2022 Mt. Whitney Day 8: High Desert To Horseshoe Meadow

 Distance:  11.13 Miles/17.8 Km

Time:  5 hours

Elevation Gain:  895 feet/272.8 m

We are up again before dawn on this, the last day of the hike, as we have a long day ahead of us:  not just to the trailhead, but then getting back to civilization.  We again leave in two groups, 0430 and 0530, and again are all pretty much awake at the earlier time.  Breakfast this morning is whatever is (literally) left:  oatmeal, granola, remaining snacks that we have not yet eaten.  Again, we prepare in the dark and start out just as first light is breaking.

Our hike in the morning was a long upward traverse through the rocks, sand, and sequoia stands that we had seen the previous day.  As we continued, it became clear that we were walking along the side of a series of mountains as we went up, never really crossing over.

One of the benefits of walking along the side, of course, is vistas continually open up to you.

I would say the pace was measured, except I suspect that for all of us there was underlying unspoken urgency of "getting back":  not to the world per se, but to conveniences like actual toilets and hot showers and the sorts of things one takes for granted in civilization until they are not there.

Passing up and up and up, we finally reached a high point before descending to Chicken Lake, which was the next water location.  As it turns out, the water situation was fine.  We pressed on and after one more short ascent, we reached Cottonwood Pass and could see the goal of Horseshoe Meadows below us.

The path down from Cottonwood Pass turned out to be more of a descent than I had anticipated, and as usual I fell behind (again). The Outdoorsman stuck with me on this last descent, which was likely two hours.  The change in scenery from no trees to sequoias to pines to water and meadows was a very noticeable change due to the steepness of the descent and the shortness of time.

We began to run into hikers coming up the trail as we were going down:  most stop for a short social interaction ("Where are you coming from?  Where are you headed?  Good luck!") before continuing on.  I noticed how many of them smelled fresh and clean.  We must be getting close.

We hit the valley floor and marched on through the sand and dirt.  Although the flat, this seemed to take the longest time of all, probably mostly in my mind due to wanting to be at the end.  Suddenly, the signs for the National Forest stared appearing.  We had made it.

(Chicken Lake)

After a celebratory beer/soda and the traditional eating of salty and sweet junk foods (crullers never tasted so good), we packed up everything into the van and truck and started our journey of about an hour to the base of the main valley for a shower and lunch before headed out.  We pulled out of the parking lot around 11 AM - it had taken us 5 hours to complete the remaining hike.

(Cottonwood Pass)

The drive down was filled with the chatter of how things had gone and how grateful we were for the experience.   As we continued to descend, the land around us became drier and drier, a reminder that while we were somewhere else, everything else remained the same.  At some point cellular function returned and the van went silent as everyone started to catch up on the last 8 days.

Reaching the nearby town, we piled out and waited at a hostel for our opportunity for a shower (Apparently a "Leave behind" bag is a thing which among other things is supposed to contain a change of clothes for such events as this; I had less dirty clothes and a new shirt with "I Climbed Mt. Whitney" on it that would suffice).  In dribs and drabs we passed in for quick showers.  When my turn came, the sweat and dirt caked off me.  A shower has never felt so good.

As people emerged from the showers with wet hair and relatively clean bodies, they came dressed in the clothes they had prepositioned.  All of a sudden, we were not all one "hiking" unit; individual preferences and appearances came back to the fore and individuality began to emerge.  We had already started to dissolve into our constituent parts.

Post shower, we walked across the street to a pizza shop where large quantities of pizza, salad, beer, and soda were consumed.  I ate far more pizza than I have for many years. The conversation was loud but jovial and we celebrated our accomplishment and our return.  Trail names were awarded or confirmed - the name "Survivor" was retained by me because of always being grateful that I did not die on that day.

All too soon the pizza was gone, the glasses were empty, and it was time to go back.

(Looking back up to Cottonwood Pass)

The ride back was a long, dreary four hour flat drive through a valley floor that while I had not been to for many years, I knew all too well for all of that.  A playlist of mostly '80's music filled the van as we moved through the dry-brown landscape of cities and towns I knew the name of but had not seen ever or for years.  People napped or caught up on social media or exchanged pictures.

At one point we stopped for fuel.  Everyone piled out of the van for the first chance at honest junk food in 8 days.  An attached McDonald's supplied me with the vanilla shake I had been dreaming of for 8 days.

