Miter Basin, July 2012, Day 3

Day 3: Cottonwood Lake Number 3 to Soldier Lake, or “Let’s Take the Long Way Around” (7 miles)

At the time we had no idea just how much Oliver was looking forward to going over the pass. Once again our plan was to start hiking at 9:00. When I crawled out of my tent at 7:30, Oliver was ready to go. He had already eaten breakfast, packed his pack, and was sitting in his chair whistling a mildly annoying tune. It might have been Stairway to Heaven.

Both Snow Toad and Rick were up and about. Neither had eaten although the contents of their packs were arranged in neat little piles in preparation for packing. This was all very bad news. My own gear was still strewn about, and all I could think about was making coffee. I would once again be the last man packed. Since I am always the last man packed even when I get a head start on the job, I did not see how this situation would end well. I would just have to hurry and hope no one (like Oliver) noticed my tardiness.

Unfortunately, my progress was slowed by having to make a repair on my brand-new, super-lightweight tarp-tent. With the light shining through the fabric in the bright morning sun, I discovered a section at the top of the tent where the fabric had ruptured. I was carrying patching tape, so making the repair was no big deal, but I resented having to make a repair on a brand new piece of gear that had not been subjected to anything more strenuous than a light breeze and a bit of sun. I had made the decision the carry this tarp-tent at the last minute hoping to save a few ounces. I would have been better off with the slightly heavier tent.

By the time I was packed, Oliver was once again fit to be tied. He had offered to help me pack. He had offered make my breakfast. He had offered to help lighten my load by throwing half my gear in the lake. Although each of these offers was sincere and heartfelt, I declined them all, just grateful to have such a helpful friend. By 8:30 Oliver could bear no further delay. He hoisted his pack and said he would wait for us by Cottonwood Number 4. Rick, too, had finished packing, so he put on his pack and headed out with Oliver. Snow Toad and I finished our own packing, did a quick sweep around the campsite to make sure nothing was left behind, and then we headed out as well, hoping that the high-strung corporate Oliver would soon be replaced by the mellow backpacking Oliver. The time was 8:55.

Rick and Oliver were waiting for us on some rocks just above the lake. The bright morning light provided an excellent view of the contours of the eastward-facing valley, which made it much easier to make out the outlines of the trail I did not want to take.

“Looks pretty doable,” said Oliver, clearly excited by the dangerous mission. “What do you think, Rick?”

“I don’t want to do it,” interjected Snow Toad, not waiting for Rick to respond. “You can do it if you want, but I’m gonna hike around.”

“Well, you want to do it, don’t you, John?” asked Rick.

“No, I think I was pretty clear that I don’t want to do it. What I said is that, in the name of solidarity and camaraderie and all that shit, I would take another look at the pass in the morning before deciding that I wouldn’t do it.”

Rick studied the pass for a moment. “I don’t want to do it, either.”

Oliver was crushed. Sort of. Perhaps he really did want to climb the pass. I’m willing to give him full credit. He was the only one whose man-card was not dented by the experience. But once we all decided to abandon him, Oliver decided he did not want to climb Army Pass by himself, so he agreed to join us on the hike around.

View of Cottonwood 3 from Cottonwood 4

 

In all, the detour around probably did not cost us all that much. We set out cross-country below Cottonwood Number 3 and above Cottonwood Number 2 to cut off a long hitch in the trail. This was a bit of a scramble at first, but we shortly found a well-used use trail created by all of the people who imagined they were going over Army Pass and then thought the better of it. 

On the right trail.

New Army Pass is an excellent pass. The climb is long, but the trail is well graded and the views are first rate. Rick led the climb all the way from Long Lake, and was the first to the top of the pass. That was the first time that any of us could remember Rick being the first to the top of the pass. He had been first to the top of several small hills over the years, but never first to the top of the pass. For his nonstop grind to the top, we all agreed that Rick should be awarded the Caterpillar (tractor, not butterfly) Badge.

Excellent views: High Lake, Long Lake, South Fork Lakes, and Owens Valley

Even with the detour we arrived at the top of New Army Pass by 12:30. The sun was bright, but it was none too warm as we stopped to enjoy some lunch and take in the view. New Army Pass is 12,310 feet. To the west and the east, the land slopes away, revealing vast distances and tall peaks standing sentinel on the horizon. To the south stands Cirque Peak (12,900 ft.), and to the north Mt. Langley (14,027 ft.), a reminder that as high as we were, we were still nowhere near the top in this part of the Sierra.

New Army Pass.

Lunch at the pass.

Army Pass is half a mile north of New Army Pass, and quite a bit lower at 12,000 feet. We took the time to peer over the edge as we passed by, and Snow Toad even ventured out as far as the rock slide of near-certain peril, and while I did not take a poll on this, I do not think any of us regretted our decision to go ‘round the long way.

From Army Pass there is a well-defined use trail to the top of Mt. Langley. Our plan was to follow the use trail for the appropriate distance, and then travel cross-country from there to Upper Soldier Lake. Both Snow Toad and I vaguely remembered reading a description of that cross-country route, but we had done so in anticipation of the trip we had taken the year before, so we were thin on the details. From the lay of the land, however, we could tell that we wanted to stay relatively high, at about the 12,200-foot contour line, before climbing down to the lake from the northeast.

The view north from the pass. Our trail lies that-a-way.

Now, of course, there are no contour lines on the ground. This had not been a problem for us in the past, but in the name of lightweight backpacking Oliver had decided to leave his pocket weather station/altimeter and secret decoder ring at home. So we just had to estimate the elevation using the map, the compass, and our experience interpreting the lay of the land. In other words, we were guessing. And we guessed a little early. This left us scrambling across the rock-strewn slope about 50 yards below the trail as we made our way toward the top of the small knoll that separated us from the Upper Soldier Lake valley.

One of the great things about going cross-country is that even if you know where you are and where you are going, the best route is not always obvious. It was at one such moment, as we were studying the map, orienting the compass, and throwing out a flurry of guesses, that a passing hiker determined that we needed help and that he was the man for the job.

“The trail is down that way,” he shouted from the trail to Mt. Langley, pointing south to the steep valley behind us.

“What?” Rick shouted back.

That was all the encouragement the helpful hiker needed to abandon the trail and come bounding down the slope to where we stood. “We’re just coming back from climbing Mt. Langley,” the hiker said with obvious pride. We were all glad that he told us, because none of us would have thought of asking him where he had been or where he was going. “I just said that the trail was back that way,” again pointing to the south.

The trail to where?” asked Snow Toad.

“You know, the trail from the pass down to Rock Creek.”

“Well, I guess if we were headed to Rock Creek, we’d want to be on that trail,” Snow Toad noted with logical satisfaction tinged with hostility.

“We’re on our way to the Soldier Lakes,” said Rick, jumping in to prevent Snow Toad from browbeating the young man for assuming we were stupid. “And from there we’ll hike into Miter Basin.”

“Yeah,” Oliver added drily, looking up from the map, “we’re looking for the contour line.”

“You’re looking for the what?!” asked the helpful hiker, clearly taken aback.

“The 12,000-foot contour line,” Oliver elaborated. “The guidebook said we should follow that line before descending into the Upper Soldier Lake valley from the northeast. So we’re looking for it.”

“Oh,” said the hiker, still trying to be helpful. “I don’t think you’ll be able to find it.” He paused for a moment. “And the cross-country trail to Upper Soldier Lake is really difficult.”

“You’ve done it?” asked Snow Toad.

“No,” continued the hiker, “but I’ve heard it’s really hard. You might want to go back to the trail and take that to Lower Soldier Lake. That’s a nice hike. And once you get into the basin, there is one last stand of pine trees just below Sky Blue Lake. You want to camp there, because the camping at the lake is lousy.”

We thanked the helpful hiker for his helpful hints, and then went back to looking for the contour line as he returned to his party, no doubt anxious to tell them that we were a bunch of lightweight idiots. We never did find the contour line, but somehow we still managed to find our way down to Middle Soldier Lake. The hike was not hard.

