How I Trained for Mount Rainier in Flat, Hot, Humid, Miami

By Matt Hirschberg, Contributing Writer

I live in Miami, Florida. Elevation: 7 feet. Average summer humidity: oppressive. It’s the last place you’d want to train to climb 14,410-foot glaciated Mount Rainier.

This is the article I wish I had before I started.

When I committed to Rainier, I already had a solid fitness base. I’d completed multiple GORUCK events—including a 26.2-mile ruck—and trained regularly in Krav Maga. I was comfortable under weight and familiar with suffering. But mountain-specific training? That was uncharted territory.

My first question was obvious: How the hell do you simulate vertical gain when the highest point around is a parking garage?

That search led me down a rabbit hole that eventually brought me to Mountain Tactical Institute—and, for better or worse, the world of weighted step-ups.

This is where my head exploded. It’s not that I hadn’t done them before. I’d taken on the CrossFit “Chad 1,000” a couple of times. But the idea of doing multiple Chad 1,000 workouts per week for months leading up to the climb? That was a level of volume I had never even considered possible—let alone built a training plan around.

But after the disbelief wore off—and maybe a few tears—I laced up my boots and started building an MTI-inspired program that would carry me from sea level to summit. I had about 12 months to prepare, so I started with MTI’s baseline assessment: 500 step-ups with a 30 lb pack for time. According to their standard, if you couldn’t finish in under 30 minutes, you weren’t ready for the Rainier-specific training program.

And so it began—
Up, down. Up, down. Click of the tally counter.
Up, down. Up, down. Click.
And on it went until I hit 500.

My time: just under an hour.
My condition: absolutely wrecked.
It was clear—I had a long way to go.

Over the next few months, I layered weighted step-ups into my base programming, grinding away rep by rep. Slowly but surely, my time improved, and the volume stopped feeling like punishment and started feeling like progress.

Skill Training
Once I could see a path forward physically, it was time to learn how to actually climb a mountain. That led me to Ice Fest in North Conway, New Hampshire, where I got my first real exposure to mountain movement, crampon technique, and ice axe fundamentals.

It was a two-day event:
Day one was a Mountaineering 101 course.
Day two was a guided winter climb of Mount Washington.

The thing that hit me hardest—literally—was the cold. Temps were in the teens, and with wind chill, it dropped well below zero. I remember standing there, layered up and still freezing, feeling completely out of place. It was a hostile, unforgiving environment—and I was intimidated as hell.

We made it within 500 vertical feet of the summit when our guide called the turnaround. We’d hit our hard stop time. 

To my surprise, I wasn’t even disappointed. I was spent—physically wrecked, mentally foggy, and quietly questioning whether I had the brass for mountaineering. I wanted the summit, sure. But I wasn’t sure I had what it took. 

Rainier Prep
A longtime friend had invited me to join him on the Rainier climb—and there was no way I was going to let him, or myself, down. So I packed my gear, flew back to the flatlands of Miami, and got back to work.

This was turning point—the moment I got serious about training. I doubled my step-up sessions from 500 reps to 1,000, and introduced something equally as torturous: sandbag get-ups. If step-ups test your endurance, get-ups test your resolve. They’re awkward, exhausting, and exactly what I needed.

I also ditched the comfort of my 72-degree living room and moved my workouts into the garage. No AC. Just heat, sweat, and suffering. I wanted to simulate the kind of environmental stress I’d face on the mountain. Fun fact: training in extreme heat can actually improve your body’s ability to tolerate extreme cold. It’s called heat acclimation—and while I didn’t have alpine altitude, I had Miami humidity. So I used it.

About a month later, I booked a flight and headed back to North Conway to take another crack at Mount Washington. This time, I felt strong. The weather cooperated. And I tagged the top.

That summit wasn’t just a win—it was a shift. Something clicked deep in my soul. I was no longer just training for Mount Rainier. I had crossed a threshold. Mountaineering wasn’t just a goal anymore. It was a calling. A lifelong pursuit. And with that shift in mindset came a shift in discipline.

I wasn’t just “training for Rainier” anymore—I was training like a mountaineer. That kicked off my main training cycle: 12 to 17 hours per week. Basically a part-time job.

Rucking

• 10 to 20 miles per week with a 30 lb pack
• One shorter midweek ruck (2.5–5 miles), one long weekend ruck (10–18 miles)
   

Weighted Step-Ups (30 lb pack)

• 2 sessions per week
• One short day (~1,000 vertical feet)
• One long grinder (1,500–2,000 vertical feet)
   

Strength Training (2x/week)

Focused on compound movements that translate to mountain performance:

• Trap bar deadlifts
• Pull-ups
• Push-ups
• Kettlebell presses
• Sandbag get-ups

Rock Climbing (1x/week)

• Indoor sessions at a climbing gym. Not only did this build technical confidence—it helped me stay composed on exposed terrain when things got real.

Krav Maga (1x/week)

• Still part of my weekly training. It kept me sharp, explosive, and mentally resilient—especially under pressure.

Mobility / Prehab (Daily)

• 20–30 minutes every morning and evening:
• Foam rolling
• Stretching
• Bar hangs
• Basic joint care

That’s the big picture. If you’re looking for a fully built-out plan, MTI has you covered. Their mountain programming gave me the structure—I just had to bring the discipline.

Overtrained
About 60 days out from Rainier, things started to fall apart. I was overtrained—badly. My performance started sliding, my energy cratered, and I eventually learned I had tanked my testosterone levels.

How do you keep preparing for a brutal climb when your body is screaming for rest? It was one of the most frustrating points in the entire journey. The timing couldn’t have been worse: I was just weeks away from my final test before Rainier—a climb of Mount Hood.

