2026 Mt. Whitney Hike: Day 8, High Desert Camp To Golden Trout Wilderness: Why I Hike

Day 8
Distance:  11.13 Miles
Elevation Gain:  895 ft.

Day 8 is an early rise at 0400 as we have a full day of hiking to cover as well as to get back home.  On the trail time is 0500; breakfast is a combination of snacks and breakfast bars, things that are left that do not require clean-up.

The traverse is a slow uphill in the granite and pine forests we have been walking through for the past day.  Headlamps bobbing in the dark, we make our way through the slowly lightening dawn.

(This is the only point where we see an actual sign for the Pacific Crest Trail)

Despite the threat of rain, it did not manifest on the previous night or in the morning.  That said, the wind is cold and brisk as we move purposely through the decreasing darkness.  For all of us in some way, home is calling.

Our inclines are easy this morning, long stretches of relatively straight trails that wend themselves along the edge of ridges, looking down on outer valleys and meadows below.

Our goal is Chicken Spring Lake, the halfway point.  We stop here for a pack off-rest; this is our last snack and rest before the final push.

While we are at our rest stop, we meet a man hiking West and North.  We get to talking with him about where he is going and our own trip.  When he hears the extent of our trip, he is amazed.  "You all are animals" he says in wonderment.

I do not know I am animal.  But my chest swells with pride none the less.

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Why do I hike?

In my recent post on The Age Of Novelty, I lamented the fact that we as a Western Society seem too much invested in experiences for the sake of experiences.  We collect them as trophies or medals.  And then they immediately fade into the background to be replaced by others, stones that fall into a pond without a ripple.

I have been here.  I have done this.  I, too, have treated experiences as trophies, things to be gathered and then collect dust on the shelves of my mind.

I need to be different.

What I have found in this hike is something I had not anticipated initially:  learning things about myself.  Learning about the various aspects of hiking that I have discussed.  Enduring.  Confronting my fear of people, something that is coming up again and again in other venues.  

And if I am honest, I have learned something on every hike.  In 2021 in the Grand Canyon, I learned that I could hike and not fail.  In 2022 I did this same hike to Mt. Whitney and learned I could do a thing that seemed beyond the pale.  In 2023 I attempted to climb Mt. Goddard, fell sick with altitude sickness, and learned that one can still make progress up the trail, even in 50 step increments.  And in 2025 on Thunder River in the Grand Canyon, I walked away with Plato's thought on mortality echoing in my mind and guiding my actions: "At my age, I should not resent the fact that I have to die".

This, then, is why hike.  Not just for the experience and views - although those are beautiful and breathtaking.  I hike because the things I take away make me a different - and hopefully better person.

I hike to change my life.

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As part of the final descent, we are broken out into individual hikers with a set space between us.  Our guides refer to this as a "Space Walk", a way for each of us to process our hike and its impending end.  I, at least, appreciate this offer.

I remember this part of the hike vividly from 2022: the long switchbacks downhill which change from granite and pines to different pines and meadows.  Rocks and gravel slowly transfer back into dirt.  The descent is quiet:  I am far behind the person in front of me and the person behind me is far enough away that I can be lost in my thoughts.

As I descend, I step aside more and more for ascending hikers (like driving, uphill always has the right of way).  We greet each other passing.  They look so clean and energetic; the smell of laundry soap and personal hygiene objects is particularly noticeable after so many days on the trail.

The last part of the hike is flat, a long dirt walk through pines.  The day is heating up.  I remember this as being far longer than I thought it should be.  But this is part of the journey as well: things take the amount of time that they take.

On and on I go, dirt and gravel crunching, pine trees falling behind me, eyes straining ahead.  Finally, after what seems like far too long, I catch a glint of something.  A manmade object, a windshield and part of a hood.

I am back.