Mt Whitney - California

The back side of the Portal

As the wind chill fell past 30 below zero, I knew our small party of five is prepared for cold weather. What we didn't prepare for was snow and 70 MPH gusts of wind as we make our way along a narrow knife-ridge at 14,000 feet. Exhausted from hours of ascending, we precariously balance ourselves against the wind as we pass along a narrow trail. On both sides are thousand-foot drops, with the Sequoia National Park valley floor to the west, and the boulders at the bottom of the massive cirque formed by the Mount Whitney range on the east. One misstep would send us tumbling to the floor below. But determination and sheer will force us to move along despite the worsening weather. It's amazing how quickly the weather can change high in the backcountry.

October 24, 1998
The alarm goes off at 3:00 AM. We eat our fill of yogurt and bagels, then make the 15-minute drive to the trailhead. There is no moon, and apart from the jagged line that divided the starlit sky from pure black, we can only sense the presence of the looming peaks we thus far had only seen in pictures. We turn on our headlamps, and hit the trail at 4:30 AM.

"The sun begins to rise, and we can see the splendor of the scenery unfold. Massive gray walls with spires closed in green meadows and blue lakes. The sky is ablaze in color, and the air is crisp..."

The Portal

Starting off at 8,360 feet elevation, we forge our way through the brush and trees. A 54-year-old hiker from Los Angeles joins us. He likes the steady pace we are keeping, and asks if he could tag along until he met up with his party. They are planning on hitting the trail later that day, but would do the climb much more quickly than he would.

9,960 feet and 2.8 miles later, Lone Pine Lake is our first stop. We make a point to drink sufficient water to stay hydrated. We eat while we still have an appetite and energy reserve. The sun begins to rise, and we can see the splendor of the scenery unfold. Massive gray walls with spires closed in green meadows and blue lakes. The sky is ablaze in color, and the air is crisp. Though the altitude is beginning its nagging tug, we are energized by the massive grandeur. We feel blessed to be in such a magnificent place.

"To the west, there is a majestic view of the Whitney crest..."

After we move another mile, we climb 400 feet and arrive at Outpost Camp. The trail crosses an unnamed stream, and then passes an awesome frozen waterfall. The forest cover is predominantly foxtail pine, and with Thor Peak dominating the view to the north. Several colorful tents dotted the meadow. A huge solar latrine makes an impressive landmark. There was plenty of room to camp. The area is colored with green, meandering streams and ponds. Wildlife is abundant. We notice several packs are hung from trees to keep bears and other critters at bay. Rustling can be heard in tents as campers are beginning to stir. Soon, many would join us on the trail.

About this time a breeze begins building. We notice lenticular clouds above the Lone Pine Valley floor. Though I recognize this type of cloud as a harbinger of bad weather, we remain optimistic that nothing serious will come of it. The trail crosses an outlet from Mirror Lake, and then begins to switchback upwards. After navigating the icy trail, we cross into the Mirror Lake meadow. Four point three miles into the journey, now at 10,640 feet, we walk along the shore of Mirror Lake. It is nestled in a small cirque below Thor Peak. We admire the small lake without stopping, and climb the next series of switchbacks up the south wall of the Mirror Lake cirque.

Approaching the timberline, we move past the landmark "white bark stump," a memorial to what must have once been a mighty tree. It signals the end of the trees, and the beginning of a rocky, barren, icy path ahead.

Base Camp

We make our way into Trail Camp after hiking 6.3 miles, and gaining 4,000 feet. There are more tents scattered among the rocks. A pond sits immediately below Wotans Throne, which dominates the view to the north. To the west, there is a majestic view of the Whitney crest. Here we catch our first glimpse of Mount Whitney on the north end.

At this point, we begin to rummage through our packs looking to cache everything we wouldn't need on our journey to the summit. We leave food, water bottles, and our wet cotton clothing. We put on our warmest layers, and prepare for the trip up the famous "96 Switchbacks." Dick met up with his climbing party here. We take note that while they were quick hikers, they were woefully unprepared. Hiking in tennis shoes and short sleeves, they aren't prepared for the sub-freezing temperature and windy conditions. We brought extra gear, including polar fleece pants and shirts, and extra gloves, which we offered them freely. Even though our packs were heavier than most up there, we are among those that actually could survived a sudden storm. At no time during our trip did any of us suffer from the wet or cold.

After caching our gear, we force ourselves to eat and drink. This is the longest break we take. Thirty minutes later we once again hit the trail. The next hour would prove to be arduous indeed.

"The view from both sides of the knife-like ridge is breathtaking..."