My doctor and health coach at WildHealth threw me a lifeline and helped me come up with a plan: dial back the volume until Mount Hood, prioritize sleep and recovery, then hit one final push before Rainier.

Resting in the weeks leading up to Hood may have been the hardest part of the entire journey. It meant trusting the process when every fiber of my being wanted to push harder—not pull back.

Mount Hood
Alpine start. Crisp air. Headlamp glow. I felt stronger than ever until the descent. A third of the way down from the summit, my left knee started to ache. Soon, it was crippling. By the time I reached the parking lot, I could barely walk.

I had trained to get to the summit, but not to get back down—which, as any seasoned mountaineer will tell you, is the part that actually matters. So now, fresh off an overtraining spiral, I had a new problem to solve: A bum knee—and just 30 days left before Rainier.

After three days of ice and rest, my knee returned to normal and I self-diagnosed patellar tendonitis. I had focused a disproportionate amount of my training on gaining elevation—not descending it.

My body wasn’t prepared for the eccentric loading that comes with thousands of vertical feet of downhill movement. I didn’t consistently follow one of the most important parts of the MTI programming: the downhill prep, specifically leg blasters for eccentric strength training. I didn’t do them. 

Over the next few weeks, I worked hard to fix that.

• Slant board step-downs
• Leg Blasters
• Targeted eccentric work

Rainier Climb
My final workout before Rainier, I felt strong. I hit personal records on both my step-up time and ruck pace. My body felt ready. And more importantly—so did my mind.

When we arrived at Rainier Base Camp, the weather was absolutely perfect. Blue skies. Cool air. It felt like the mountain was welcoming us. We checked into the Whittaker Bunkhouse and headed over to IMG Headquarters for our gear check. This was a guided climb. After a year of preparation, it was finally happening.

Until it was time to sleep. Remember that longtime friend who invited me on this climb? Yeah—turns out he snores. And not the soft, rhythmic kind. I’m talking full-blown, freight train-level snoring. The kind that makes you genuinely concerned someone’s choking… while also plotting their gentle removal from this earth. I laid there thinking, You’ve got to be $hitting me. I had to endure 3 nights of this, on the mountain, in a tent. Sleep deprivation.

Morning came, and we headed to Paradise to start the climb. By the time we arrived, the weather had shifted from beautiful and welcoming to cold, windy, and overcast. It was almost like the mountain was giving us a not-so-subtle sign to piss off.

That’s the thing about mountaineering—Even if you do everything 100% right, you still only have about a 60% chance of tagging the top. It all boils down to weather, route conditions, and whether or not the mountain gods grant you safe passage—up and, more importantly, back down.

I felt strong on the initial slog up 5,000 vertical feet to Camp Muir with a 40-pound pack.  Around 9,000 feet, we broke through the cloud layer and everything changed. The weather cleared. The views were breathtaking—the kind that no photo can truly capture.

Day Two was all about sharpening our skills for the upper mountain: Crampons, Rope Team Travel, Self-arrest techniques. I had been exposed to these skills before on Mount Washington and Mount Hood, but this was different. The guides pressure-tested us – when you’re on a rope team, everyone’s life is literally tied together. One weak link, and the whole team could go for a ride. We spent the day getting dragged down the slopes of Camp Muir, simulating falls and arrests—again and again, until they knew we were ready.

We hit the tents to rest up for the alpine start at 1:00 AM. And just like that, the weather flipped again. The cold returned. The wind howled. Snow and sleet tapped and whipped the sides of the tent. Small silver lining: the wind kept my buddy from hitting deep sleep—so I got a rare reprieve from the snoring symphony.

1:00 AM. The snow had stopped, but the wind and cold had settled in hard. And according to the forecast, they were only going to get worse. The guides were skeptical about summiting, but we were still a go—as far as conditions would allow.

We ate our alpine breakfast—ramen and coffee—roped up, and stepped into the dark. By the time we reached Disappointment Cleaver—about halfway up the mountain—that old, familiar feeling of intimidation crept back in. The same feeling I had on my first climb of Mount Washington. I was tired. Physically, from the climb. Mentally, from the constant tug-of-war that happens on a new rope team. The dark. The wind. The cold. It was all pressing in. One of our teammates had to turn back due to an injury. A couple more were hanging on by a thread, and the guides were seriously considering pulling the plug for the whole group. We pressed on. 

Dawn broke. The temperature started to rise. And by the time we reached High Break at around 13,500 feet, something shifted in me. My head was clear. The doubt and fear had been replaced with focus and resolve. The weather was still hovering just on the edge of acceptable—any worse, and the guides would’ve called it.

Up and over the crater rim.  The clouds parted just long enough to give us a moment to celebrate. We stood at the top of the most glaciated peak in the lower 48. We didn’t make it to Columbia Crest, the absolute highest point on Rainier – across the crater rim, a couple hundred vertical feet away. Our guides stopped us at what is considered the bad-weather summit—as far as they were willing to go in those conditions.

Some of our teammates were really struggling with altitude sickness, and I was just grateful we made it that far. The visibility closed in quickly, and we began the descent. Over 15 hours after starting our summit push, we arrived back at Camp Paradise, where we’d started three days earlier. I was physically wrecked. My knee held up better than it had on Mount Hood, but it still wasn’t anywhere near ready to handle 9,000 vertical feet of descent in a single push.

Mission complete.

And just like that, what I’d spent hundreds of hours training for—what had consumed an entire year of my life—was over. Only… it didn’t feel like an ending. It felt like a beginning. 

At 45 years old, I had found a new love: Mountaineering.