Ascent of Mt. Whitney
A few years ago I had the opportunity to join a few others in an excursion to the peak of Mt. Whitney, the highest mountain in the lower 48 states. It was and remains the tallest mountain I’ve ever climbed, and it also provided some of the most beautiful, exhilarating, and terrifying moments I’ve experienced.
At that time I had recently started working at AstroCamp, a year-round summer camp in the San Bernardino mountains dedicated to astronomy and space science. It was a great fit for someone like me, full of outdoor oriented science nerds, people who loved in almost equal measure to discuss quasars or go for a nature hike.
There were four of us that went. Three still worked at the camp — Paul, Kyle, and myself — plus Ben, who had recently left to venture around the Sierra for a while before taking up a wilderness fire-fighting job.
Ben was the one who had suggested the trip. While peak-bagging around the Sierra on his own for a few weeks he decided he wanted to do Whitney, but for that mountain he wanted other people. Being in the Owen’s River area he had managed to get a permit without the lengthy application process.
On a Monday Ben called and issued an ultimatum about the trip. He had to pick up the permit, and so he had to know whether I was in, and who else might be. It was lunch at that time, and I was out on the deck with other instructors, including the two I had just been discussing Whitney with: Paul and Kyle. All of us said we were in. None of us knew what we were in for.
I am in my nature an anxious person. I obsessively plan and research and visualize, sometimes visualizing the innumerable ways that something can go wrong and how I might end up dead or injured. I read weather reports: late week snow, perhaps as much as a foot on the ridge and around 6 inches at our chosen campsite at 12000 feet. I read about the dos and do-nots of glissading, and I skimmed several stories of people who had died in recent years from uncontrolled snowy slides off of rocky cliff ledges, some stories of which took place on the very mountain we were setting off to climb. We are unprepared for such an ascent, or descent, lacking both the proper gear and the knowledge and experience to use it. I called an outfitter in Lone Pine to ask about equipment rental. Ice axes were no, crampons were yes, but the crampons required stiff mountaineering boots, boots which none of us had. The footwear that I had, the closest appropriate choice, were a beat up pair of old leather boots that I picked up at a thrift store back in Madison. The leather was cracked and dried, the tread was all but completely worn away. They were totally inappropriate for the task, but they were comfortable as hell and only put me back $12. Snow boots they weren’t, but I knew that with a decent pair of socks I could walk all day in them with a pack on my back.
I spent the week reading trip reports, double checking the gear I was bringing, and developing my mind towards the eventuality that we made it up to the switchbacks and had to turn around. I told myself that I was prepared for that, that if the conditions were sketchy I would turn back, if not saving face then at least returning with life and all limbs. I knew these conditions in my head, but the actual situation required to pull a hairpin turn and retreat was only a vague scenario, one which I hoped I could recognize if it came along.
The complicated wrench in this forward thinking plan was Ben, whom I had only known for five months but who I could already tell was pretty gung-ho, and I half suspected/half knew that he would push hard for the top, counting more strongly on his own confidence and more plentiful experience than on the lack of these things in the rest of the crew. I knew also, crucially, my own tendency to get drawn in by others, to push aside my own anxieties and continue forward because it was easier than telling someone that I wanted to turn back.
Departure
The Friday of departure came around, the last school bus of children left the camp, and Paul, Kyle, and I gathered in the staff dining hall to collect ourselves for the trip. We had a borrowed ice ax, no crampons, and Paul had been piecing together borrowed gear from a variety of people around camp, picking up a sleeping bag only ten minutes before we were about to leave.
