Whitney
In the summer of 2009, my friend Dan returned from a weekend excursion to California’s Mt. Whitney, and the report was unsatisfactory. Due to several complications – chiefly, a case of another climber getting sick – he had been unable to finish the hike to the top. Falling short left an unpleasant taste and ultimately created an insatiable urge to get to the top. Not being one to shy away from a challenge, I gladly accepted the invite to return to Whitney with him the following year. I figured that the climb would be difficult, but a year sounds so far off that nothing seems impossible, and I have always loved a good story, which this seemed perfect fodder for. So with naïveté as my ally, I took the challenge.
Because Whitney is in high demand for climbers, the national park conducts an annual February lottery to determine who will get permits for the rest of that year. Dan and I hedge our bets and put both of our names in. My entry is not drawn, but Dan’s is. We are in, and the journey has officially commenced. It is now less than six months before our climb, and I have done nothing to prepare besides getting my name on Dan’s permit. My mind does not fully grasp this, however, and so I carry on in blissful ignorance.
As the day of our trip inches closer, I realize I must make some preparations. I take a few short practice hikes and obtain a backpack and sleeping bag. Dan is far more meticulous and spends time going over a lengthy list of needed supplies. He covers inevitable concerns such as “What do you eat on a mountain?”; “How do I take out my contacts on a mountain?”; and, significantly, “Where is the bathroom on a mountain?”. More on this latter issue in a little bit.
When we are all packed out, Dan is lugging an extra 30 pounds, while I am bearing an additional 23 pounds. We shift a few things into my pack to improve the balance. It is now time to get on a plane and find a mountain. We leave Chicago on a Friday afternoon and fly into Los Angeles, where we collect our things. A 200 mile drive into Lone Pine, California, puts us at Whitney’s feet. Regardless of whatever preparations should have happened over the past several months, we are now faced with the reality of the mountain.
We get a decent night’s sleep in a motel, then awake Saturday and gorge ourselves on an all-you-can-eat breakfast. This is carb-loading at its finest. We leave the cozy confines of the town and make our way into the park. At the base, we find parking and saddle up. A few defeated-looking faces are already emerging from the mountainside. Several others are, like us, just beginning their ascent. Conversation is friendly but stilted. Most are focused on the climb ahead. When someone asks us where we have been training for this climb, it hits me how under-prepared we actually are. We have spent the summer trying to get in better shape, but we have done nothing that could be called training. Dan has been jogging occasionally and watching his diet. I have been playing copious amounts of softball, which I am not sure constitutes a workout. And except for trying to eat pizza no more than two times per week, I have done no such dietary monitoring. Further, we have done this scant amount of exercise at elevations below 1,000 feet. By contrast, the base of our climb begins at 8,300 feet, then rises steadily over the course of eleven miles to almost 14,500 feet. No point in the lower 48 states is higher than the top of Mt. Whitney. We quietly begin our walk, taking the first few steps into an unknown world.
Whitney is composed almost entirely of granite. Millions and millions of baseball-sized chunks create a narrow and slightly unstable walking path. The trail is further distinguished by large steps that are akin to stacking two Stairmasters on top of each other. Step left, step right, repeat 10,000 times. Welcome to hell. I take the lead most of the way and try to carve out a steady pace. We are carrying about three liters of water each, and we are going through it much faster than anticipated. Luckily, we are able to fill our bottles from the streams running down Whitney’s side. After some hesitation about potential contaminants, we are greeted with the most refreshing water we have ever tasted. This is the lone enjoyable moment we will feel over the next two days.
After one lakeside stop at 10,000 feet, Dan has trouble getting back up. He tries several times to right himself but is feeling dizzy and nauseous. These are signs of AMS (acute mountain sickness), which was partly responsible for his friend’s inability to continue last year. I assume that our trip is also coming to an abbreviated ending, and I am not entirely disappointed. Some passing climbers notice us and offer assistance in the form of pills designed to alleviate mountain sickness. I watch Dan take one of the pills then stubbornly put on his pack and force his way back on the path. His first several steps are wobbly, like a boxer taking a beating on the ropes. I play the role of referee in my head, wondering if I should step in and call this thing off. I fear for Dan’s safety, but I also fear having to explain to his wife how I let him walk off the side of a mountain. His words are garbled, but he would kill me if I threw in the towel now. So we continue, and within a half-mile he seems to feel better and is moving steadily. My chance at a reprieve is gone.