Arriving at our starting point, we pulled out backpacks and packed/unpacked as necessary.  We all stood there in a large circle in that awkward moment that groups such as these too often face, people wanting to go but not really sure how to leave.  Finally The Outdoorsman and I broke the spell, pleading length of drive.  Another round of goodbyes and well wishes and we were off.

The drive home - another three hours or so - was mostly filled with retrospective considerations, the sort that the human species has done since time immemorial on equipment and experience ("My spear was not sharp, Og.  I wonder what I could do about that?").  We stopped for second Vanilla milkshake and burger and fries, which actually is our usual post-hike celebration meal.  We plotted and planned what the next hike would be and realized we should probably go hiking one more time in September, while the weather was still good.

By the time I pulled into the driveway post dropping off the Outdoorsman, stopping to buy some breakfast for the following day, and then the last long drive home, it was almost 2030.  Even then I was not done:  compulsive as I am, I unpacked, put my clothes in the washer, and took a second shower.

The pine trees and moon that night asked me where I had been as I looked out the window.

To see the world, I replied.  To see the world.

2022 Mt. Whitney Day 7: Crabtree Meadow To High Desert

 Distance:  11.11 Miles/17.88 Km

Time: 8 hours

Elevation Gain: 2169 ft/661 m

Today was (as one can imagine) a slightly more relaxed rising day after yesterday's festivities:  by the time we were up and going post oatmeal breakfast, it was almost 0830.  Our night had been disturbed by the next round of hikers getting up and out early to scale Mt. Whitney; we had the camp largely to ourselves as we packed up and headed out.  Packs were definitely lighter at this point as the food filling the bear cans was now filled with trash.

Our ultimate goal this day was not so much a place as a campsite that had been used by our guide's as a midway point between where we started and where we would end the hike.  As a result the pace was measured but not urgent as we first made our way downhill and almost level to a meadow.

From here we began a long, steady climb to Guyot Pass (around 12,000 ft; not nearly the direct climb the Colby Pass was). The scenery changed again back to the rocks and the sequoias that we had seen two days ago.

If I had to characterize this day's hike, it would be "flow".  There was just a sense of being and moving in the world around us:  not too quickly, not too intensely, just moving on and through.  In a way, this is what I suppose people begin to feel when they have hiked for many more days than we did:  the world truly does fall away, and all there is the sky and the earth and surroundings and the trail.

We took an extended lunch break at Rock Creek, sharing another charcuterie of string cheese, crackers, dried figs, and turkey jerky.  This was by far the longest lunch that we ever took; in retrospect I am not sure if it was unintentional on the part of our guides or if it was planned both for timing and rest purposes.

A hike of about 40 minutes brought us to the stream below; this was the last place we would have to get water before mid-morning tomorrow.  We filled up bottles and the larger dirty water containers and headed on up.

The last part of the day was spent in another uphill climb:  certainly not the most difficult one of the hike, but a long extended push for the day.  No rain interfered to interrupt the hike, but once again we found ourselves stretched out and I, again, was hiking on my own through a world of sand and sequoias.

The silence here was again impressive, as were the trees that just seemed to be in isolated stands.  The idea of desert in the midst of the High Sierras was something that had never occurred to me before; my previous experiences were much more tree and brush laden.

On and on I hiked for almost two hours until, in the distance, I could hear celebration.  I was close!  Another half mile or so revealed about half the party there ahead of me - suddenly, we had simply arrived.  To cheers and clanging hiking poles, I half jogged the last 100 feet.

High Desert Camp (below) was simply that:  high, and a desert.

We waited around and cheered as each member cleared the final hill over the next hour or so.  Then it was off to set up camp as our guides began to prepared the evening meal.

Dinner tonight was packaged Korean ramen; I would argue by far that it was the best meal of the trip.  We sat around on the sand as the Ramen passed around and around (another benefit is that it is rather plentiful when it gets water mixed in).  In some ways I think the reality of this being the last night was pressing in on all of us as we finished dinner and prepared for bed:  on one hand looking forward to the benefits of civilization like showers and clean clothes, on the other hand dreading the fact that "the world" was a short hike away.

Perhaps in a token of acknowledgement, the sunset on the mountains that evening was especially beautiful.

2022 Mt. Whitney Day 6: Summit

 Distance:  15.83 Miles/25.48 Km

Time:  12.5 hours

Elevation Gain:  3060 ft/ 932 m

We start off in two groups, the first leaving at 0330 and the second leaving at 0430 with hopes of coming together more or less on time at the summit.  I am in the latter group - although to be fair, we are so close we likely all wake up at 0230.  We only carry our packs with required clothing, snacks, and water - everything else is left onsite.