Middle Soldier Lake is an off-trail destination, but well used nonetheless. It is easy to see why. It is a pretty little lake and the camping is very good. The lake lies at the western end of a small hanging valley. All of the camping at the middle lake is on the northern shore, although I guess one could camp in the alpine meadow that rings the lake’s eastern side. 

Excellent camping at Middle Soldier Lake.

Our campsite was on the edge of a large, sandy clearing, under the shade of a giant foxtail pine. At least, my tent was under the shade of a giant foxtail pine. Rick set his tent up on the edge of the clearing well away from the trees, Snow Toad found an easily defensible spot surrounded by a high bulwark of rocks, and Oliver nestled his ultralight tarp tent as a burrow amongst the roots of another large tree, far from the clearing.

It is our habit to spread out, but site selection is also highly dependent on equipment. My large tarp tent needs a large flat spot to pitch properly, and large flat spots are not all that common. Rick and Snow Toad were both carrying freestanding tents, and so were free agents and able to take advantage of spots with less-than excellent stake-holding properties. Oliver tried to save a few ounces by bringing along his tarp tent, remembering only after we arrived in the wilderness that he really wasn’t all that fond of it. His tent is pitched with a hiking pole as the main support, but it is very low to the ground and difficult to get in and out. After seven days of living in his burrow, Oliver began to resemble a burrowing animal, complete with mud-covered knees and whiskers.

Oliver's burrow tent.

Dinner that night included bean and cheese burritos with chicken and two types of salsa, followed by cookies for dessert. Snow Toad had ramen. We sat for a while after dinner, but days are long at 11,000 feet in the second week of July. The last light did not drain out of the sky until almost 9:30 every evening, and the last MountainGuy was usually in bed well before that. On this evening, though, I stayed up long enough to watch the stars come out, and was rewarded for my fortitude with a meteor that started out as a three small sparks streaking across the night sky, slowly growing brighter until the finale, when it exploded, probably from colliding with a star somewhere in the vicinity of Aquarius.

Miter Basin, July 2012, Day 2

Day 1: Cottonwood Lakes Campground to Cottonwood Lake #3, or No Question About It, This Is A Popular Spot (5.5 miles)

Sleep that first night proved elusive. The elevation might have had something to do with it, or it might have been the dry air. Perhaps it was the drinking or the excitement of being out on the trail once again. Or maybe it was the small group of campers that pulled into the site next to ours at 10:00 that night, unencumbered by any sense of propriety or decorum. Everything they did they did at full volume, blissfully unaware that their voices might carry in the thin air of a silent mountain night. Worst was a woman with a very large baritone voice, who did a fine job as a play-by-play announcer keeping the entire campground informed about what each member of the group was doing. When she announced, at 11:00, that it was time for bed, we could hear the entire campground, including the horses and the mules, let out an audible sigh of relief.

Relief was short-lived, however. At 4:30 in the morning, the whole herd of cowboy wannabes began stirring, banging pots, striking tents, gathering gear, and getting ready to head out. To their credit, they spoke in muffled voices and tried not to turn their one-million-candle-power spotlight in our direction too often, but there were at least 27 wannabes and noise was an unavoidable consequence. I would have preferred to sleep without distraction, but the annoyance was almost worth it when the lady with the baritone voice emerged from her tent at 7:30 complaining (at full volume) about the noisy neighbors.

Our plan was to start hiking by 9:00, but because of the goings on behind us, both Rick and Oliver were up early and ready to hike by 8:00. My packing took longer, in part because I had to organize all the car-camping gear and pack the truck, but mostly because I am not at my most efficient in the morning. By the time I had everything organized to my liking, Oliver was fit to be tied. His repeated offers of help were well intended, and might in fact have been helpful if I had a clearer idea of what I wanted to do. When he could stand it no longer, Oliver offered to hike to the trailhead and wait there. Finally, something he and I could agree on. Despite all the histrionics (his), catty commentary (Rick and Snow Toad), and bumbling efforts at getting organized (mine), we were at the trailhead and ready to hike by 9:00.

The parking lot was much less crowded this morning than it had been the night before, and the walk-in campground was largely deserted. We were hiking in on the Sunday after 4^th of July, almost everybody else was hiking out. This was a good omen. Over the years the MountainGuys have sought out venues that are both spectacular and remote.  Sequoia is certainly spectacular, but it is not so remote that lots of people don’t go there. So it was with a sense of relief that most of the traffic was in the opposite direction. 

Welcome to the wilderness. (Photo ST)

Day hikers comprised most of the traffic in our direction, and unburdened by packs as light as ours, went zipping by at regular intervals. Occasionally we would pass another group of backpackers, or they would pass us, and it was on one such chance encounter that we decided to see what we could learn about the trail ahead.

On the trail. (Photo ST)

One of the vexing questions we had tried to answer before setting out was which pass to take to cross into Sequoia National Park. The main trail winds up past lakes Long and High before climbing over New Army Pass. However, since this was to be a cross-country trip, we planned to follow the trail up to Cottonwood Lakes with the intention of going over Army Pass the following morning. The main trail used to go over Army Pass, which is about 300 feet lower than New Army Pass, but Army Pass is prone to being snowed in until late in the season. So the new trail was built and the old trail was allowed to slowly disappear. The most recent reports we could obtain suggested that Army Pass was probably open, but no guarantees.

We had stopped along the trail to take a group photo when a young couple, each carrying a large daypack, hove into view. They agreed to take our picture and we agreed to return the favor. While we were thus engaged, Snow Toad asked what they knew of Army Pass.

“Army Pass is a miserable, sandy, mess. New Army Pass is excellent. We will go over the pass today, and maybe do some climbing. Think we will climb Langley and see how far we get. Maybe all the way to Whitney. We have a few days,” he added with a smug shrug of his daypack.

The young man seemed to know what he was talking about, but the packs these two were carrying were impossibly small for the trip he had described, and his perky demeanor and youthful zest were enough to convince us that he could not possibly be right. We would go over Army Pass.

Signs in the wilderness. Almost spooky.

There are six Cottonwood Lakes, conveniently named One through Six. Lakes One and Two are small, with nothing really to recommend them as campsites. Lakes Three, Four, and Five are very pretty lakes, and pretty good sized, although the camping is pretty mediocre. Cottonwood Six is tucked high above the rest of the lakes, on the southeast flank of Mt. Langley. Lakes Four, Five, and Six are all above treeline. The best camping is up in the trees at Cottonwood Three, although it is still pretty mediocre. I will say this, though: by putting ourselves up in the trees, well away from the water, the spot where we camped was little used and clean, almost like wilderness.

Campsite at Cottonwood 3. Almost like wilderness. (Photo ST)

The trail to Army Pass climbs between Lakes Four and Five, traverses the north side of Cottonwood Four, and then disappears into an ever-shifting mountainside of sand. But we didn’t know that yet. We arrived at Cottonwood Lakes at about 1:30, and so had a long afternoon to relax and explore our surroundings. Snow Toad spent the afternoon alternating between seat time and napping, and Oliver and Rick played 18 holes of disc golf. I took the opportunity to spend time fishing. Since Cottonwood Three is strictly catch-and-release, I decided to take the hike up to Cottonwood Five, which is catch-and-eat. The fishing was lousy, but the hike was nice and it gave me a chance to scout out the pass for our climb the next day. 

Cottonwood 5.

I spent a lot of time studying that pass, and I can honestly say there was nothing about it that appealed to me. Once past the lake, we would have to climb up a very steep slope of deep, grainy sand, clamber around a steep section of smooth rock covered in scree, and then work our way up a long shelf that leads to the pass. Just before the pass, there was one last troubling section where we would have to scramble over exposed rock, perched atop a cliff face; one slip would mean a very long fall to the bottom. New Army Pass was looking better all the time. 

Army Pass.

When I returned to camp, Oliver was in the midst of preparing a fine meal of tortellini with salmon. Fresh trout would have been a nice addition, but as I had none to offer, the salmon would have to do. Snow Toad had ramen. Over dinner, I reported what I had learned about the pass.