We had our gear collected on the tables in the dining area and a few grocery bags full of junk food and fruit from the camp pantry. Grey skies outside had been casting drifting snow onto the camp all morning, but it had all settled down around noon. This lull turned out to be only temporary, and as we were about to leave the precipitation started falling again, dropping a snowy hail with the consistency of Dippin’ Dots ice cream. The three of us loaded up my car while a slick layer collected on the ground. I had a pair of tire chains in my car, so we decided to toss them on until we made it down the mountain and onto clear roads. I had never used the chains before, and for fifteen minutes we tried to wrap and link them around my tires. The chains seemed to be too small for the job. Now, tires to match my boots, we decided to set out, hoping that once we made it back down to the highway we could find it relatively precipitation free. Proceeding with trepidation down the steep street, I tested the brakes, only to find the wheels locking and the car sliding on the thin icy layer that stood between us and the gritty traction of the open road. I was uncomfortable with the trip already, and we had made it a total of a hundred feet from the start. I decided to pull the plug. We were turning around. I tried to shift the car into a driveway to pull a three point turn and bring us back, but we just drifted past the driveway entrance and further down the road. The only possibility left to us was to continue on and hope the road conditions improved before we found ourselves roof-side down in a ditch or tumbling bumper over bumper down a steep hillside. Continuing on for another five hundred feet brought us further down the mountain, down to an elevation where the snow faded away and the road cleared. We were free to move ahead. We followed the highway through the numerous twists and turns: down the mountain, through the cloud layer, and out into the sunshine of the inland empire. Redlands, San Bernadino, and eventually onto the straight line shot that is 395, carrying us to our destination of Lone Pine and Whitney Portal.
We arrived in Lone Pine as the sun was setting, but we needed to drive out to Whitney Portal, 15 miles and 5000 feet up in the mountains. Cell service was poor up there, and so we had only been receiving sporadic text message updates from Ben, who was somewhere up there trying to find us a campsite for the night. Driving that way took us past the Alabama Hills, huge fields of large red boulders, and eventually up the winding mountain road. Darkness had fallen by this time, and our surroundings were mostly obscured by the night, but it was apparent that large monolithic walls had surrounded us on our drive to the campgrounds. At the entrance to one of the campgrounds we found Ben parked with his headlights on. There were a few open campsites, so we grabbed one and settled in for the night.
Day 1
The trail from Whitney Portal to the summit climbs 6000 feet over the course of 11 miles. Completing the trip in a day, 22 miles round trip, requires good fitness, an early start, and perfect conditions. For those not so daring, there are two camps along the way to split the journey. Outpost Camp, at 10000 feet elevation and 3.5 miles from the trailhead, and Trail Camp, 6.5 miles in and at 12000 feet. Our plan was to make our way to Trail Camp on day one and push for the summit the following day.
At the trailhead we weighed our packs and took some time to distribute the weight more democratically. After that we were off, ascending the winding trail. We were well acclimated, having lived at 5000 feet for the last several months, and the miles ticked away. Just past Lone Pine Lake, at about 2.5 miles in, we passed into the Whitney Zone. We took our first break, admired the swath of pines and gazed up at the huge granite walls that surrounded us. The rock seemed enormous and impenetrable, but with any luck we would soon be achieving those heights and higher. Further down the trail we passed through the meadow that marks Outpost Camp. As the trail marched higher we started encountering snow, which in some places obscured the trail and made for slushy travel.
Every group of people we met along the way told us that they had turned back before reaching the summit. For some the altitude had stopped them, for others the trudge up the mountain and through deep snow had taken too long and there had been no time to venture on. Although worrisome, our timing was better than theirs. Snow has been steadily melting since the storm, reducing some parts of the trail to puddles of slush and mud but clearing the way for further travel. We arrived at Trail Camp to find snow three to four inches deep in some parts but patchy overall, not at all the six inches that was said to have blanketed it only a day or two prior. There was even a clear patch, an obviously recently used campsite, where we were able to clear away a bit more snow and fit two tents side by side. At 12000 feet and with hardly any signs of vegetation, it was the most rugged camping I had ever done. And even at that altitude there were still large granite peaks that rose up on all sides, like Mt. Muir, a craggy prominence just south of Whitney, itself over 14000 feet. The setting sun fell right over top of Muir, balancing on top of the peak before disappearing behind. As darkness arrived the temperatures began to drop. Out of a single bowl the four of us shared a luxurious dinner of gnocchi and ramen and then dove into our sleeping bags. Since my water supply was running low I stuffed some snow into my water bottle and brought into my sleeping bag with me, but I had either used too much snow or my body never produced enough warmth, and throughout the night the bottle was merely a cold rock that I had to toss and turn around. The night also brought enormous gusts of wind that threatened to rip us and our tents off the ground and drive us into the rocks. I didn’t sleep well.
