The other day, Bev commented on the lack of posts about the Mt. Whitney hike and speculated that, even in the rear view mirror, the whole experience still felt too big to wrap our arms around it. As is so often the case, she summed it up perfectly. I’m also beginning to think that won’t change. So here goes. And be sure to check out the photo gallery (see links in the right sidebar).
This is a story about six middle-aged adults, nearly all of them AARP eligible, who decided to hike the Mt. Whitney Trail in one day. This is not an ordinary hike. Permits are required and only available by lottery, held annually in March. The odds of “winning” a permit are slim. Permits are issued for dates from May through September. This year, the trail had snow on it in late-August and was not accessible to the summit until late-July. Except for the first two miles of hard packed dirt, the terrain is rock. All rock. Nothing but rock. The trail is 11 miles long. Each way. When you get to the top, you turn around and walk back down for 11 miles. Because you start hiking at 2:00AM, much of the trail on the way back down will appear “new” since the first four-plus hours on the way up were in complete darkness, save for the piercing beam of your headlamp to keep you from stumbling to your death. The trail begins at an elevation of 8,200’, which is higher than any summit east of the Rocky Mountains. It ends at 14,494’. The term “thin air” takes on a new meaning.
There are also some basic rules to follow. You must carry your poop off of the mountain. That’s right – nothing gets left on the mountain, including poop. The US Forest Service supplied each of us with one “WAG (Waste Alleviation and Gelling) Bag”. Poop in the bag, carry it out, and dump it in the “Human Waste” bins at the trailhead. The Visitor Center, where you pick up your trail permit, has a display explaining how to poop in the bag.
Carry your permit with you at all times because a Ranger will materialize out of thin air and ask for it. Don’t eat protein above 12,000’ or your body will rebel. Never run out of water. The last water source is at 12,600’, which sounds pretty close to the summit but is really many horrible suck-filled miles from it.
It’s 2am and the normal people are sleeping. Our group is gathering at the trailhead in pitch black darkness. It’s completely quiet except for the occasional “holy crap, you’re blinding me with your headlamp”. Everyone is upbeat and feeling good.
The trail has several distinctly named sections. The portion we hiked during the first four hours probably has an official name. We called it “Dark”. We were thankful that we’d hiked the first 2.8 miles the day before, giving us a bit of confidence knowing the early terrain and some key landmarks before reaching the boundary of the Mt. Whitney Zone. This is where you could be fined one bazillion dollars if caught without your lottery-winning permit. I was a bit disappointed with the Whitney Zone entrance. I expected something like the desert toll booth in Blazing Saddles, operated by a US Forest Ranger. Or even one of those manually operated gate arms you see at remote border crossings.
Instead, there was a simple sign. It was still pretty cool. And I wanted to kiss that sign on the way back.
This was also a convenient location to go pee, due to the abundance of huge boulders that afforded the ladies some semblance of privacy. A few hours later, there was no such luxury and all modesty was abandoned. Once above the tree line there was no place to hide. It should also be mentioned that the altitude caused everyone to pee like racehorses. High altitude triggers an increase in heartbeat, breathing and urination. The low humidity and low air pressure at high altitudes also causes moisture from your skin and lungs to evaporate at a faster pace — and your body’s increased exertion requires even more water to keep it hydrated. So we all went often and, as Tom pointed out, he “had the stream of a twenty-year old”. Speaking for the men with aging prostates, it was like God said “I give this small reward to you older people who refuse to act your age”. Whatever. I’ll take what I can get.
The early hours in total darkness were surprisingly peaceful. There was no moon, so the summer night sky was full of stars. It was just the first of many humbling reminders of how small we were on this enormous stage. Once we entered the Whitney Zone, the trail was in pretty rough shape due to a particularly harsh winter and it seemed to disappear for short stretches. This was a little disconcerting in the pitch black on a trail with steep drop-offs. The packed dirt trail of the first 2.8 miles was behind us and now it was rock. Endless rocks. Big rocks. Unstable rocks. I wondered about the force of nature required to create this landscape. There were a smattering of other middle-of-the-night hikers, but we didn’t see the steady stream that we were told would be on the trail. It turns out that most of those people were sleeping in the campgrounds. Then, we ran into Ranger Bob. Nobody knows where he came from (maybe he hid behind a big rock and stepped out to check permits as you approached his covert spot) but we were happy to see Ranger Bob and pepper him with questions about the trail ahead. We saw Ranger Bob again at the summit, where he seemed to appear out of thin air. Maybe he has a secret underground tunnel with an escalator. Most of all, we loved saying the words “Ranger Bob” because it sounds like a cartoon character.