The hike up Mt. Whitney is in three stages.  The first is a 2-2.5 mile hike up to the Guitar Lake, effectively the last water before one climbs to the summit.  The second is from Guitar Lake to Pack's Rest, where the ascent meets the John Muir Trail - again, a 2-2.5 mile hike.  The final leg is a 2 mile hike from Pack's Rest to the Summit.

The first hour or so is spent in the dark as we hike along past water that I can see but not hear and trees that loom as shadows in the darkness.  There are rises and falls but one is almost unconsciously of them as the focus is ever on the placement of the feet in the dark.  The stars shine brightly and looking ahead, one can see the headlamps on the side of the mountain as early morning risers already make the ascent to reach the summit for sunrise.

By the time sunrise hits, we have arrived at Guitar Lake, the last large accessible body of water.  We replenish our water supply, snack, and use the restroom - past this point (around 12,000 feet), there is no "using the facilities for Number 2" on the mountain.  One uses what is called a "Wag Bag", which is an all in one bag to capture and control the output.  One " uses" the bag which comes complete with toilet paper - the results are captured in "Poo Powder" (registered trademark), which solidifies the material - and which one then carries around for the rest of the hike.

Ah, the glamourous world of the mountain climber.

Past the lake, the actual ascent begins: a long somewhat gradual ascent up to a series of ten switchbacks which scale the side of the mountain to pack's rest.  The switchbacks themselves are not of even lengths - some shorter, some longer - but all up, though at not too steep an angle.

As we continue to rise, the landscape reveals itself along with sun.  Lakes which were previously hidden become revealed; mountains and peaks appear in new views as slowly, slowly we rise up.  Thankfully I am able to maintain the pace.

Sometime between 5 and 6 hours in, we reach Pack's Rest.  The sobriquet is well earned:  packs line the rocks and walls here, hikers that have left most everything and continued up.  The Outdoorsman offers to take my water and my school flag and let me leave my pack as well.  I gratefully accept; this more than anything else probably helps me to make the last part of the ascent. 

At this point, we are about 13,500 ft. above sea level.  The last push starts.

The path for the last part is runs along the side of the mountain to the summit; it is surprisingly wide to me (no sense of narrow path/plunging to my doom as I felt in parts of the Grand Canyon), although it sometimes seems less like a path and more like a series of rocks shoved into the side of the mountain for which we are slowly making our way across.

That line in the rocks you see is the path.  

As we continue on, I continue to slip farther and farther behind my "group". Part of it is just the terrain; I tend to pick my way across and over.  Part of it is the altitude: by this time, I am definitely feeling the impact of thinner oxygen.

That rounded peak at the left/middle side of the picture is the summit.  This is about halfway there, with about a mile to go.

As I continue to walk, I rise above the clouds. I can see visions of the valley below now, peaks of a far distant land invisible to us until this point.  Hikers start passing me as they come down the mountain as I go up.  "You are almost there" they encourage as they walk by, "the view is worth it".  I sigh.  I am continuing to slow down.

The last part of the summit is likely 100 yards or so, a slow zig zaggy uphill trail that is not too challenging for footwork.  By this point I am moving in 5-6 foot bursts:  I see a turn in the trail and that becomes my next stopping point.  I catch my breath, look for the next point, and then pull myself up, largely by my hiking poles and upper body strength.  My legs are just kind of along for the ride.

And then, suddenly, I arrive.

I am not the last one in our party:  our oldest member, 70 years old, is still on his way up. I am greeted by The Outdoorsman and others.  A the Guide shoves a peanut butter and honey tortilla into my hand - "Eat" he says, "you need the calories".  I hunch over and eat my tortilla, feeling less of elation and more of exhaustion.

The Outdoorsman and I take our picture, then he takes my picture with my martial arts school flag that I will send to my headmaster.  

We share the summit with two or three groups:  5-10 college age/ young adults, a couple or two, and the inevitable teenagers that hiked up with no shirts and insist on doing pushups at the top.  

Youth.  Wasted on the young.

Our last party member arrives about 15 minutes after I do.  We celebrate again, and take pictures of our party to send back.  We continue to snack, hydrate, take pictures, and take in the view.  Within 20 minutes or so after that, it is time to head down - partially because of the time it will take, partially because of the potential threat of rain (one of my biggest fears - rain and wind on the side of the mountain - was thankfully not realized.  I completely credit praying about it in the morning).

