Getting a dumb song in your head can be a real liability on a solo climb.

An incredible, improbable, exposed traverse under the West Horn gets me to easy sandy ledges and I cruise down to the West Ridge Coulouir. It's here that the wintery conditions are at their worst.  I tiptoe from rock to rock, trying to keep my rock shoes out of an inch of snow.  I scramble up above the notch and find wide sheets ice.  I'd hoped to traverse around on the "sunny" South side but the verglass deters.  I head up toward a small notch, back toward the North.

To my gleeful surprise the ledges on the North face are in another rime eddy.  Smooth sailing over dry cold granite.  Following the line less crusted brings me back across the crest to a pretty handcrack. Stress is relieved as I jam up the solid unlubricated corner.  My rime song returns.

Weaving through blocks on the crest I come to the final headwall. I've finally topped out, above the clouds that is.  Up here the sun is working its magic on a brightly lit crag.  A continuous random trickle of ice crystals tinkle down the bright granite walls.  The sun is warm.  I'm gonna make it.  Life is good.

At this point there are many aesthetic options, but I'm ready to be done, so I seek the easiest.  Traverse a ledge right, zag up a ramp way back left, cross the crest one last time and squirm beneath a chockstone.  Easy broken rock, I'm at the top.

Alone on the summit.  Pull out the sunglasses and check out the view. I'm on the tip of a massive granite iceberg, floating in a sea of clouds.  The only other berg breaching the surface is looming to the South, the magnificent bulk of Mt. Rainier.  The clouds are like rollers.  They crest and break.  Once in while they wash over me, leaving me once more in the fog.