2026 Mt. Whitney Hike: Day 7, Crabtree Meadow To High Desert Camp: Fearless

 Day 7:
Distance:  11.11 Miles
Elevation Gain:  2169 ft.

The rain which dogged my footsteps during the afternoon and evening continued throughout the night in a semi-regular pattern; I awake at midnight to discover that the water had penetrated portions of the bottom of my tent.  Some of my clothes - my pants in particular - are now wet in spots.  Fortunately my foam pad keeps me above the level of the tent.  I readjust my clothes - shirt and socks in the sleeping bag, pants hanging on my back in the tent vestibule, other items in the tent now confined to the edge of the pad - and try to go back sleep not haunted by the fact of wet clothes in the morning.

We have a leisurely rising time and period of getting ready this morning.  The rain had thankfully stopped over the night, so part of the morning's rising is getting rain flies shaken off and gingerly packing tents to minimize water in the backpack itself.  There is also an element, perhaps, of allowing us to reflect and drink in the victory of the previous day's achievement.

A quick breakfast of oatmeal, the final packing of the wet things, and we are off around 0900.

As we are getting ready to leave, a mule train comes through.  We have seen this group a few times over the last two days or so.  They are used, I believe, both to resupply the back country rangers as well as to support other kinds of hikes.  It is an interesting reminder of an earlier era.

We have a descent down from Crabtree Meadow and come to what to me is some of the most beautiful country of the hike: stark granite and pine trees.  I love this part of the hike for reasons I cannot fully describe; there is something both peaceful and clean and precise about this area that appeals to my soul.  It is made more enjoyable by the fact that the day is cool and overcast from the previous day's weather; hiking through this in the hot sun would likely not be as enjoyable.

Our last trail lunch happens at another stream; trail charcuterie.  One of our fishermen has one last go at a stream; this matters because this is our last water source until mid-day tomorrow.  We will have to carry water for the next 24 hours.

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Throughout this hiking day, all I can reflect on are my experiences from the previous day on Mt. Whitney.

I find myself in a curious purgatory of joy and regret:  joy that I made it to the top at all (and a second time; the amount of hikers that do it more than once is likely higher than I think but still much less than do it once) and regret that I did not have more time up there and was not up there with the rest of our group.  That is what it is: I cannot go back and change the weather or even my speed (I could increase my endurance, but I have a short step base which helps nothing).

But I also spend a great deal of time thinking about the weather coming down.

It is not that the weather coming down threatened my life in any way; at no time did I feel I would blow off the mountain.  But it was a challenge:  wet, miserable, windblown, picking my way down 2,000 ft. of path.  Only one or two moments did I have an experience of true fear when I stumbled in a step before I caught myself.

Fear.  There it is.

Fear has come up a lot recently in my personal writings and the work I am doing in counseling.  Specifically, fear of people.  Or rather, fear of people and what they think of me.

This has been a challenge for me as long as I can remember:  as a person who is a people pleaser, one becomes incredible sensitive to the nuances of personal interactions and potential issues.  One becomes almost hypersensitive to the possibility that someone will become angry - or perhaps worse, someone will simply dislike you. And maybe judge you.

But I have just come down off a mountain in snow and rain and wind.  That, my mind tells me, is a real and potential existential threat.  People's opinions of me, not so much.

And so, as I hike through the day and then sit, chewing my lunch,  I find a certain sort of fearlessness.

This is a new feeling for me, one I examine with a sort of wonder.  But as I examine it, I realize that it is a real thing:  I can picture specific individuals that I find challenging because of an internal fear I have of them and their opinions (or their reactions).  What, this new feeling asks, can they really do to you in real life compared to the challenge of coming down a mountain in a storm?

I am not quite there on my journey to overcoming my fear.  But now I find I have a powerful weapon in my hand, an image of blowing snow and rain - and continuing on.

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After lunch, water bottles are topped off and the water jugs filled and assigned out - there are more people than jugs, and so I am spared (This is all Rainbow Bright's doing; she has been very clear every day about what bear can of food I am to carry.  I am apparently struggling more than I know.).

With that, we set off uphill.

We start another ascent and then enter an area of lesser ascents and descents and even areas of level walking.  I (once again) quickly enter my own bubble of the hike - like many other portions of this hike, I am part of a team but often on my own.  The granite sand crunches under my feet as the sun makes places of light and shadow on my path as I trudge on.

Around 1600, I reach the last camp of the trip.

We carefully choose our campsites with an eye to another evening of potential rain as the sky is threatening - and given our previous experience, no-one wants to spend our last day out hiking cold and wet.

Dinner (pictured above) is a sort of Thai Ramen mix.  It is delicious beyond words.

After dinner and suitable digestion, we set off at our guides' insistence for a low hill a several hundred feet away - the sunset, they assure us, is worth the walk.

They are absolutely correct.

They also do a sort of ceremony, one I have come to expect on these hikes.

