Small Humans on a Big Mountain

Let me tell you about the most desperate, terrifying, intense day of my life. For the first time, this comes straight from my personal journal:

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6/12/06

Every day in the Sierras has been harder than the last. First, altitude, then snow, then river crossings, then relentless elevation climbs and descents. Therefore, yesterday morning, I expected a difficult day. But I had no idea...

The day started with a ford of Whitney Creek, the freezing waist-deep waters were to be a prelude to our highly anticipated climb of Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the continental United States. Soon after the crossing, I got lost. Alone, and without any footprints in sight, I got out my compass and map and began to wander through the open lodgepole pine forest. I felt wild, but also a little scared. Again, I had no idea this was foreshadowing for the rest of the day to come. But this was when I first suspected I should've stayed in bed that morning...

After about a mile of freestyle forest wandering, I found another pair of footprints and followed them back to the trail. Later, I found out they were Canuck's, he had gotten lost too. He and Naked Son are my two buddies I've been hiking with for the past several days out here. Luckily, they are both heavy smokers so I can keep up with them. Thank God for nicotine addicts, huh?

I rejoined the trail at the junction; PCT left, Mt. Whitney right. There weren't very many footprints on the path to the right, I noticed, as I started to follow it. It seems not many had attempted Whitney yet this year. But here I was, stubborn/determined as ever, and I wasn't about to turn back. Besides, the nearest exit to town was over the pass right by Whitney, and I thought I probably didn't have enough food to make it to Vermillion Valley, although I had been trying to conserve as best as possible the past six days. Also, I had hurt my knee a few days ago and it was getting worse every day. Canuck and Naked Son were exiting here as well.

Soon, the trail came to a big lake, surrounded by white mountains. The lake was a hypnotically deep blue, and I dropped my pack to admire it for a moment. Then, a loud, thunderous rumble from above. I look up, and on the mountain across the lake, an avalanche. The huge sheet of snow crashes into the back of a giant boulder, a boulder big enough I doubt human machinery could have easily moved it. It was dislodged and began to roll down the mountain, hitting cliffs and bouncing into the air for 3 or 4 seconds at a time, this several ton rock! Eventually, it broke into smaller boulders, big enough still that a human could rock-climb on them, all flying through the open air. I was filled with a reverence for the power of nature.

I continued on, eventually meeting up with Canuck, Naked Son, and another hiker named Red, next to half-frozen Guitar Lake. It really is shaped like a guitar. There was snow everywhere. This same snow had created the creek we crossed in the morning, so it had confronted us twice for the price of once. There was so much snow we couldn't find the trail, so we loosely guessed at its location.

Eventually, we found ourselves scrambling over rocks and boulders on the southern base of Whitney. We knew we were close and Red suspected the trail was just above us. So we began to climb.

And climb.

And climb.

Eventually, we found ourselves full-fledged rock-climbing, 3/4 points of contact, hugging the mountain, backpacks on, no joke. I looked at Naked Son and said, "Our mothers would not approve of what we are doing." Looking down, Guitar Lake seemed unbelievably far below us. Had we really climbed this far?

Suddenly, Canuck, a licensed rock-climbing instructor, shouts at us. He's at least 1,000 feet below us. He says it's not safe and he's turning back. Great. We cannot climb back down, it is too steep. Red is way above Naked Son and I, waiting. He hasn't found the trail.

Naked Son and I continue to climb, now as a team, giving boosts and lending a hand where necessary. The rocks are often loose and crumble away under our feet, or break off in our hands. It is obviously extremely dangerous, Canuck was correct, but what choice did we have?

Suddenly, I spot a red jacket to the left. It's a hiker coming down Whitney! I yell, but they are too far to hear. But at least we know where the trail is. We had simply walked right past it.

We finally meet Red near the ridgetop, only to discover it is insurmountable. There is only one other way to get to the trail, and I had already said I would not do it. A giant snowfield stretching the length of the mountain, in a shallow chute. Exactly like the one I had recurringly dreamt about before the trail. I said over and over again that I wouldn't, that it was too hauntingly reminiscent for me, but Red and Naked Son realized it was the only way.

We had to climb down about 150 feet to reach a spot where the snow was traversable, if you could call it that, at about a 70 degree angle. I tried not to panic. I tried not to think about dying. I prayed. Naked Son prayed too.