As we approach our day one stopping point, the thinning air and tiresome hiking conspire to destroy our morale. When we finally reach our campsite around 3pm, we are relieved to put down our packs, which by now are digging into our shoulders. My pack is particularly annoying because the damn thing decided to break before we even took a step up the mountain. The plastic clip holding the strap on my left side broke at the base, forcing me to tie off the strap in a makeshift knot that twisted the pack unevenly. This is my punishment for saving a few dollars by going the eBay route instead of buying a quality store-bought pack. Six-point-two miles are officially in the books, and we desperately need some rest.
Unfortunately, there is nowhere to relax at the camp. Like the rest of the path, the grounds where we will sleep are also a series of rocks. There are no trees or any substantial plant life at this height. We pitch a tent over the smoothest area we can find and try to rest awhile. Despite sweating out most of the water we took in today, the urge to pee is overwhelming. The park prepares its hikers by providing them with what they call “wag bags”. These strange plastic pouches contain a gel-like agent that is supposed to harden whatever goes in them and kill the smell. The idea is that both number one and number two go in there. Many hikers have their wag bags tied off in knots and dangling from their packs. We have already decided that number two can wait until tomorrow, and neither of us wants to pee in a bag and have to carry it the rest of the way. We sneak down to an area adjacent to the camp where there is little traffic and find several large boulders that provide adequate cover to relieve ourselves. Even at 12,000 feet, we still have our pride – or lack thereof – intact.
As nightfall approaches, the site fills in, and hikers begin to greet one another. Dan and I are feeling less than social, so we opt out of any real interaction. We each have a military-style MRE (meal ready to eat) in our pack for dinner. I have a box labeled “cheese manicotti” that looks as if someone has vomited into a bag and then vacuum-sealed it. It tastes better than it looks but can hardly be called a meal. Dan chokes down a package that is supposed to be spaghetti and meatballs without even heating it. Utterly dissatisfied with our food, there is now nothing else to do but lay down in our sleeping bags. We eavesdrop on the inane conversations going on outside the tent. One guy insists that he knows more about surviving in the wilderness than TV’s Bear Grylls, and he lets anyone who cares to listen know about it. Another group whines that they have been asked to leave by a park ranger who caught them hiking sans permit. They must quickly backtrack over the six miles they have just climbed in order to get off the mountain by the end of the day. Much of their walk will take place in darkness, for the sun is rapidly fading behind Whitney’s west wall. I also hear a discussion about what it would take to be rescued from the mountain. Apparently there is an emergency evacuation company that will gladly pull an injured or weary climber down, provided that person can shell out about $20,000 for their effort. This news effectively destroys my plan B and leaves me wondering how my legs will be able to hold up, not to mention my deteriorating mental status.
Several times during the evening we whisper for everyone else in the camp to shut up, hoping for some simple relief after a long day. Even after noise in the camp has ceased, though, there is no sleep to be had. We are lying on cold granite, with only the thin sheet of plastic tent floor and our sleeping bags keeping our asses off the rock. The tent itself is just wide enough for us to sleep shoulder-to-shoulder, and it is barely long enough to keep my feet from pressing the outer wall. Trying to sleep on my back means that my tailbone feels a sharp pain, while turning to either side causes a stabbing sensation in my hip. As promised, the temperature drops rapidly, and before long I am shivering despite wearing three layers. Although I felt immune to the elevation gain during the day, I now have a splitting headache to keep me company. At some point, we both realize that the other is still wide awake, and we begin laughing about our plight. At this elevation and distance from the base, we are essentially trapped. It has dropped to near freezing outside, so there is no way we can walk around. We are six miles from the nearest signs of civilization – six miles from food, toilets, and roads. There is nothing to do but to laugh at the situation. We both wonder what the hell we are doing, but there is really no going back now; the top is closer than the bottom. So we tough it out, praying that the sun will somehow crest sooner than it possibly can. When I ask Dan what time his watch says, I hope to hear him say it is at least 4 or 5 am, meaning the night is almost over. Instead, he flatly responds “Twelve-oh-two”. Our fate is sealed: we are going to die in this tent.