The hike down is a quicker affair:  it took me almost 8 hours to get to the top and will take me 4.5 hours to get down.  I almost immediately shed speed as soon as we leave Pack's rest, rapidly falling behind the rest of my party. My energy level is simply not back to what it was when I started out in the morning.  I start down the switchbacks, counting them off as I go, seeing the heads of my group below and beyond me as I continue to lose speed.

By the time I hit Guitar Lake, I am in the back with rear guard.  We rehydrate again and continue on - I get off track slightly, but we rejoin the very last members of the party and slowly hike out.

While I would love to say that I took pictures going down and on the latter half of the hike where we originally walked through the dark and now in the light, that did not happen.  The trip down looked, largely, like the trip up; and by the time we reached the "new" part of the hike my only real interest was getting back to camp.  The scenery was as beautiful as anything we had seen to date, lakes and streams and trees.  The four of us slowly plod along, taking frequent rests.

12.5 hours later, we make it into camp.

Dinner that night is a celebratory "lasagna" of tomato paste, cheese, and broke in half lasagna noodles (which, amusingly enough, our Italian Guide A mutters about "lasagne" under his breath and recipe interpretations).  We are all, even in our exhausted state, on something of a high:  we did it.  Individually and as a group, we ascended the tallest peak in the lower 48 states.

The Outdoorsman brings out a flask of whiskey he brought with him just for the occasion.  Everyone - even the non-drinkers - have a small taste.  We toast ourselves and our accomplishment.

As I lay in the sleeping bag that night reviewing the day, I am both amazed and surprised:  amazed that I made it up, somewhat surprised that exhaustion overcame elation.  There were people that were genuinely excited at making it to the top; I was more exhausted and "Oh Dear Lord, can we beat the rain down?".  That does not take away from the accomplishment of course; it just surprises me that it seems like less of a "thing" than I expected.

As I fall asleep, I am already working on better conditioning practices for the hike next year. My muscles did not fail me this time, but my endurance did.  Visions of stair masters and longer training hikes fill my head as a last vision of the clouds rising and valley below come in before I collapse into a well earned slumber.

2022 Mt. Whitney Day 5: Junction Meadow to Crabtree Meadow

 Distance: 9.09 Miles/14.63 Km

Time: 8 hours

Elevation Gain: 3060 ft/932.7 m

There were only a few residual clouds as we got ready to leave this morning after a breakfast of sausages and English muffins - fortunately the rain had mostly been early in the night and not returned, so there was only minimal moisture on tent flys and ground covers to be managed

Our path today was essentially one long uphill,  out of the Kern Valley and over a high meadow that would eventually lead us to our base camp for the attempt on Mt. Whitney the following day.

The morning hike was (thankfully) a rather gradual one, with a well laid out path and not too many rocks or giant steps.  Rain threatened throughout the morning, but hung back as we slowly wended our way through the rocks and pines.

Our lunch stop at a stream and meadow brought foil bagged tuna to which cranberries, sunflower seeds, and Italian dressing could be added with the hard crackers known as Wasa.  This was a fabulous meal - self contained in the bag, full of calories, and  - hey - crunchy carbs.  I may try to replicate this in my "normal" life.

Following lunch, we continued up and around, still heading uphill.  At some point we began to drift apart due to speed and for the first time on the hike, I found myself truly alone.

I also found myself rained on again.  Heavily, off and on, for about two hours.

The scenery at this point really started changing.  Gone were the underbrush and pines; what was remaining were the sequoias and rocks.  It was a stark landscape, made all the starker by the grey skies and grey rains that entered and left at their own whim.

At one point - the rain coming down harder - I simply stopped and waited under a tree for a bit to watch at the meadow below.  We were certainly not in any kind of hurry, and being an introvert, the time alone and with the rain - one of few sounds to be heard - was welcome.

The Sequoias were amazing. I had never seen them before in this abundance or size - at best if we have them at The Ranch, they are small spindly things, not the giants that loomed - living and dying - over me.

Our arrival at camp that afternoon was a bit complicated as the place we were going to camp was already occupied, so we ended up crossing the stream and finding a second spot farther on.  It was doubly complicated by, just as we were completing the tent set up, a downpour swept through that lasted 20 minutes  (and revealed some poor positioning of tents, as well as my continued lack of planning for rain) - but within thirty minutes of that, the sun was out and we had things hung on trees to dry.

 

Dinner tonight was jambalaya, a standard camp meal (easy to transport and prepare) and a mint chocolate square for dessert.  Everyone turned in early, both because of the rain and well as what would be an early start on Mt. Whitney the following day.