Everyone that participates in a TSX hike gets a trail name.  This is based on the guides' observations of the individual during the hike.  They are all offered in good grace (and good humour) and are taken as a sort of token of having successfully achieved a hike. They are awarded on the last full day of the hike.

We go through this ceremony; the rule is that if you have a trail name you keep it.  About 50% of us already have one; the other 50% are offered theirs.  They are all spot on; our guides (along with everything else) are great observers of human nature.

My trail name, you may recall, is Survivor.  It taken from the fact that at the end of each day we have to recount a rose (something we liked), a thorn (something we did not like), and a bud (something we are looking forward to).  My first rose for every hike I have been on is "I am grateful I did not die today".

It is amazing how such a thought can transform one's life.

After the sun sinks below the horizon, we head back to our camp under threatening skies.  Wake up time will be very early tomorrow as we have a full day of hiking plus a full day of getting back.

The twin thoughts of "Survivor" and "fearless" wander through my mind as I drift off to sleep.

2026 Mt. Whitney Hike: Day 6, Mt. Whitney: Endurance

Day 6:
Distance: 15.83 miles
Elevation Gain:  4028 ft.

 Our rising time is early today, 0400, with a quick breakfast of granola.  We light our headlamps and leave in the dark, carrying a pared down version of our backpack for the day with only rain gear and snacks in it.  With any luck, we will all see the top of Mt. Whitney by noon.

The first 1.5 hours of the hike is largely in the dark.  To our right we hear a stream that we cannot see - or even if we could see it, likely we would not look:  the path has enough rise and stones in it that it requires one's full attention.  There is quiet murmuring and anticipation as we go:  beyond our guides and The Outdoorsman and myself, no-one has ever been up.

Coming out of the main tree-line, we come across a rabbit having an early morning snack.  If I have a "totem" animal, the rabbit is it.  I take this as a good sign.

Just above Guitar Lake (so named as it looks like a guitar from above), we fill up with water and make our last bathroom breaks (Interesting fact:  Past Guitar Lake, you are not allowed to dig a hole for "business" but have to use a specially designated bag - which you then have to carry out with you.  Not recommended.).   I and to others are sent on ahead to start the small series of switchbacks that leads to the main 11 switchbacks up.

As you might suspect, I am pretty quickly lapped and so the hike up Mt. Whitney becomes My Hike Up Mt. Whitney.

The main 11 Switchbacks vary in length and difficulty:  some are long runs, some are strewn with rocks, but others are shorter and less full of rubble.  Around Switchback 3 Rainbow Bright catches up with me; she will be my companion for most of the remainder of the day.

I count as I go up:  50 steps, 60 steps, even 90 steps, then breathe.

At some point we are passed by ranger assigned to Crabtree Meadow.  Rainbow Bright has met the ranger before; they have a pleasant short chat.  Both agree the chance of weather at the top is growing.  The ranger continues up, stepping quickly.

50 steps, 60 steps, even 90 steps, then breathe.

At or about 13,000 ft, we meet up with the rest of the team at a place called Pack's Rest (or Pack's Crest; I heard it both ways). This is where the switchback trail intersects with the Whitney Portal trail (which has 99 switchbacks).  I was lapped by almost 40 minutes; we have a brief meeting, then the group heads up again for the last 1.9 miles to the top.  After a bit, I follow.

This last stretch of trail is a pretty good one: wide enough with little concern for falling, minimal open walks along the ridge. There is some uphill and some careful stepping that has to be done.  Also, the altitude is pretty noticeable if my gasping and stopping is any indication.

My guess is it takes me another 1.5 hours to make this final ascent.  I am definitely slowing down.

As we reach the final 300 yards or so, we meet the team coming down:  They had arrived 45 minutes earlier but the weather was finally getting to bad.  The Outdoorsman and The Brit and I get a picture.

 Rainbow Bright turns to me and says "I am heading up.  Do not bail on me." And off she goes.  

I greet my teammates as they are coming down with a congratulations.  They all encourage me with a "you are almost there" (the worst phrase of any hiker's existence).  They continue down; I continue up.

(That high bump is the top of Whitney)

About 1145 local time, with a brisk wind and slow flurries, I reach the summit.

Rainbow Bright is there to greet me.  I cry a bit.  

I did not really expect to make it.

I take a few pictures, enjoying the magical feeling of being on the top of the mountain in the snow.  I try to get a picture of me with my sword school flag, only to find out I managed to get one set upside down and one set reversed (but fixable).

We are there less than 20 minutes before we start down.

As we get ready to start back, I get my thin poncho on.  It cover me and my pack, but blows terribly in the wind; I sound like a walking trash-bag as I go.  We start to make our way back down.

The snow and wind last for the first hour or so.  The wind is never so much that I truly feel that I am going to be blown off, but it tears at the poncho and lifts up my brimmed hat until I remember I have a cord to tighten.