Somehow we toss, turn, and foxhole prayer our way through the next several hours, then peek our heads outside the tent around 5:30am. In total, neither one of us has gotten a full hour of sleep. The ground is not fully lit, but daylight is starting to creep in. I convince Dan that it is light enough to head out. My body cannot take anymore intimate time inside this tent.
We begin our push to reach the summit a little before 6am Sunday. Several other hikers have donned headlamps and are a few hundred yards ahead on the path. We use them as a partial guide until the sun provides enough light for us. The first part of the walk feels pretty good. Anything would be an improvement from being inside the tent. But soon the effects of the rough terrain and severe elevation take their toll. The lack of signage along the trail is also disheartening because we have no concept of how far we must still climb in order to touch the top. We ask several people on their way down how far we are from the peak. Answers vary wildly: “I would guess about two hours”; “Definitely less than an hour”; “Maybe three-and-a-half hours.” This news does nothing to help our deflating spirits. Eventually, we turn a corner and see the small shelter that sits atop Whitney’s peak. Although it still seems unbearably far, it offers some sign of hope and reassures us that the end does actually exist. Those passing in the opposite direction offer small phrases of encouragement, reminding us that we are close. Slightly after 10am, we step up to 14,497.61 feet. A spectacular, unhindered view of the surrounding mountains and valley greets us. We take the requisite photos and sign our names in the Mt. Whitney log, a book reserved for those who have endured the eleven miles and 6,200 feet of elevation gain. There is a definite satisfaction from having reached this point, but the feeling is short-lived and quickly replaced by the realization that by the end of this day we must traverse every inch of ground we covered since yesterday morning. I begin to doubt that we can actually make it all the way back to the base, but I do my best to pretend I feel fine and begin the descent. The idea of seeing our car again and not having to feel the sting of another rock helps propel us forward.
Initially, the path down feels faster and easier, almost joyous. But after a few miles our knees start to bear the brunt of our weight and our packs. Our pace slows and we struggle to keep our footing on the crumbling rock. To an onlooker, it would appear that I have some condition inhibiting my ability to walk. Each step requires that I jam my walking poles into the ground with either hand, then allow gravity to slowly pull me and my backpack forward until I hit level ground again. I wince on every one of these steps, my legs on fire with pain. Long ago, my body has demanded that I quit walking. It does not understand why I insist on forcing it to continue working despite the discomfort. At some point, Dan asks me to describe the experience in a single word. “Grueling” is my best answer. Twenty-two miles sounds far, and when it involves walking to a height my body has only experienced in the comfort of a pressurized airplane cabin, it is actually much worse. There are several times I think to myself that I wish I had not come, that once this is over I will never want to see another mountain again. Having Dan to climb with helps push me onward, though. It would be much easier to quit if only my own self-respect were at stake. Carrying the burden of ruining someone else’s goal is incredibly motivating, and it helps me stay focused.
Toward the end of this second day, my face is one of grim determination. Conversation between Dan and me has slowed to an occasional grunt and a few mumbled comments about wanting to be done. There is little else to say, and it hurts to speak anyway due to our lack of energy and dehydration. We grossly miscalculated the demands of such a hike: the amount of food and water required, the rigors of the climb, and the sheer agony of trekking 22 miles over two long days.
Around 7 pm Sunday evening, we see the parking lot and take our final few steps. We touch the posts at Whitney’s base the way a Notre Dame football player slaps the “Play Like A Champion Today” sign hanging above the doorway onto their field. We are far from champions today, but we are victorious in our own way. I am more physically and mentally exhausted than I have ever been. My mind can think of little besides food and a shower. However, two thoughts do emerge as we leave Whitney: One, I hope I never see another rock in my life, and two, I wonder when I will do this again.