Then, finally, four hours into the hike, dawn. It was like watching the sun come up while standing on the moon. I was pretty certain that we weren’t on the lunar surface because we weren’t floating around and I didn’t see any stray golf balls. The high point waaaay in the back is our destination.
We knew that there was still a long way to go, but when daylight breaks you see what’s ahead and wonder “how are we going to get THERE?” Being in the dark had its advantages. Soon after daybreak, we reached Trail Camp where a few of the overnighters were just waking up. Mt. Whitney also came into full view for the first time.
Immediately after Trail Camp, you reach another famously named section of the trail, the “Ninety-Nine Switchbacks”. When you complete the switchbacks on the way up, you are rewarded with spectacular scenery and a view of the summit that appears deceptively close. When you complete those same switchbacks on the way down, you want to scream “That’s the NINETY-NINTH GOD DAMNED MOTHER F***ING switchback”. At that point, you have only descended to 12,000’, have nearly eight more miles to hike, and all you want to do is curl up in a ball and cry. Like I said, this is no ordinary hike.
We strolled through camp and began the dreaded switchbacks, careful not to miss our last water source at 12,600’, which was where altitude sickness began to rear its ugly head. From this point on, some of us suffered a range of symptoms including headaches, nausea, shortness of breath, an unsteady gait, and mental lapses.
The switchbacks were a grind but with every switch, there was a breathtaking view. Literally. Breathing became a little more laborious with every hairpin turn. The trail wasn’t particularly perilous (yet), although it was a bit nerve wracking during a stretch that required cables to keep us from falling to our deaths. It also occurred to me that in a rock landscape, it would hurt a lot if you fell down. Tom would learn that first hand on the way back down, when altitude sickness caused him to repeatedly fall over onto very large rocks. Ouch. The switchbacks ended at a point called “The Junction”, where the Mt. Whitney Trail converges with the John Muir Trail.
It’s also the point where you cross over from the eastern side of the mountain range to the western side. Because we began this trek at 2AM and the sun was still warming up the eastern cliffs, the Junction also marked the line between toasty warm and freezing cold. Crossing over to the western side, we pulled our jackets on and headed into the cold wind for the last 2.3 miles to the summit. 2.3 miles isn’t particularly far, especially if you’ve already walked for 8.7 miles. Sadly, this was no ordinary 2.3 miles. In fact, it was the LONGEST 2.3 miles EVER. The hard and late winter took its toll on this portion of the trail. It was as if God played dice with giant boulders and forgot to pick up after himself. Portions of the trail completely vanished, buried under massive unstable rock piles. Then, as we picked our way through that mess, the trail would open up with the eastern side completely dropping off. These sections are called “the windows” because you can stand on the trail and “see” America to the east and the west with nothing blocking your view. It also meant that you were standing on a three-foot wide strip of rocks with nothing on either side to keep you from plummeting forever. Definitely a poo-in-the-pants moment. Two of them.
This was becoming a bad video game with no end in sight. Just as we finished the gauntlet of wobbly boulders without falling to our deaths, we came upon a three-foot deep snowfield on a steep mountainside. Really? A snowfield on August 28th? Less than a half-hour from the summit? Ugh. The “trail” was a narrow single track path, barely wide enough for one foot. Our trekking poles became ski poles, pushing us upwards. After a little bit of cross-country skiing without the convenience of skis, we knew that the summit was within reach. The air got noticeably thinner and we knew that we wouldn’t be able to stay at the top for very long.
The first trail to the summit of Mt. Whitney was completed on July 22, 1904. Four days later, the new trail had its first recorded death on Whitney. Having hiked the trail, Bryd Surby was struck and killed by lightning while eating lunch on the exposed summit. In response, work began on a stone hut that would become the Smithsonian Institution Shelter, completed in 1909. When that 102-year old stone hut came into view, I wanted to dash to the top. Unfortunately, someone had tied an aircraft carrier to my backpack, preventing me from breaking into a full sprint. Or a slow walk. It was more like a slow crawl to the summit. But when we got there, eight hours and fifteen minutes later, it was pretty damn spectacular.
We didn’t have enough to do in our lives, sitting around on the couch and eating bonbons, so we decided to sign up for a half-marathon and train to run it “fast”. Because we both do a much better job of sticking to our workout regiments when we have an event to train for, this seemed like a reasonable plan. The first step was to decide which race to sign up for. We chose the California Wine Country Half-Marathon because it has the word WINE in it. And one of the major sponsors is Kendall-Jackson, which beats the hell out of any race sponsored by Gatorade (gag) or Crystal Geyser. Also, this:
That does not look like “flat”.
But then we’d have to run in San Antonio, Texas. And I’m pretty sure that there won’t be a wine and beer tent with local wineries and breweries pouring samples at the finish. But they might have BBQ. YES, I WILL RUN FOR TEXAS BBQ.