“I don’t want to go over that pass,” I said with conviction.

“Think we could do it?” asked Oliver.

“Yes, I think we could. But I don’t want to.”

“Well, if you think it’s doable,” said Rick, “then I think we should do it.”

“You did promise us a cross-country route,” added Snow Toad.

“Yes, I did. But there is no need to be dogmatic about this. I don’t want to go over that pass.”

“Great!” said Oliver. “I’m looking forward to going over the pass tomorrow.”

Miter Basin, July 2012, Day 1

View of Miter Basin from Upper Soldier Lake

  The MountainGuy News:

Miter Basin, Sequoia National Park

July 2012

The Lightweight Edition

Lightweight backpacking is all the rage. The MountainGuys did not start this trend, but there is no one out there more lightweight than us, so we could have. Given this natural affinity we decided to try it. Gone were the elaborate three-course meals, the fancy campsites, the heavy packs, and the tired groans of overburdened MountainGuys. In their place were much lighter two-course meals, kitchen areas barely large enough for six to eight people, and lightweight, slightly-larger-than-average daypacks. Well, maybe not quite. Lightweight backpacking may be all the rage, but that’s not how MountainGuys do it.  When MountainGuys do lightweight backpacking, it’s a lot less light than it could be, and comfort still counts. We carry chairs.

Nonetheless, as we gracefully slip into middle age, weight matters more. Last year, on an eight-day trip to Mt. Whitney, my pack weighed 57 pounds, including fuel and water and two bear bins. This year my pack weighed 47 pounds, including fuel and water, one bear bin, and scotch. Through careful planning, thoughtful elimination of less-often-used gear, and aggressive use of my credit card, I was able to shave ten pounds off my load. I like to joke that it costs $100 dollars to get the last half a pound out of anything. You do the math.

Mine was not the only success story. Oliver, too, managed to get his load to less than 50 pounds, and he even added the chair. Snow Toad’s total pack was lighter still, somewhere around 42 pounds, but he doesn’t eat anything except gruel and the occasional Top Ramen. Rick took a different approach, losing 40 pounds of body weight through a carefully controlled diet and a punishing regimen of climbing small mountains with a massive pack on his back. Rick’s pack could not have weighed less than 60 pounds when we started the trip, and was stuffed so full that the bag was grotesque and misshapen from the strain. But overall he was lighter, too.

Lightweight packs. You can tell because we are all still smiling.

We were lighter in other ways, as well. Dan T. was unable to make the trip because he was scheduled to get shoulder surgery, Kevin dropped out due to pressing family matters, and Dan S. waffled so much that he was invited to become the IHOP spokesperson. (He’s still trying to decide if he wants the job.) So in addition to pack weight and body weight, we also shed the weight of three heavy personalities. This would truly be a lightweight trip.

The venue for the MountainGuy trip this year was the Miter Basin in Sequoia National Park. Miter Basin lies just south of Mt. Whitney, and is a well-worn cross-country route from the Cottonwood Lakes trailhead to Crabtree Meadows, a major staging ground for those planning to climb Mt. Whitney from the west. We were all looking forward to a cross-country trip. Our plan was to hike in from the Cottonwood Lakes trailhead, climb over Army Pass, descend to Upper Soldier Lake, and from there we would hike into Miter Basin.

Once in the basin, we figured we would have many options. We could climb over Crabtree Pass, head down to Crabtree Meadows, and then hike back to Cottonwood Lakes via the Pacific Crest Trail. Another alternative would be to hike down Rock Creek, which drains Miter Basin, and into the Golden Trout Wilderness. Both of these options were long on hiking and short on layover days, but with our new, lightweight approach to backpacking, no big deal. A third option, which seemed far-fetched in the planning stages, included up to three lay days in the itinerary so that we could explore Miter Basin. Such an easygoing approach is unheard of for a MountainGuy trip, except when Dan T. and Dan S. come along, because they are always advocating for more lay days. Then we hear about it a lot. Imagine the irony: the year that we decide to have three lay days on an eight-day trip is the year that neither of the Dans was with us.

Despite our commitment to getting lighter, that commitment did not extend to the first night barbeque. This was the 10^th Annual First-Night Barbeque and MountainGuy Extravaganza, and there was no way we were going to cut back there. The menu featured steaks, onions, potatoes, and vegetables grilled on the fire, served with a fine selection of beer, wine, tequila and scotch. However, the entire operation looked doubtful for a time, even though we were packing all the supplies.

Annual Barbecue Extravaganza. (Photo ST)

Who knew that the week of July 4^th would be such a siren song for backpackers from far and wide? When we pulled into the Cottonwood Creek Campground, it was mayhem all around. The walk-in campsites were all taken, there were backpackers stretched out on the asphalt parking lot and spilling out of cars, and there was a constant stream of even more backpackers emerging from their week-long sojourn in the wilderness. July 4^th fell on a Wednesday this year, so I guess people figured they might as well take Thursday and Friday off too. But if you’re taking three days, might as well take Monday and Tuesday, and get a whole week. If you have a whole week, you can go someplace far away—like the east side of Sequoia National Park.

Good fortune smiled upon us, however. After stationing Oliver by a flat spot in the walk-in campground adjacent to one of the walk-in sites—just in case—Rick, Snow Toad, and I set off to find a better spot. We found one on the far side of the horse campground, far away from the mayhem, but not so close to the small herd of horses, mules, and wannabe cowboys that we could smell them. Rick and I walked back to get the car and collect Oliver, we paid the fee (twice as much as the fee for the walk-in sites, but well worth it), and then stretched out for a fine evening of gear talk, drinking, and excellent food.

First night campsite at Cottonwood Lakes campground.

Mt. Whitney, August 2011, Part 2

In our minds, the entire day had been given over to making the summit. The rest of the day was just bonus. Yet the rest of the day was not noticeably less exhilarating than summiting. We had lunch, we did laundry, we kicked back, I caught my first golden trout, and then there was the helicopter.

I was returning from fishing the inlet to Guitar Lake when the helicopter swung into view down the valley, above Crabtree Meadow. The helicopter made a beeline up the valley, roared less than a 100 feet over my head, and then settled down in the meadow just above the lake. The arrival of the helicopter brought out the entire tent city. People appeared from up the valley and across the lake. They waded across Whitney Creek and swung down out of trees—or would have if there had been any trees to swing down out of. They climbed out of tents and crawled out from under rocks. There were a hundred people camping at Guitar Lake, and every single one of them came out to witness the arrival of the helicopter. This included Christopher and Snow Toad, who were making a beeline of their own up the valley to join the congregation.

I met Don back at camp, and Christopher joined us a few minutes later. Christopher reported that a guy had dislocated his hip climbing on the rocks, and that he was getting airlifted out. That was exciting news, although not so much for the guy himself. Other people’s tragedies always add spice to any event.

The helicopter took off about half an hour after it arrived, flying low over our heads just as it had on the way up. Snow Toad returned to camp not long after that, sporting a big smile. “That was such a cute little helicopter! I wish I had the chance to get up close and get a good look at it.” He let out a big, happy sigh.

“I didn’t know you were such a helicopter guy,” I said.

“Oh, yeah. If God had pointed down at me and said, ‘Snow Toad, you can either fill your life with helicopters or with women. What will it be?’ I would probably have picked helicopters. That was such a cute little thing.” Again, the big sigh.

What a day this was turning out to be! Catching my first golden trout was exhilarating, the helicopter was amazing, and, of course, summiting Mt Whitney was transcendent. And yet the day was not done. The weather was fine, the sky bright and blue, too early for dinner, too late to start anything more ambitious than a snack. So we were all just kicking back and relaxing when Ranger Rob strode purposefully down the use trail and straight into our camp.

