At 14,495 feet, Mount Whitney is the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States. It doesn’t require technical skills to get to the top and it’s only a seven hour drive from us. When I first heard about it after moving to California, I couldn’t help myself, I wanted to give it a shot. Me and thousands of other people. Therein lies the first challenge: unless you can dedicate at least a week to the trip, you have to apply for an extremely hard to get permit to hike the shorter, more popular route.
Luck hasn’t exactly been on our side. A couple years of no goes, a canceled permit last year due to the wildfires. Finally this July, permit in hand and wildfire free, Owen and I were ready to give it a try. The trip got off to a promising start. We got to Lone Pine, the town below Mount Whitney, in the early evening with plenty of time for last minute preparations. Owen bought a lightweight hat at the local gear store (which came with a free road soda), and we picked up trash bags to use as pack covers just in case it rained. We had a relaxing evening at the trailhead campground, enjoying brownies and icecream as we finalized our plans. Our permit was good for the next two days, and in an ideal world we wanted to summit the second day. This way we could hike most of the way there the first day, camp close to the summit, and make our way to the top early the next morning before there’d be any afternoon storms. Unfortunately, there was a storm forecasted for the morning of our second day, so our only chance to summit safely would be the first day of our permit.
We started up the trail around 4 a.m,, hiking the first mile or two with our headlamps in the early morning dawn. It’s 11 miles to the summit and we figured eight hours would be plenty of time for us to make it there by noon, before any afternoon storms could roll in. I had asked a friend that had summited several 14ers for advice before our trip, and the piece that stuck in my mind was: pace yourself, take it slow. So we did. There were snack breaks, bathroom breaks, photo breaks, and an encounter with the youngest hikers to summit Mount Whitney. They were six years old, and this was their second time summiting. They were known as the “Super Hiking Twins.” After meeting them I thought, we have got this in the bag! If six-year olds can summit, surely we can.
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| Early morning miles |
But time started slipping away from us, and we fell behind schedule. Seven miles into the hike we set up our tent and cached most of our gear at Trail Camp and started up the section of 99 switchbacks. We were maybe three switchbacks up when hikers coming down from the summit told us it had been snowing and hailing higher up. I glanced at Owen’s bare legs and wondered how he would fare. Then we saw a miserable-looking guy wearing shorts who literally told us not to do what he did. It was decided: I made Owen go back down to our camp and put pants on. He didn’t have to backtrack far, maybe a quarter mile, but it was taking forever. I could see our tent from where I sat, and when he had been in there longer than normal I started wondering whether he had cracked his head open or fallen asleep. Finally, he emerged, and then finally, he made it back to me. I immediately charged up the switchbacks, ready to GO!
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| Still smiling |
As we ascended the switchbacks, we got more reports of rain and cold temperatures at the summit. Our self-declared deadline of being at the summit by noon was quickly slipping out of reach. By the time we made it to Trail Crest, two miles from the summit, it was well past noon, the rain was only getting worse, and we were unsure whether it was worth pushing on. To make matters worse, we seemed to be one of the last groups of people still heading up to the summit, everyone else was coming down. We tried to rationally assess the situation: we had plenty of food, water, and energy, we weren’t cold, and we weren’t far from the summit. We pushed on!
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| Working our way up the 99 switchbacks |
By now, we were at 13,500 feet overlooking the Sequoia-Kings Canyon Wilderness but we couldn't see a darned thing because of the clouds. Then out of nowhere the skies opened up and we finally got a view. It felt like we were on top of the world! At that point, I figured we had maybe a quarter mile left, half mile tops. I figured wrong. We ran into a hiker coming off the summit who told us we had about a mile left, and that it felt more like five miles. That was a new low point for me. I was deeply worried that we were out of time, that the storm would get worse any minute.
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| Picking our way up the mountain |
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| A rare glimpse into the wilderness below us |
Somehow, someway, we finally made it to the summit. It was 2:30 p.m. and we were the only ones up there. There was no view, and we didn’t sign the logbook. We sat in the stone hut to try to warm up, wolfed down a couple plain tortillas, and took a few photos. I know that sounds a little anticlimactic. I was relieved we made it, and so proud of us. But I’m not going to sugarcoat it: we had been hiking for over 10 hours, we were cold and hungry, we were feeling the effects of the altitude, and we still had to hike four miles back to our tent. Speaking of the altitude, Owen confessed to me that sluggishness from the altitude was why it had taken him so long to put his pants on.
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| Stone shelter at the summit |
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| WE MADE IT! |
We hiked off the summit as fast as the rocky terrain would allow, trying to beat the worsening storm. I didn’t even realize it started thundering until Owen stopped to tell me- I couldn’t hear it through my double layer of hoods! I seriously started to question whether we made the right decision to summit. But then I saw the last thing I was expecting: people who were heading up the mountain. Instantly, I no longer felt like the most foolish person out there.
When we got to camp, I immediately stripped off all my clothes. Every single layer was soaked (not the best trip to discover my rain jacket was no longer waterproof). Thank god my sleeping bag was dry in our tent, and I holed up in there until I could start functioning again. That night we listened to the rain pick up, the thunder continue, and rock slides every so often. It seemed like we were in a place humans weren’t meant to linger.
I was worried about the hike out the next morning because I had no dry warm layers, but I shouldn’t have been. We slept in and actually got rewarded because of it: by the time we started hiking down, the rain had stopped and the sun came out. Seven miles later, just as we reached our car, it started raining and hailing again. A fitting way to end the hike that almost completely kicked our asses. That, and scarfing down the rest of our brownies.
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| All was well again: the sun was out! |
Owen turned 30 earlier this month and we wanted to celebrate the occasion as we usually do, with a camping trip. But with nearly the whole state on fire or smoked out, it was hard to know where to go, or whether to go at all. We narrowed our options to two choices: a lake deep in the mountains (and probably deep in the smoke) or Big Sur (clear but without the allure of alpine waters). We packed maps for both and waited until the last second to decide, at the end of our road, when Owen turned north.
Turning north deposited us, several hours later, on the smoky shores of Bowman Lake. All we really wanted to do was chill by the lake and drink beers, but that turned out to be more complicated than we anticipated. The lake was nearly 50 feet lower than normal, and a field of thick muck separated us from the refreshing waters. Finally, we found a big rock to crawl up on and perched there, toasting our beers to Owen’s new decade.
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| En route to the lake |
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| Denali overlooking her kingdom |
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| The birthday boy |
Now, I’m trying to soak up the last rays of summer as the Santa Cruz mountains start inching towards fall. Soon enough, we’ll be on the road again.