I unstrap my ice axe. I still hadn't used it yet. I ask Red about it, he says I should tie a slipknot around my wrist to secure it, but he doesn't know how to tie one. Neither do Naked Son or I. So I guess. And somehow, I suddenly tie a perfect slipknot. Instant knowledge spontaneously granted in a time of need, like something out of The Matrix.

Red has started to traverse. Naked Son says it frankly, "Guys, I'm really scared." He begins to go across too, leaning so hard on the mountain he is practically sitting.

My turn.

Every tiny bit of pseudo-knowledge about ice-traversing floods into my mind. Cut the steps with the toe of your boot. Lean on the axe. Yeah, like you saw in a movie once. I begin to try and convince myself that what I am seeing is just a movie. I am staring at my feet to watch my steps, and I cannot help but see the steep slope beneath my feet, continuing for an infinite distance, down to the rocks. The lake from the morning is so small now. I wish I could have heeded that wise old advice, "Don't look down." Instead, I stared at doom.

About halfway across now. I have never been so scared in my life. I am in honest mortal terror. I feel like I can feel the images of my life pressing behind my eyes trying to surface, that old cliche of death, but I refuse to let it happen. I'm going numb with panic, but my feet keep cutting steps, my ice axe keeps plunging into the snow, clanging on the rocks just underneath.

Red has made it across. He comments, "Look at this guy, he's doing this like a professional." I whisper, "That's because I'm scared shitless."

Almost there. Naked Son has made it. Just a few more steps.

Suddenly, I slip. This is it. I glimpse my foot hanging in the abyss, a hideous omen. I'm dead. My other foot is gonna give. I'm sure I'm going to die. Naked Son leans over the snow, holding out his ice axe, "Grab it!" he shouts. It's just out of reach. I'm slipping. I throw the sharp part of my axe over my head and into the snow. With herculean strength, my one arm lifts my entire body and pack, just as my other foot gives way and my free hand leaps onto the outstretched ice axe.

Life flows through the shaft of the axe. Blood is adrenaline. Lift!

And then, I'm safe. I'm back on those loose, crumbling boulders. Thank God. I want to hug Naked Son. We begin to climb over to the trail. I kiss my ice axe tenderly, like a lover. We're back on the trail. It's over. My heart is beginning to slow down. I'm alive. I feel so thankful to be alive. Life itself feels thick and rich, and I breathe it in greedily.

A few more snow traverses, but nothing like that other one. We're at the junction to Whitney, it's two miles to the top and then back the same way, so we ditch our packs for this final segment of our summit quest. Ice axes at the ready, Red and Naked Son shoot up the mountain. We have no idea what happened to Canuck, but he is, unfortunately, on his own now.

I'm suffering from the altitude, so I lag behind the other two a bit. What a strange poverty this is out here, yearning for air, the very epitome of abundance.

The solitude hits me hard. I've just had a near-death experience, I think. Everything seems doubly real. I burst out laughing suddenly, giddy. Seconds later, I begin to weep uncontrollably. Maybe I'm tired, maybe I'm in pain, maybe I'm delirious from lack of air, but I think I may have just a bit of post-traumatic shock. A final snow-climb up the mountain, and I'm almost on the summit ridge. Naked Son and Red are just headed down. "It's cold," they say, "but incredible. It's... well, you can see for yourself. Meet you back at the junction."

On top of Mt. Whitney, there are two structures. One is a roofless outhouse, which I promptly use. It is America's most expensive toilet, routinely flown out by helicopter. The other building is a shelter. Five people died in it during a lightning storm last year, and it is mostly sealed now, maybe out of respect. Through one open door, I can see it is filled with snow. Some shelter.

There is a book. I sign it, "Trip."

There is a plague at the tippy-top, "Mt. Whitney - 14,497 ft. Tallest mountain in continuous United States." I hop onto a rock to achieve the final 3 feet and reach an altitude of 14,5. Wow, I'm here. I made it. I'm a mountain climber. Hell, I'm a BAMF.

I look around. To the south, I see memories. There's the Mt. Jenkins & Owens saddle, where I camped in a sunset. Beyond that, there's the Piute range, where I met Chuck the crazy mountain man. There's the sweltering Mojave desert. In the distance, I can make out the San Gabriels and San Bernadinos. That's where Rockhop and I started walking, so long ago!

I survey my path, the hundreds of miles I've walked and I'm filled with a sense of pride. It feels fulfilling, a culmination of my experience so far, an important checkpoint I had to reach. But it is cold, so I begin to head back down.