Ranger Rob was a legend among the backcountry rangers, a man of rare knowledge and commitment who had been patrolling the Crabtree area for the last 20 years. Admittedly, the glowing reports were turned in by Rob’s wife and her best friend, both also backcountry rangers, but our short association with Rob convinced us that the legends are justified. Looking for a campsite? Ask Ranger Rob. Curious to know about the trail conditions over Crabtree Pass? Ask Ranger Rob. Want to know what the weather will be two days from tomorrow? Ask Ranger Rob. He won’t know either, but a brief conversation will leave you awestruck by the vast unpredictability of it all. And should you get hurt, Ranger Rob will be the man on the scene with the radio to call for a helicopter.

So it was that day. Ranger Rob was the man with the radio who supervised the airlift of the injured hiker, and was on his way back to Crabtree when he passed through our camp. He greeted us with a cheery wave, while he quickly scanned our campsite for violations of any backcountry regulations. Our food was properly stored, our tents more than 200 feet from the creek. No fire ring was evident, no trash littering the ground. No one was washing his clothes in the creek, and none of us was obviously drunk. This assessment could not have taken more than a few seconds, and as the evidence mounted in our favor, his steely gaze softened, replaced by a look of…, well, admiration. 

“Nice campsite,” said Ranger Rob. This was high praise from someone with his credentials.

“Thanks,” Don replied. “We wanted to find a spot that was a bit off the beaten track.”

“Yeah, camping at Guitar Lake with a thousand other people did not seem very appealing,” I added. “I couldn’t believe how many people there were up there when that helicopter arrived. Not sure why everybody wants to camp by the lake, although I am grateful that they do.”

“Does get kind of crowded at this time of year,” Ranger Rob said.

We talked for a few more minutes about campsites, the injured hiker, the conditions over Crabtree Pass, and the quality of the terrain in Miter Basin. Ranger Rob confirmed that Crabtree Pass was free of snow, mostly, and that traveling off-trail through Miter Basin was slow but doable. We thanked him for the information, and then Ranger Rob was off, on his way back to Crabtree.

The information about the conditions in Miter Basin was helpful, and we discussed the merits of hiking out that way over dinner. Snow Toad really liked the idea of a cross-country trek, but not so much that he was willing to go it alone, Don was ambivalent, Christopher was silent, and I was a loud voice for hiking back on the trail. Going cross-country is great when one has time to get into trouble and then get out of it, but we were 23 miles from the trailhead with only three days to play. Eight miles a day does not seem like much, but eight miles going cross-country is a really long day. In the end, I persuaded Snow Toad of the merits of hiking back on the trail, although he grumbled about it and called me a wuss. It was a ruthless tactic, but ineffective for all that. I would not be goaded into abandoning my zealous lack of ambition. Mine was a principled position, and one I would defend against all attacks, because I really didn’t want to work that hard. In the end, my principled lack of ambition saved us all a great deal of trouble.

__________________     __________________

Big, puffy white clouds started to drift in at 8:30 on Friday morning. By 9:30 there were very few patches of blue sky to be seen, and by 10:30 it was raining. Snow Toad and I had hiked out ahead to the stream crossing below Crabtree Meadow, where we were waiting for Don and Christopher. They had decided to take advantage of the toilet at the Crabtree campground, not too far from the Crabtree ranger station. This toilet has a legendary reputation, and Don was curious to learn more. The toilet did not disappoint, oriented as it was with a truly phenomenal view of the Kern River Valley and the Great Western Divide, and Don was not shy about extolling its virtues then and now.

Most excellent toilet. (Photo DS)

Don and Christopher rejoined Snow Toad and me at the stream crossing just as it was starting to rain. We figured that it was a summer thundershower, albeit unusually early in the day. But by 10:45 the rain was coming down hard, and by 11:00 we were being pummeled by 3/8-inch hail. The sky was getting lit up by lightning in every direction, and thunder was booming all around. At first we tried to keep going, but the conditions were miserable, and the temperature had dropped from a nearly tropical 55 degrees to a somewhat less balmy 40 degrees when the hail started to fall. Don and Christopher had tied their rain coats over their packs in an effort to keep their gear dry since neither of them were carrying pack covers, but as a result, they were both flirting with hypothermia every time we stopped to huddle under a tree to avoid being beaten silly by the hail. Eventually we had no choice but to abandon all thoughts of progress and to set up shelter to stay warm and dry. 

All hail.

As the conditions worsened, we wondered aloud about Spider, a guy we had met on the trail just two hours before. He was hiking the Pacific Crest Trail by himself, and he was not enjoying it. But his misery was not the immediate kind caused by discomfort; his was a deep-seated misery, a soul-infecting dispiritedness that permeated his whole being and radiated outward, so much that standing next to him would bring the happiest person low. This was a man who had dared to dream, only to discover that the dream was not what he wanted after all. Now, those who know my writing know that I pretty much stick to the facts of the case, but I am going to change tacks and venture to speculate. Spider discovered that he had been dreaming the wrong dream, but he had also sold everything to it. He could not back out for fear of humiliation at the hands of people who lacked his imagination to dream and his courage in pursuing it, so he trudged on, each step more labored than the last. Spider had expected to find joy and redemption, and instead had found loneliness and misery. This rain wasn’t going to help.

The spot where we stopped was not far from our second-night campsite, but any chance that campsite might provide us meaningful refuge was dashed when we discovered that the meager trickle we had to dam up three days earlier was now a roiling, boiling, cascade of muddy brown water. So we waited where we were, and hoped that the rain would stop falling and the lightning would stop flashing and the rivers would stop rising early enough to make our way over Guyot Pass and down to Guyot Creek. Ranger Rob had advised us that this was better camping than Rock Creek, and had the added benefit of being about two miles closer.

The rain started to subside about 4:00 in the afternoon, and by 5:00 the conditions had settled down enough that we could safely make our way over Guyot Pass. As bad as the conditions had been where we stopped to shelter on the north side of the pass, they had apparently been even worse on the south side. The trail was washed out in many places, and where it had not washed out completely, it was rutted and uneven. We reached Guyot Creek about 7:30 in the evening, spent and cold and wet and miserable. The creek was running high, with lots of debris and silt in the water, but this was the only water source until we reached Rock Creek, and there was no way we were going any further.

A bit of cheery blue sky greeted us as we were setting up camp, but the sun was down behind Guyot Peak, so while the clear sky was welcome, it was not accompanied by the warm sun. The campsite that night was not bad, but it could have been better. Fires are not allowed in Sequoia above 10,000 feet. Our campsite was at about 10,023 feet, but we did not know that. If we had continued just a hundred yards further down the trail, we would have passed a sign indicating that no fires were allowed above that point. A fire would have been most welcome. We could even see the back of the sign from our campsite, but we were all too tired to make the effort to find out what it said, and, in truth, we would all have been too tired to move camp even if one of us had taken the time to walk over and read the sign.

Saturday morning dawned clear and bright. I was up early with the intention of drying out some of my gear, but the air was heavy and damp, so there wasn’t much drying going on. Don and Christopher were up not long after me, but Snow Toad did not crawl out of his tent for some time. Between the lingering fatigue from the day before and the chance to dry out our tents, we did not get on the trail until after 10:00 in the morning. By then, puffy, white clouds were starting to drift in, and more rain looked inevitable.

Trying to dry things out.

Our plan for the day was to hike to Rock Creek, and then on to Soldier Lake. This would not be a very long day, so if the weather was good, we could hike over New Army Pass and spend the night at one of the Cottonwood Lakes. If the weather was lousy, we could stop at Soldier Lake for the night, or continue on toward Cottonwood Pass and head out the same way we hiked in. All of these plans, however, were contingent on being able to cross Rock Creek, a fairly good-sized stream that drained all of Miter Basin.

Snow Toad was predicting that the creek would be impassible, and spent most of the hike down to Rock Creek trying to get someone to bet against him. Eventually he just gave up because none of us was willing to take the bet without odds so long that a 50-cent wager would yield a $200 payout. As it turned out, Snow Toad gave up too soon. He easily could have earned himself an extra $1.50 by betting against the three of us.