Day 2
Morning arrived with a 5:30 AM alarm, but the anticipation of the cold and dark kept us confined to our bags. I was well mummified in my bag, only exposing my nose and mouth to breath, but the frigid air that I felt on my face did little to support further action. Cross tent conversation confirmed the group decision to hit the snooze button.
The mountain was waiting, however, and time would not, so as the sky brightened with the coming dawn we arrived at the inevitable. The deliberate decision to remove oneself from the warm and comfortable embrace of a bed and step out into the cold, dark pre-dawn morning is one of the most difficult aspects of a trip like this one, as predictable as it is unavoidable. I stomped around in my boots as we heated water for breakfast, struggling to maintain feeling in my toes, and then to regain it. Slowly the sun began to creep up over the mountains to the east, bringing with it a feeling of vitality, if not yet of warmth.
Directly to our west was the climb up to the ridge. There existed two options for that section. Ascend the steep incline of the snow chute, which required the use of crampons and ice axes, or make our way up the series of switchbacks, which were also under a healthy layer of snow. Lacking the technical gear, our choice was obvious.
At the base of the switchbacks Ben gave the rest of us our first and only lesson in self-arrest. Our tools were poor. Paul carried the borrowed ice ax, Ben brought two beat up trekking poles, one of which he gave to Kyle, and I had with me a sturdy walking stick found somewhere along the trail on our way up. We learned to keep the tool on the uphill side as we walked, learned to step firmly and check our footing, practiced falling and catching ourselves on our gear to prevent a slide. It was two minutes of scant preparation, and if anything it drove into my mind the necessity of turning around if I ever felt I was out of my element. The very bottom of the switchbacks were too covered in snow to be practically possible, so we opted to skip them in favor of a short and steep snowy incline. There were already some tracks where people has ventured in the last day or two. Ben easily climbed up, Paul behind him, but as I made my way up the poor traction of my boots combined with my own poor stepping skills caused me to slide backwards with almost every other step. It was slow progress, but I eventually made it up by occasionally crawling on my hands and knees. Somewhere on the incline I swapped my stick for Kyle’s trekking pole to make the going a little easier, and after fifteen minutes or so we had joined up with the others. So far our day had been full of nothing but delays. We had left camp at about 6:30 AM, and it was now an hour later and we had barely even started up the switchbacks. There was still plenty of daylight left, but if we meant to attain the summit and hike back out to the cars then we needed to make better progress.
Although the conditions of the switchbacks were slightly better than the snow field we had just marched up, the going was still slow. Tracks were left from a group who had broken trail the day before, but the only group we talked to who had attempted to ascend via the switchbacks, rather than the snow chute, had turned back, so we expected the trail to give out at some point. The previous day’s weather had been worse than what we were now dealing with, with cloudy conditions, strong gusts, and sporadic snow. By contrast, we had perfect clear blue skies and a steadily rising sun. All the same, the knowledge that we might be pushing past where other groups had turned back filled me with trepidation. As we moved back and forth across the switchbacks we rose in elevation. For the most part it was simple walking. The snow in some areas was about calf deep and relatively dry. Traction was proving to be mostly a non-issue, though always in my mind. In some cases the trail was all but invisible, washed into the hillside by large drifts and discernible only as a slight depression in the surrounding snow. As we climbed, sections of the trail felt less like a walk up a hill and more like a cliff face traverse. Steep embankments of snow and rock fell away mere feet from where we walked, and although the snow felt solid I knew that if I slipped it could be a treacherous and painful tumble before I stopped. My own inclinations to turn around were steadily rising, but Ben’s determination and the absence of complaints from the other two left me in the position of simply trekking ahead.
On the final switchback before making the ridge we encountered a steep and icy slope, the only thing laying between us and the relative safety of the ridge. Unlike the trail that had taken us to this point, the snow was crusty and required steps to be kicked into it. I was in the lead at this point, but the prospect of kicking steps, something I had never had to do, and the icy slope that fell away several hundred feet to one side, caused me some hesitation. I passed the lead off to Ben, who had by this time taken over wielding the tree branch as his self-arrest device. He proceeded slowly but confidently across the slope, making a series of shallow steps that allowed the rest of us to make our way across.