I meet Canuck in the same place that Red and Naked Son met me. He had triangulated the position of the trail on the map and found his own way up and onto the trail. He was so worried about us that he was angry, he said. I told him how scared we were up there and that he had made the smarter decision. I said we'd wait back at the junction for him.

On my way back, I find a red pack, stashed in some rocks. Whose could this be? It is old and has been torn apart by marmots and the daring high-altitude birds. Perhaps this is the remains of some ill-fated hiker. The thought is chilling, and I don't want to think it.

I continue. Through gendarmes and rock windows, I think I can see a trail along the mountains east, barely distinguishable from the snow. "Uh oh, is that where we are headed next?" Another thought I don't want to think.

Back at the junction, Red, Naked Son, and I wait for Canuck. When we spot him, it is six o'clock. The sun will begin to set soon. And if that was the trail...

The group is back together now. We don our packs. We can't camp here. It's too high, too cold, and too steep. There's a camp two miles from the junction, can we make it? "No choice." says Red, "We'll nighthike if we have to, but I sure don't want to." My headlamp is worthless, I think.

Soon, it becomes apparent that the snow-covered trail is where we are headed. The other three think it would be better if we forewent the trail and just climbed down the ice-covered North face of Whitney. I am not okay with this. I insist we should try to follow the trail. But I am out-voted. I can't believe it. I thought I was in the clear. And now my life is in serious danger again.

Red and Canuck begin to cut switchbacks down this steep ice slope. If you know anything about mountaineering, you know the North face of a mountain is always the most treacherous because it doesn't get as much sun and doesn't melt much before re-freezing. The ice just hardens and hardens into sleek, sharp crystal.

Again, I have no choice. I begin to climb down. It's about 2500 feet to the bottom of this snow-bowl, with, of course, rocks awaiting at the bottom. Our makeshift trail cuts across glissade-slides left from other people who had slid down the mountain, when the snow was fresh and soft enough to do so. Their impressions left behind have hardened into ice slides, like the Olympic luge. We have to either cautiously step into or hop across them as we switchback down.

I fall behind quickly. I'm tired, aching, and scared again. It's slow-going work. Canuck keeps falling and self-arresting with his ice axe to stop sliding. He's cutting our trail and is way ahead of me. Arresting looks difficult, I'm not even sure I could do it if I had to.

It's getting dark now. I look at my watch. 8:00 already? I'm not even halfway down the mountain. This is not good. Slowly, I continue. I'm racing the sun and I'm losing. Red and Canuck are out of sight. Naked Son is getting seriously beat up. He's on his butt almost continuously. He's leaving behind blood on the razor-sharp ice. I'm following his trail of blood in the dimming light.

Soon, he is out of sight too. And so is daylight.

And now here I am, halfway down a huge, steep, icy mountain in the dark. I don't want to believe it. "No." I'm saying to myself. Cold terror creeps up my spine. I'm thinking of my mother and my sister. I'm thinking of my best friends, Spencer, Jennifer, Ryan. Alyse. Will I be able to tell them how much I care about them? The thought is cold and clear and unavoidable. "Am I going to die tonight?"

I have lost their trail in the dark. My head lamp is worthless, I think again. I'm trying to cut steps in the dark ice. My skin feel the air getting colder, my nostrils smell the wind getting stronger, my ears hear the sounds of the ice cracking and freezing harder.

Suddenly, I slip. Shit. No one around this time. My limbs flail, my body hits the ice, hard. I begin to slide. Shit. No. I need to ice arrest. I've seen it. Do it. Do it now or die. My hands fumble for the ice axe. I am rapidly gaining speed. I stab my axe into the ice and roll over onto it. I stop.

My breathing begins to panic. I need to calm down. I need to do this. I need to get down this mountain. Get up. Keep going. Can't panic. Not an option. You're going to make it. God will not let you down. Your mother prays for you every night, a mother's love cannot fail. It is impenetrable. Shit, slipping again. I've accidentally stepped in one of the glissade chutes, invisible in the dark, and am sliding against my will. Ice axe stabs the mountain again. Life saved again. Get up. Fall. Get up. Fall. Over and over again.