The rain started to fall again before we got halfway to Rock Creek. We stopped briefly to put on rain gear, not wanting to repeat the mistake from the day before when we waited too long and were already wet before we tried to stay dry.

When we reached the creek, the bridge was washed out, and a backcountry ranger was stationed on the far side, one foot propped up on a log, both hands wrapped tightly around a long, wooden staff. “You cannot pass!” his booming voice barely audible over the roar of the swollen creek. “I am the Ranger of Rock Creek Station, Wielder of the Mighty Book of Regulations, Keeper of the sacred Radio of Rock Creek. You cannot pass!”

We looked at each other in bafflement. “What?” we all said.

The ranger started laughing. “God, I love saying that. I crack me up.” He wiped away some tears from laughing so hard with the back of his hand. “But all kidding aside, you cannot pass.”

“What if we can answer three questions?” asked Don, clearly getting into the spirit of the moment.

“Don’t be silly,” responded the ranger, “that’s Monty Python. I’m channeling Gandalf during his confrontation with the Balrog at the Bridge of Khazad-Dûm.”[1] Clearly, this ranger needed to get out more. “But that aside, there is only one place to cross the creek between here and the little lake below Miter Basin, that log right there, but I wouldn’t try to cross it.” He pointed to a large log that straddled the churning maelstrom. The log was slick and smooth, the bark long gone, wet and slippery from the rain. The stumps of large branches stuck up and out at random intervals, sharp and jagged from having the limbs torn off while the tree was falling.

The four of us walked up the creek to inspect this “bridge” more carefully. Immediately upstream was a large jam, with two or three other large logs piled up against the bridge, countless bushes and smaller pieces of debris stacked up in and around the larger logs. We studied the bridge for some time. If we had a rope, and were in dire straits, perhaps being chased by a bear (a very slow bear so that we would have time to set up the rope), we might have been tempted. Otherwise, the whole operation appeared a bit desperate. We might have been wet and bedraggled and miserable, but we were not desperate.

The bridge. (Photo ST)

“I wouldn’t try it,” shouted the ranger, who had walked up the other side of the stream along with us. “You cannot pass.”

There was no question that the ranger was right, but his persistence was slightly annoying, an unwelcome reminder that we live in the age of the nanny state, in which people who by all rights should be victims of their own ignorance or stupidity are prevented from stupidly or ignorantly killing themselves, ultimately at great cost to the rest of us. But that was a conversation to be had some other time, so I shouted our assurances that we would not try to cross, and told him that we would hike cross-country to the little lake with no name below Miter Basin.

“I guess you might be able to do that,” the ranger responded, and, satisfied that we were not going to stupidly kill ourselves on his watch, went back to guarding the river crossing.

In the event, the cross-country trek was not difficult, and really rather fun. There were no dangerous rock faces to scale, no chasms to leap across, no log bridges from which we could slip and fall. The worst we faced was a soggy, muddy meadow less than a quarter of a mile up the creek from the crossing, and if we had known to abandon the creekside a little sooner, we could have avoided that mess entirely. 

Going cross country.

From the moment it started the rain just kept falling. It wasn’t like the day before, when we were inundated by torrential rain and hail and lightning and thunder, but it was steady and mostly pretty hard. Our concern now was whether the creek would be running too high to cross even at the higher crossing. About two-thirds of the way up to the lake we caught up with the trail where it crossed back over the creek. There was no way to cross there, and only would have led us back to Rock Creek ranger station in any case. The trail was easier than going cross-country, at least where it wasn’t under water, and we made good time the rest of the way to the little lake with no name. 

The trail.

Despite its anonymity to the mapmakers, the little lake with no name is not unknown to the backpackers who ply this bit of backcountry. It is a popular camping spot, one with very little charm and no good camping, so we hiked on by to the creek crossing. The crossing was a wide spot in the creek where it spread out before entering the lake. The water was flowing pretty good through this spot, too. Crossing might have been possible, but the prospect was not inviting. So we left the little lake with no name behind, and headed up Rock Creek for a ways to find a better way to get across.

Above the lake is a broad meadow. Rock Creek flows down the western side of the meadow for a few hundred yards, but above that is a narrow canyon, through which the creek flows. We did not get far. The ground was soft, we were tired, and the creek was running just too high to safely cross. So we returned to the little lake with no name, hoping that the rain would stop, the creek would drop, and we would be able to continue on our way.

The rain did not stop, the creek kept on rising, and we had no choice but to set up camp and make the best of a bad situation. Don and Christopher spent the entire afternoon in their tent, while Snow Toad and I wandered about aimlessly, looking for something to do. Finally, I got so tired of being pummeled by big, fat, wet raindrops that I pulled the footprint out from under my tent and set it up as a tarp. I was still just as wet. I was still just as cold. But I was not getting as pummeled, and that was a huge relief. I was really glad I had a chair.

Snow Toad had rigged his footprint as a tarp over his tent. He was using the “dew cap” that he had designed to cover the ventilated area at the top of the tent, but that cap does not cover the non-waterproof walls or the doors, and he had to do what he could to keep his gear dry. When he finished rigging the cover, I invited Snow Toad to join me under my makeshift tarp. So we spent the afternoon under the tarp, watching the rain fall, occasionally fetching things for Don, glad to have a comfortable place to sit without being pummeled by raindrops, and hoping that the rain would stop eventually so we could cross the creek in the morning.

The rain stopped falling about 8:30 in the evening. There was still a bit of light in the sky, so I crawled out from under the tarp to go study the creek. Snow Toad had long since made his way into his tent so that he could lie down and really be dry. The creek was running just as high as it had earlier in the day, but no higher. This was encouraging news. I returned to camp to report what I had found. The conversation was a bit disjointed since Don and Christopher were in one tent and Snow Toad was in another, and I was relaying the conversation back and forth. However, they all agreed that I should get up at first light to assess the level of the creek. If it was crossable, I should then come back and let them know, and they would get up. When I asked why the task was mine, they all agreed that since I had just assessed the level of the creek, I would be the one best placed to evaluate if it was down. This was a more cogent response than I was expecting, but it still seemed a bit unfair. Nonetheless, I agreed to take on the task.

The creek dropped six to eight inches overnight. The creek was still running high and fast, but the sky was overcast when we got up, and we all knew that it was going to start raining at any time. So now was the time to be crossing the creek. We packed up quickly, making no effort to dry out our gear. When we reached the creek, I pointed out the spot that I thought would be the best option. The water was knee deep on the near shore, shallow in the middle where there was a little gravel bar, deep again on the other side. Don and I were discussing the merits of various paths when suddenly there was a great splashing sound, and we looked up to see Snow Toad running across the creek. The water was thigh deep on the far side of the gravel bar, but there was nothing for it so we all just jumped in and waded across. I was slightly resentful that Snow Toad had not waited until I had made a completely thorough assessment of the situation, seeing as he was one of the guys who had voted me that job. However, the assessment would not have resulted in anything different, we were across, and that was all that really mattered.

We stopped for breakfast about half a mile up the trail in a small clearing beside the creek. The mosquitoes were brutal, and would have eaten us whole if the rain had not started to fall. Talk about an unpalatable choice: we were either going to have oatmeal fortified with mosquitoes engorged on our own blood, or thin, watered-down coffee. Thin coffee is truly tragic, but better than the constant torment of the little blood-sucking bastards.

From our campsite at the little lake with no name to the trailhead at Horseshoe Meadow was about ten miles. We hiked nine of them in the rain. Just like the day before, the rain was steady and hard. This was not all bad news. A lot of the trails above treeline in this part of Sequoia are a course sand of decomposed granite. This makes for very tiring hiking when the ground is dry, because the sand is soft and your feet sink deep into the sand with each and every step. Stop too long in one place and you might sink up to your waist or even disappear forever in the dry quicksand. The wet sand is much firmer yet still soft underfoot. But that was pretty much all the good news. I was sweating in my waterproofs, though the wind was cold where it came into contact with my wet clothing. My food was mostly depleted, but the wet tent and wet pack and wet pack cover probably added half that weight back, so my load was pretty heavy. And the rain precluded any extended stop for rest or for lunch. After three days of heavy rain, there were no dry places to sit down, so we just kept on hiking. Lunch was an energy bar and a bit of granola.