This was the section where I met and crossed over my line. Each step I took felt like a gamble. Had I been on my own I would’ve turned around. Had someone voiced aloud their desire to turn back, I would’ve instantly agreed. Whatever the actual probability of my slipping and falling off the mountain at that point, I acknowledged it as a very real possibility. Mountains kill people. Part of staying safe in the outdoors is recognizing that nobody is an exception to this. Part of staying safe is knowing the limits of one’s own abilities, but part of adventure is pushing those limits. The difficult and dangerous aspect of limits is that it is impossible to know exactly where they lie until they are crossed. From that there is often no going back. The limit that I was now testing was the level of risk that I was willing to accept to stand on top of a mountain. On the rest of the trail up to this point, the balance of risk versus reward won out easily for continuing forward. On that final switchback, however, the balance shifted. Each time that I took a step I felt like I had surpassed my tolerance. I knew that the experience and abilities I possessed were not enough to keep me safe. If the same situation were replayed a thousand times, in how many of them would I have slipped? That’s a question I can’t know the answer to, because in reality, in the only situation that actually matters, I made it across the traverse.
Across the final switchback, we rested safely at the ridge that would take us the rest of the way to the summit. I was still a bit rattled by the trail we had just come up, but there was no time to dwell on it. There was a heavily snowed-in trail that needed to be crossed.
At the junction with the top of the snow chute we found a group we had met on the hike to Trail Camp. They had just made it up the chute, and two out of the three looked in poor shape, one fellow vomiting up his breakfast onto the snow. It was obvious that they would have to turn back. They asked us if we had any water we could spare, which we didn’t. I had a bit of water left in a bottle in my pack, but I had so far gotten by on eating handfuls of snow while walking. For all our under preparation when it came to gear, we were all quite well prepared in terms of fitness and acclimation. All of us had been living at 5000 feet for the last several months, and the previous two nights we had spent at 8000 feet and 12000 feet, respectively. Consequently, none of us were feeling the ill effects of altitude, other than an obviously quicker tendency to become short of breath. The final stretch of trail from the ridge to the summit would (thankfully, in my eyes) require more of our fitness than of our mountaineering skills, and for that we were more than prepared. Still, the path ahead was in no way easy going. Few people had ventured much further than we had since the snow storm the previous week. The snow was thigh deep in most places, deeper in drifts, and there was no well cut trail. Getting to our current location had taken four hours, making the time at the ridge about 10:30 AM. We had set a turnaround time of 1 PM, and if we weren’t at the summit by then we would have to admit defeat. The distance from the ridge junction is about two miles and takes about an hour in good conditions. We hoped to make it by noon, but we had little information about the trail ahead. Everyone we had talked to thus far had turned back before reaching the summit. Shortly after we started down the trail we met someone coming back our way. He had turned back as well. “Too tired,” he said. So we pressed on, following his footsteps for a while before finding his turnaround point and forging on ahead. Breaking trail at this elevation was slow going. The snow was soft and deep and we traded off the lead as we slowly progressed upwards. The cliff side fell steeply away in some places, but the trail was not nearly so intimidating as that which we had just come up.
The trek took much longer than it should, or longer than I thought it should, in any case. Soon the peak was visibly, tantalizingly close. It seemed as if I could get there in 5 minutes. In reality it took us another 45 to wind our way around the steep part of the slope to where it eased a bit. We trudged through the snow and rock hopped, inching our way up in elevation.
The peak itself is relatively unpronounced, not a clearly defined prominence as much as a rounding of terrain, notable mostly for the fact that there is nowhere left to go, nowhere further up, not here, not in this state, not anywhere nearby for thousands of miles.
We found a flat, dry spot and allowed ourselves a few minutes to eat lunch and relax. The day was only half over, and a snowy descent, long hike, and six hour drive awaited us before we could finally relax again into our beds. There was a lot for me to parse. I wondered if all the risks were worth it. There is something worth pursuing about the ability to move confidently through the mountains, but that confidence comes at a cost. As the saying goes, “Good judgment comes from experience. Experience comes from bad judgment.” The consequences of bad judgment is always a numbers game. Sometimes you come out alright, but sometimes… sometimes you don’t.
For a while, though, we were sitting on top of the country, admiring the views.