Suddenly, I hear a dull sound behind me and see a bag of Cheez-Its on the ground. I realize it instantly: my bear canister has popped open and I've been leaking food. I can see my trail of food going up the mountain. After I tried so hard to conserve it. Screw it. I put the remaining food in my bag and continue falling and getting up and falling. Will I ever get down this slope?

I've become an expert at ice arresting by now. I've lost count of how many times I've fallen, of how many times I have almost died. Where are those guys? How could they just leave me here? They could be miles away by now. What am I gonna do? Where am I gonna sleep? I need to sleep soon. Will I be able to find them, or the trail, or the camp in the dark? I just want this to be over.

A bad fall. My bear canister pops off my pack and tumbles down the mountain. I always hated that heavy thing anyways. As I get up, I spot headlamps in the distance, shining like lighthouse beacons to the beleaguered sailor, me. The lights fill me with hope. Just gotta get there. They are far, but I can make it.

Eventually, I get to the bottom of the snow bowl. The lights are coming toward me, they must be worried. How long has the sun been down? They are shouting my name, I think. I'm clambering over loose rocks again, just like on the other side of the mountain. Naked Son is in front, yelling "Trip!" over and over. I'm so glad to see him. He is almost in tears and is talking erratically. Later, I'm told he was hypothermic but insisted to go look for me. He tells me two angels have come to help us. A girl is leading me back to their camp.

I'm in a daze. Did this really just happen? Did we all actually make it? Who are these girls and why are they giving me hot chocolate? Canuck is in camp, he pats me on the pack and says how worried he was about me. His voice is choking up. He rubs my back and says he cried and prayed even though he doesn't pray. He says he thought I was dead. Naked Son says he though I was dead too. I collapse on a rock, too tired to move. My legs are seizing up in pain. I have seriously overworked my muscles. The girls set up my tent. I'm given some food, I eat it.

The wind is whipping around us. I unstrap my sleeping pad and set my sleeping bag atop it. But the wind is so strong, it grabs the sleeping pad and throws into the air where it flies away as if it were a piece of paper. Damn. I crawl inside my tent anyway, eager for the bed of hard rocks.

Naked Son is still acting strange, Canuck is being generous like a father, and these two angelic girls have help us get into bed. "We're going to be okay." is my last thought. Then I fall asleep.

Aftermath:
The night is haunted by nightmares of the day before. As we awake, the girls are gone. Where they even real? We continue to climb down. I feel like a hero now. One ranger is impressed we made the summit. I give advice to aspiring climbers I meet who are headed up. We skillfully dodge another ranger's questions about our climbing permits and bear canister. I am bruised and battered and am having trouble walking, but limp along with pride. I feel victorious and utterly defeated at the same time. My hands are totally cut up from the rocks and ice. I have identical cuts on my palms, Naked Son looks at them and comments, "Stigmata... like Jesus." Another cut on my hand looks like a crucifix. Signs of a miracle?

I see a group of teenage day hikers hesitating where the path becomes some rocks at the edge of a waterfall. I skillfully and effortlessly hop across. No big deal. Under my aviator glasses and bandana, I smile as I walk by them. As they watch me pass, I realize I'm the guy that inspires kids to become adventurers.

I meet another pair of day hikers, two middle-aged women. They ask me about my summit climb. I tell them the harrowing tale. After, they ask me, "So, how do you feel about it?" "Was it worth it?" "If you could go back, would you do it again?" It was hard to answer their questions. I hadn't fully digested the day yet. I still haven't. But I tried my best.

I said I felt happy to be alive. I said the story may have barely made it worth it, both the one to tell, but more the one to go over in my head. But that's not all. I think I learned something up there. I encountered that great enigma: "what really matters."

Up there, I wasn't thinking about philosophy or world politics or the emptiness of death or college or money or whatever. I was thinking about my friends. My companions out here. Naked Son, my symbiotic climbing partner. Canuck, who had to go it alone. Red, who did his best to keep us calm. My loved ones back home. The incredible extent to which they matter to me out here. And there it is, that's what this is really all about, the hidden message behind the mountain. People.

Now, we're in Independence. Ironic. I was here on last year's road trip, just after visiting America's lowest point in Death Valley. What a different person I was.

Canuck has decided he's going to get a tattoo of Mt. Whitney to forever remember the event. We beat the mountain and I conquered fear. I've talked our way into a hotel room for $11 a person. Now it is time to relax with these three. I'm pretty sure we are friends now. And then... blessed, peaceful, earned, grateful... sleep.