Despite the conditions, we met a lot of people hiking in. The rain was predicted to stop later in the day, and gentle, summer conditions were expected to return the following day. Snow Toad reported that a ranger he met on the trail told him that this had been the worst summer storm in 30 years. Whitney Portal had flooded and had to be evacuated during the thunderstorm on Friday, and several hikers had to be airlifted from the trail above Trail Camp. What they were doing climbing Mt. Whitney in the middle of a thunderstorm was not immediately apparent, but I sure hope that this airlift was not being performed at taxpayer expense. If you are stupid enough to climb to the tallest point for 1,500 miles in any direction in the middle of a thunderstorm, you deserve to be roasted alive.

The last three miles, from the top of Cottonwood Pass to Horseshoe Meadow, was very trying. Snow Toad and Christopher took off down the hill, while Don and I were trying to keep up. Snow Toad was trying to leave Christopher in the dust, but as Snow Toad said, “Every time I turned around, the little shit was right behind me.”

By the time we reached the campground, about 3:00 in the afternoon, the rain had completely stopped. All that was left were a few big puffy whites floating by. The campground was mostly full, but we were able to secure the same campsite we had used on the night before hiking in. We even had a bit more wood stashed in the car for a fire. All of the food we had stored in the bear boxes at the campground was gone, whether taken by hungry campers (far more dangerous than bears) or removed by Forest Service personnel we don’t know, but we still had enough food in our packs for one more meal.

The party that night was fine. Our gear was mostly dry from the full afternoon of sun, our food bags were depleted but not so empty that we were hungry, and the fire was a happy, warm reminder of just how pleasant camping can be. We sat around the fire until the firewood was gone, telling stories and reveling in the trip we had just completed.

One perfect day. That’s all we got. But it was totally worth it.

Big party at Horseshoe Meadows.

---

[1] From the Lord of the Rings, by J.R.R. Tolkien, Book 1, The Fellowship of the Ring.

Mt. Whitney, August 2011, Part 1

One Perfect Day

On Which We Climb Mount Whitney

By John Tuma

Copyright 2012

One perfect day. That’s all we got during our eight-day trip to Sequoia National Park. Of course, there were other memorable moments—floods and fires, hydrological marvels to collect scarce drinking water, and the most perfect toilet seat anywhere—but the one day that had to be right was just right. One perfect day sandwiched between three days of poisonous fumes and three days of torrential rain.

Our prospects appeared dim on Wednesday afternoon, when we made our base camp on a rocky shelf beside Whitney Creek, just below Guitar Lake. Snow Toad and I were quarreling, Don was exhausted and suffering from a touch of altitude sickness, and Don’s son, Christopher, was just wondering what he had been thinking when he agreed to join a bunch of old guys on a long wilderness trek.

Smoky skies viewed from Timberline Lake.

“I’m parking myself right here,” announced Snow Toad, who had found a flat, sheltered spot behind a large boulder.

We were hiking off trail to find some decent camping, but instead found ourselves scrambling up a steep, rocky slope, with nothing but boulders and rocks and scree and a few tufts of some hardy grass growing on the flatter spots. The air was thick with smoke from a fire that was burning about 30 miles south, so thick that the mountains around us were shrouded from view and all we could see looking down the valley was a wretched, gray haze. Our eyes were watering from the smoke, our throats and lungs were raw.

I looked over Snow Toad’s site. “That’s kind of a crappy spot. And besides, there are no other spots for the rest of us.”

“Not my problem,” said Snow Toad, pulling the pieces of his tent out of his pack.

“Just hang on a moment, Snow Toad, while I scout around that corner over there.” I was really hoping that I wouldn’t have to pitch my tent on a little flat spot between a bunch of boulders, where I would spend the night rolling around uncomfortably trying to find a position that did not include a small rock pressing into my hip or between my shoulder blades.

“Fine. You go get in touch with your feminine side looking for just the ‘right’ spot. I ain’t moving.” Snow Toad pulled his bear bin out of his pack and set it on the ground.

From where we were, barren, rocky ground sloped gently down to Whitney Creek on one side, and a steep wooded slope climbed up to the top of a small knoll on the other. The wind was blowing cold up the canyon so it was cold down by the creek, but there was no place up in the trees to set up camp. I clambered up and down the lower reaches of the knoll, but found nothing. But about 200 yards to the east of Snow Toad’s boulder, the higher ground of the knoll wrapped around to the south, creating a natural break between the flat, open shelf along the creek and the higher ground around Guitar Lake. The breeze seemed to subside here, and there were a few very nice tent spots situated far enough from the creek to be legitimate. I returned to Snow Toad’s boulder.

“I found a much nicer spot. Good tent sites, good water access, little bit out of the wind, room for all of us.”

“I ain’t moving.” Snow Toad was sitting on his bear bin, his best obstinate expression on his face.

“Fine,” I said. “If you want to huddle behind your boulder out in the cold, swirling wind, shrouded by smoke and a sense of manly righteousness, you be my guest. I’ll take the nicer spot.” I picked up my pack and started back to the end of the shelf.

Don and Christopher had remained silent through all this, huddled behind a rock to stay out of the wind. Don was looking much better for having a bit of rest, and he and Christopher, who, like me, would have been left with a substandard tent site, quickly followed.

“All right. Fine,” Snow Toad growled. If you’re all moving, I guess I’ll move, too. But this spot better be better, or I’m coming right back.”

At that particular moment, I was sort of hoping that Snow Toad would hate the site I had found so that he’d go back to his god-forsaken boulder and stew in righteous misery. Fortunately, even though my mind was behaving in a juvenile way, my mouth had the good sense to remain closed. How often does that happen?

We set up camp in silence, each of us concentrating on getting the job done. Well, not quite in silence. Don and Christopher were sharing a tent and stove on this trip, so they were talking about pitching the tent, and getting water, and what to have for dinner. Snow Toad and I each had our own tent, our own stove, our own food, and our own simply grumpy demeanor, so we were working in silence.

Excellent camping.

The mood around camp improved as the afternoon wore on. The smoke started to blow off to the east and south, and the air quality was no longer toxic. By the time the sun started to set, the smoke had mostly disappeared, with just enough fine particulate in the air to make for a really nice sunset.

Nice sunset.

__________________     __________________

We had seen this same pattern the previous two nights, although the air quality was much worse on Wednesday than on either of the two previous days. Our first night (Monday) was spent in a grove of trees near the junction between the Pacific Crest Trail and the Siberian Pass Trail, about eight miles from the trailhead. Just below the grove of trees was a large meadow that straddled Siberian Pass Creek. The creek was barely a trickle that high up, but we were glad to have even that little bit of water. Fishing was out of the question. Don was suffering from altitude sickness, a condition that was made much worse by blowing up his air mattress. It takes a lot of breaths to fill an air mattress at 10,000 feet. The only good news in the whole sorry episode was that since he had blown up his mattress, Don had something soft to lie down on when he passed out. The smoke was not so thick that first evening, and it cleared out quickly as the sun went down and the breeze shifted from blowing uphill to blowing down as the night cooled off.

Tuesday night found us camped next to an even smaller trickle just north of Guyot Flat. Fishing was even more out of the question. In fact, we had to build a small dam to create a pool large enough to fill our water bottles. The dry conditions were surprising considering how much snow we received the previous winter, but I guess in an average snow year, this unnamed trickle would have been dry by the first week of August. On the plus side, the fact that Fickle Trickle did not flow reliably meant that our campsite was pristine, with lots of forest duff under the trees.

Map of the Whitney Adventure, 2011.