By the time we hit the first of the switchbacks, the snow has turned into rain -sometimes hard, sometimes soft, but mostly there as we continue the five hour trek back to camp.

(Marmot)

The climb down is in a fair amount of silence:  Rainbow Bright behind, I in front slowly picking my way down.  At least twice I have a mis-step and she reaches out to steady me.  It is a good reminder that hiking tired is the most dangerous way to hike.

We move from the switchbacks to the small switchbacks and pass Guitar Lake before going a bit cross country to avoid an uphill climb.  The rain and wind are our constant companion as we continue down

At some point the trek becomes a process, a series of putting one foot in front of the other, hiking poles swinging ahead.  Time slows to a gray blur of picking out steps, then making them.  Landmark picked out going up become meaningless coming down; without an idea of time there is no sense of "getting" closer.

We move past the path parts hiked in the dark; they are a new hike now, a stream and lake and another stream burbling away, heedless of the rain that is falling.  We walk on.

At 1700, we arrive in camp.  I have been hiking more or less straight on for 12 hours.

I stand there for a bit after the arrival, exhausted.  My delayed lunch - a peanut butter and jelly tortilla - is given to me.  I eat it with distinct lack of enthusiasm that I did four years ago at the top of the mountain.

I slowly and eventually make my way back to my tent, where I crawl in and shed the slightly wet clothing for something dry and my sleeping bag.  Rainbow Bright, out of the kindness of her heart, brings me dinner at my tent - bean soup and a lasagna that consists mostly of cooked noodles and an excess of cheese.  I enjoy both; by 1900 I am asleep.

As I prepare for sleep, I reflect back on the comment one of my teammates made as I arrived in camp. He was genuinely impressed (and meant it in the kindest way) that I had continued on to the end, especially given the length of time and the weather.  It was mostly Rainbow Bright, I tell him.  I just kept going.

It is only when we are driving home that I look up a Latin phrase that was playing at the back of my mind by the end:   Vincit qui patitur.

 He who endures, conquers.

2026 Mt. Whitney Hike: Day 5, Junction Meadow To Crabtree Meadow: Breath

Day 5:
Distance:  9.09 miles
Elevation Gain:  3060 ft.

Today was a slightly later start:  up at 0600, out by 0730.  Granola was on the menu for breakfast (see above).

Today would be a day governed by up. Up and up and up from the Kern River Valley floor to Crabtree Meadow, our base camp for the attempt on Whitney.

The trail was a good one, the views looking back were spectacular.  This was my strongest day yet on the hike. Even though I was still at the rear of the pack, I felt pretty good my my climb.

Lunch was - once again - one of my favorites:   Tuna packet with sunflower seeds, Italian dressing, and cranberries.  Rainbow Bright calls this "Hiker Trash Lunch" which is apparently a bit frowned upon by The Powers That Be.  For the record, I enjoy the name.

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Breath, like steps, are something I tend take for granted in my ordinary life.

I have read of breathing disorders, worked at one company where Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis was the target, read The Plucky Young Smart Kid With The Fatal Disease:  A Life With Cystic Fibrosis by the late Dean Barnett (1967-2008).  I have at least a functional idea in my head about the impact of not being able to breath well.

But hiking at altitude gives me a whole new appreciation of the process.

Sure, we are likely all familiar with the odd day of a lung infection or when we cannot really catch our breath.  But I was pretty rapidly confronted with a series of days that I could not really catch my breath until evening.  I would try my technique from my health event on Mt. Goddard:  50 steps, stop, take breaths until I got them back under control, then start again.  At some point Rainbow Bright gave me additional advice:  slower steps, regulate your breaths so that your inhale and exhale are more equal.  

I tried.  I really tried.  But still I would reach the point where my breaths came in great rasping gasps, my heart pounding, my breathing shallow.  And I would stop, count to 10, reorient my breathing back to normal.

Breathing.  It is something I do not think about as much as I should, and something I need to think on more often.

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Our descent after lunch came down through granite and pine forests, which eventually gave way to meadows such as seen above and below.  The weather remained a bit on the elevated side - hot, likely only in the high 70's or low 80's, but made more so by the fact we were carrying our homes on our backs.

By 1500 we reached our campsite for the next two days, Crabtree Meadow.  At about 12,000 feet, this is the jumping off point for many who attempt the West side of Mt. Whitney.  After getting set up, dinner - a beef soup and Jambalaya with salami - was on the menu.

As an public service, I feel bound to report that Crabtree Meadow is also the only location for two days in any direction of a sit-down pit toilet.  The toilet has been upgraded: it now has three walls instead of the single back wall it had in 2022.

The new construction:

You cannot truly appreciate this until you have spent days with a trowel and toilet paper in a bag:

The rather scenic view from your perch:

We had a beautiful sunset and a very scenic view.  We also had an earlier bedtime.

Mt. Whitney was there in the evening gloaming, waiting for us.