We did not reach that campsite on the second day until 4:00 in the afternoon, and the smoke was so thick that Mount Guyot, barely a mile to the south, was largely obscured. Despite the late hour, I sat down to make coffee as soon as my tent was set up. The view of the meadow from our campsite was pleasant, and the shrouded sky added to the sense of isolation created by the pristine campsite. Christopher joined me on the rock overlooking the meadow. I was pleased to have the company, and even more pleased that Christopher was starting to feel comfortable. The first day and half, his face was frozen in place, trying to mask the abject terror he must have been feeling about his decision to join his dad and two really old guys on an eight-day trip. You know that feeling, when you get yourself into something and all you can think is, “What the Hell was I thinking?!” I’m pretty sure that’s what was going through Christopher’s mind. Heck, I am one of the old guys, and that thought goes through my mind every time I get up in the morning and realize who I am traveling with.

__________________     __________________

As we watched the sunset fill the western sky on Wednesday night from our campsite below Guitar Lake, we could only hope that the next day would be clear. The sky had been clear on Wednesday morning, just like the previous two days. The smoke didn’t start to blow in until the sun warmed the air. So we could not feel confident that the smoke would not return Thursday afternoon when we were scaling the peak.

The last thing we wanted was to be like the young lady with the ring in her nose that we met on the trail from Crabtree to Guitar Lake. She was hiking the Pacific Crest Trail by herself, so we knew this young lady was made of much sterner stuff than we. How much sterner we were about to discover. She had climbed Mt. Whitney on Tuesday afternoon, but the smoke was so thick that there was no view. So, knowing that she wouldn’t have another chance to climb the peak, she spent the night by herself under an emergency blanket on the floor of the little cabin at the top of the mountain.

“Yeah, it was kind of cold and uncomfortable,” she admitted, “but the view this morning when the sun came up was totally worth it!” Her big, brown eyes were glowing so bright as she recalled the moment that the ring in her nose began to glow as well. The effect was at once captivating and creepy, and I can honestly say that if you can make the ring in your nose glow from your x-ray vision, you probably don’t have to worry too much about the rats and bugs and other creepy-crawlies that inhabit the floor of an empty mountain cabin.

Despite the uncertainty about the conditions the next day, or perhaps because of the uncertainty, we were a nervous and excited bunch as we honed our plans. Don and Christopher were methodically preparing their packs for the next morning, and Snow Toad was bouncing around, barely able to contain himself. I was wandering about, trying to figure out what I would need for the 10-mile hike to the summit and back, mulling over in my mind the plan that had been outlined by Don and Snow Toad.

“You want to get up at 4:00 in the morning?” I was incredulous. “How about 5:30?”

“Nope,” said Don, “we want to be hiking by 5:00.”

“Besides, you won’t be able to sleep!” Snow Toad hopped from one foot to the other, as if his hyperactivity could somehow make it morning now. “We’ll wake you at 4:00. This is going to be great!”

We all retired early, but as Snow Toad predicted, sleep was elusive. I must have drifted off eventually, because I was startled awake by Don’s announcement that it was 4:00 a.m. I am a bit hazy on the details, but a couple of things really stand out about that situation. The first is that 4:00 a.m. is really early. The second is that at 11,300 feet, 4:00 a.m. is really cold. I think Snow Toad slept in his clothes and would have started hiking at 4:01, but there was no way I was going anywhere without coffee and breakfast. So we all had breakfast and watched the procession of lights way in the distance along the ridge between Trail Crest and Whitney. By 5:00 a.m. my traveling companions were ready to go. By 5:10 Snow Toad was chewing gravel and spitting out sand. This did not help me concentrate my early-morning sensibilities. But by 5:20 I had my things sorted out, and by 5:30 we were on the trail.

The sun was just filtering into the eastern sky as we hoisted our packs and left camp. Christopher had gone on a scouting mission the previous afternoon, discovering a use trail that would take us up Whitney Creek to the outlet from Guitar Lake, and from there to the main trail. Finding the main trail would not have been a problem—we knew it was off to the north somewhere—but his discovery saved a good bit of trouble scrambling over the rocks in the dim morning light to get there.

Guitar Lake is on the western side of the monolithic escarpment that reaches its crest in Mt. Whitney, so there was no direct sun to warm us up on our climb up to Trail Junction. Normally hiking uphill would be enough, but our packs were light and the air was cold. Really cold. So cold that there were little patches of ice on the puddles along the trail. And it was late July! This actually makes for very productive hiking conditions. Too cold to stop, so you just keep going.

The trail to the junction with the Whitney trail is a marvel of trail building, climbing the dizzying heights one incremental switchback at a time. Of course, there are moments when it feels as though you are perched on the edge of the abyss—one false step and you are back at the bottom in an instant—but overall the trail is not particularly frightening. But it is up and up and up. From our camp (11,300 feet) to the junction (13,484) is about three miles and 2,200 feet of elevation, with half of the elevation gain in just the last half-mile. Yet, somehow, it is not a hard climb. 

Guitar Lake.

The view is spectacular, more so as you climb. Hitchcock Lakes reside in frigid blue splendor in the deep bowl between Mt. Hitchcock to the west and Discovery Pinnacle to the east, windswept and barren. The color of the light filtering over the ridge changes with each switchback, from the purple gloom of first light, to the bright red of sunrise, and then an ever-brightening rainbow of colors, as the sun climbs higher in the sky and you climb higher up the mountain. The Great Western Divide, on the western side of the Kern River, emerges slowly from the inky depths of night, morning light first coloring just the jagged white teeth of the mountain tops, and slowly flowing downhill to reveal the black-bearded slopes below the tree line. In the Whitney Creek Valley, the structure of the landscape is slowly revealed by the contoured shadows, the mountains alive with the motion of the sun, a daily dance that has been performed for eons. 

Excellent view.

Trail Junction is where east meets west and both paths join the high ridge trail that climbs to the top Mt. Whitney. Most of the traffic to the top of the mountain comes from Whitney Portal on the eastern side. Crazy people do the hike from Whitney Portal (8,365 feet elevation) to the top of Whitney (14,495 feet) and back in a day—22 miles round trip and over 6,000 feet up and 6,000 feet down. It is a brutal hike. More than two-thirds of the people who try to climb the mountain in a day do not make it. Our day was half that, plus we had been at elevation for several days before attempting the climb. It is a much more civilized way to do it.

There was very little traffic on the trail from Guitar Lake to Trail Junction. This was surprising since we were climbing the mountain at high season, and many of those who might have gone earlier in the year would have been deterred by the snow cover that had persisted in many places until mid July. I would have expected at least some of those folks to be trying to make up for lost time. But for whatever reason, we had the slope pretty much to ourselves, and that suited us just fine.

There were many surprises that day, but one of the most endearing was a beautiful little flower known as “Sky Pilot”, which only grows at very high elevations. It appears fragile, like it would blow away in the first big gust of wind, and yet it clings to the rocks with graceful ease, a reminder that life is extraordinary and robust, even if fragile. A ranger I spoke with later told me that in the early days of the Sierra Club, hikers would bring back a Sky Pilot to prove that they had climbed some tall peak, and that the practice actually threatened the species. Fortunately, that is no longer accepted practice, because the extinction of such a beautiful life would surely be a tragedy.

Sky Pilot.

The air was very cold at Trail Junction, and all four of us stopped to put on more clothing. From the junction, it is only 1.9 miles to the top of Mt. Whitney, and we all set off in high spirits. Snow Toad, in fact, was positively giddy—if I had wanted to run, he would have wanted to run just a little bit faster. Don had kept up a good pace climbing to the junction, but the cold air and the altitude were starting to take their toll. Christopher would have been prepared to outrun both Snow Toad and me, but with his dad suffering from the altitude, he wanted to hang back with his dad.

The trek from Trail Junction to the top of Whitney may be only 1.9 miles, but is a long 1.9 miles. We finally started to encounter some traffic on the trail, and there are numerous spots along the way where single file is the only option. The trail trends mostly up, but there are also plenty of places where one has to climb down to climb back up. Snow Toad and I were hiking together when we came to what is probably the spookiest spot along the trail, a narrow bridge with a near-vertical chute of slick granite on the east side, and a 65 degree slope of scree and talus on the other. The bridge was not more than 20 feet long, and easily 4 feet wide at its narrowest point, but it was still a bit unnerving, especially because the breeze was quite brisk blowing through the gap. Until now, we had the benefit of a solid wall on one side, which did nothing to prevent tumbling to our doom on the other, but it was a psychological comfort and also meant that there was no frigid wind tearing at our clothing and messing with our balance.

On the trail to Trail Junction.

The trail follows a northerly direction for most of its length, but hangs a left to the west at Keeler Needle, and then a sharp right back east about a quarter mile later. It was in this section between Keeler Needle and the sharp right that we encountered the last bit of snow on the trail. The drift was only 100 yards long, perhaps not even that, but it was a real bottleneck with one-way traffic through the well-worn groove over most of its length. This whole section of trail was in bright sun, but the air was still cold and the snow was icy. Snow Toad and I had to wait while a party of four cleared the snowfield, and once we had started, the snowfield was ours and everybody else just waited patiently for their turn. There were no written rules, that I know of, yet the snow crossing was orderly, and no one seemed to be too troubled about the inconvenience.

With less than a quarter of a mile to go, I was determined to ignore the pounding in my head, but each step was a labored effort. We were at about 14,000 feet, and finally I told Snow Toad that I had to stop and take some ibuprofen before continuing. Snow Toad stopped briefly, looked at me, and said, “I can’t stop. I gotta go. I’m just so excited that I think I might burst…” He had been bouncing from one foot to the other, just like the night before, and without waiting for a response, he turned back around and ran the last quarter of a mile to the top.

That last quarter mile was really tough. My head still hurt, and there was no speed slow enough to avoid the pounding in my temples. I must have looked distressed, too. But assistance often comes in unexpected ways. I had climbed on a rock to let two hikers pass. The first one said, “You’re almost there!” Her smile was encouraging. Her hiking partner added, “You can see the smokestack on the cabin from here.” He was pointing up the hill. And that was all I needed. I was within 100 vertical feet of the top, and I was going to get there, even if I had to crawl. My head still hurt, but all that mattered was making the summit.

This was the culmination of six months of talking, three months of planning, two weeks of shopping, and one unspoken decision that we had each independently reached while driving to the trailhead. Our original plan was to hike cross-country through Miter Basin to get to the mountain, and if we summited, cool, but the trip was really about getting there. But as the trip grew closer, Mt. Whitney became the objective. I decided that if the other guys wanted to do the cross-country trip, that would be okay, but I was going to hoof it to the mountain. When I told Snow Toad of this, he said that he had decided the same thing, and so too had Don. 

Top of the mountain, the world beneath our feet.

The cabin at the top of Whitney is a curiosity. I knew there was a cabin, I’d even seen pictures, but still its presence seemed an oddity. The cabin was larger than I expected, a testament to the enduring popularity of the destination. The cabin was completed in 1909 with funding from the Smithsonian Institution, just five years after the completion of the first trail to the summit. The current trail took two years to build and was completed in September 1930. So the summit of Mt. Whitney has been a place of regular activity for a long time. It is not wilderness, even though it is a wilderness destination, but it is still very cool.

There were seven people at the summit when I arrived, and one of them was Snow Toad. Don and Christopher arrived about ten minutes after me. It was 9:30 in the morning. By then, two of the other folks had left, and a short time later, so did the other four. For 15 minutes that morning, we had the entire summit to ourselves, and every other one of the 320 million Americans who live in the lower 48 states (as well as everyone in Hawaii and almost all of those living in Alaska) “are beneath the bottom of my boots,” as Snow Toad put it.

The air temperature could not have been more than 40 degrees, but the bright sun chased the cold away, and there was no wind to speak of. It was glorious! The skies were clear, the view uninterrupted in every direction. We could see a bit of residual smoke in the Owens Valley, and on the far western horizon, beyond Kaweah Peaks, a few wispy clouds were taking up residence. Neither the smoke nor the clouds were much to blemish the spectacle from the summit, and I suspect we were all relieved to know that we would not have to huddle under an emergency blanket in the cabin overnight to get our chance to see the view. I cannot speak authoritatively for the other guys, but I know I don’t have x-ray vision, and would have had to worry about the creepy-crawlies on the floor of a mountain cabin.

Our timing could not have been better. We hit a small seam, a gap between the early-morning crazies, and the late-morning throngs of people who had started from either Whitney Portal or Trail Camp on the eastern side. As we gathered our gear, they started to filter in, a few here, a few there, but it was clear that the summit was going to be one big high-altitude rave for the rest of the day.

We encountered no fewer than 150 people who were hiking from Trail Junction to the summit as we were hiking down. They came in a variety of shapes and sizes, some well provisioned, others not, a few looking like they were having fun, about a third of them looking rather sick from the altitude and the exertion. Some of the hikers were friendly, some all business, some a bit of both. At one point all four of us were hiking together, and we all stepped aside (to the uphill side, of course) to let a man and a woman pass. He raised his hand in thanks, but didn’t even break stride. The woman who was trailing behind saw this as a chance to stop for a moment.

“How much farther? Lie to me if it’s more than a quarter mile. I hate hiking uphill.”

“It’s about a quarter mile,” said Snow Toad. “Maybe a long quarter mile.”

“That’s what I figured,” she grunted. “I don’t know how he talked me into this. I hate hiking uphill. But I’m gonna kick his ass going downhill. I always kick his ass going downhill.”

The man, who had stopped about 20 yards up the trail, shouted, “Shut up, woman. Hike!”

The woman snorted in disgust, but she started hiking again. “Don’t you tell me to shut up. You ain’t gonna get any tonight. I’m gonna kick your ass going down, and you ain’t gonna get any.”

“You always say that,” replied the man. “Now let’s go.”

“Yeah, but I mean it this time…” As they hiked away we could hear them continue to jabber back and forth. This had been going on for a long time, probably years.

“Let’s go,” said Don with a smile. “I’m gonna kick your asses going down.”

“No news there,” I said. “Everybody kicks my ass going down.”

As we were approaching Trail Junction, we ran across a guy who was climbing the peak with his 10-year-old daughter. We had met these same folks three days earlier as we were hiking in at Cottonwood Pass. They had spent the night at Chicken Spring Lake, which is just west of the pass, to start getting acclimated. Their plan was to hike out, spend Monday night at the Cottonwood Pass trailhead, spend the next night at Whitney Portal, the following night at Trail Camp, and then climb the peak on Thursday. This seemed a mighty ambitious agenda for a 10-year old girl, but the dad didn’t appear overly concerned with making the summit. If they made it, great, if not, they would have a good time anyway.

Both of them appeared comfortable and happy to be hiking, with no ill effects of the altitude, and no grumbling about the hardship. The time was getting on toward 11:00 in the morning, or just about as late as you would want to be making the ascent with another mile and a half to go. Small, puffy white clouds were starting to form in the western sky, and the top of Mt. Whitney (or anywhere along the ridge trail) is not a place to be in an afternoon thunderstorm. So the closer we got to Trail Junction, the more harried and uncomfortable the oncoming hikers appeared. Whether they got a late start or were just not quite up to the task I can’t say, but the easygoing dad and the happy 10-year-old daughter stood out in sharp contrast to the late tide of the sick and the disgruntled.

On the hike down.

We reached Trail Junction just shy of 11:30 a.m., and left behind the eastern hordes as we headed back to our camp along Whitney Creek. The sun was now high in the sky, the landscape transformed by the bright light of day. Even now, traffic on the trail was scarce, but as we neared Guitar Lake, the crowds I had been expecting finally materialized. There were big groups and small groups, and every flat—or sort of flat—space, no matter how small, sported a brightly colored tent of one size or another, several of them two stories tall. The whole lake was a rabbit warren of people, crammed into every available spot. So it was with a sense of profound relief that the four of us rolled into our own campsite, a vast site that might very well be confused for wilderness given the lack of noisy neighbors and views uninterrupted by a small city of tents. It was 2:00 in the afternoon.