The "96 Switchbacks" begins easily enough, but three things contribute to making this among the hardest parts of the trip. First, the elevation progressed toward the Trail Crest to nearly 14,000 feet, making breathing and moving difficult. Second, the trail was latticed with rocks, ice and snow. Our shoes all have good soles, which made it easier, but we still battle slipping and sliding without crampons. At one point, we carefully cross a short but steep snowfield. Several hikers nearby turn back at this icy point, but we make it through without an incident. Finally, this section became arduous because a brisk wind had kicked up, making it more challenging.

Quick Retreat due to stormy conditions.

Constantly putting one foot in front of the other, taking short, but steady "rest steps," we make it to the top of the crest. Resting behind a series of rocks that make up the crest of the trail, we make it to 13,777 feet. We hear the wind howling through the rocks around and above us, and comment that it sounds louder than a series of freight trains. As we take off our gloves to eat, we notice the air is very cold, even when protected from the wind. Our water is the consistency of a Slurpee. Our bare hands can take the temperature for only a few moments before requiring our heavy gloves and mittens. Some around us were shivering with the cold, valiantly choking down Power Bars, and fiddling with Camelback water packs with frozen straws. We feel even better about our preparation. Before leaving, we gobble the last of our fried chicken (to the envy of our trail-mates), and ritually gulped down (Denise actually gagged down) the gooey globs of Power Gel. With energy to spare, we make our way through the roaring portal, and catch our first glimpse of the western side of the ridge, the Sequoia National Forest below, and the Great Western Divide in the distance.

The wind is raging at a constant 40 MPH, with regular gusts of 70 MPH. The view from both sides of the knife-like ridge is breathtaking. The wind-chill temperature of less than 30 below zero, along with the altitude of 14,000 feet, contribute to our breathlessness. Clouds are beginning to form over the hills in the distance, and we are beginning to get worried. As we make our way along the two-foot-wide path, there is a wall of the ridge on one side, and a drop of a thousand feet on the other. The wind did its best to slam us into the adjacent wall; finding firm footing is a constant struggle. We feel frustrated by the slow pace we are making, but we are never in any real danger, since the trail is dry and clear, and the wind is blowing us into the mountain, not away from it.

"Our legs are becoming progressively weaker, our knees are like giant rubber bands..."

We made a commitment to avoid bad weather, mainly because we were unprepared to make a safe ascent on a snow-covered trail, or in a whiteout. Ben made a quick run to catch up with Josh, Mark, and me. Breathless from the extra exertion, he told us he had passed several that were on their way down who told them firmly to leave the mountain. He informed us that he and Denise would be returning. The summit could be attained within the hour, but a none-too-violent storm could drop a foot or two of snow in that time, making the descent dangerous. We are prepared to spend the night if needed, but that would only compound the problem of a safe ascent. Mark, Josh, and I ponder making a quick trip to the summit, but better judgment dictates that we make a retreat. At a little before noon, in a violent storm with raging wind and snow, we begin our way back down.

On our journey back, we again marvel at the scenery, despite the howling gusts of wind hindering our way. At points between each of the pillars of rock, there are "windows" where the knife-ridge passes between the rock. Looking down either side of a two-foot-wide path is a thousand-foot drop. We hunker down as we crossed these narrow bridges, to avoid being blown down to the valley floor below.

"Going down the "96 Switchbacks" prove to be harder than ascending them..."

Because of the bitter temperatures, and overuse of calves and quads, some of us develop cramps in our legs. We walk them off, and kept plodding along, one foot after another. One stair step up, followed by another.

It's hard to describe the mental state you tend to be in when you're in such a situation. Your mind is entirely focused on the task at hand. Where are my feet going? Am I breathing deeply enough? Is this headache normal, or signs of a serious altitude problem called High Altitude Cerebral Edema (HACE)? Have I taken in enough water? Are my fingers cold from dehydration, are the straps on my pack cutting off circulation? How can I keep the straps from whipping me in the face? Are we almost there yet? Can I look up without the wind whipping off my hat? Occasionally, you need to actually tune out the stimuli to keep moving. Your mind tends to rerun lines from songs, snippets from movies, or short mantras that keep you going.

96 Switchbacks are the toughest part of the climb.

After the short ascent, we progress until we once again pass through the Portal, and breathe a sigh of relief to be back on the side of ridge with milder winds.

Going down the "96 Switchbacks" prove to be harder than ascending them. The trial is now icier, and often we have trouble maintaining our footings. Balancing with our ski poles, carefully placing each step, we make steady progress. The wind has moved over the mountain, and we are once again faced with steady winds and gusts even stronger than before. Several times as we are in mid-step, the wind literally picks us up off the trail, and slams us into the rocks on the downhill side of the trail. We remain firm in our conviction to get off the mountain safely. Despite the mountain's best effort, we make it to the safe ground of Trail Camp, and pick up our cached gear.

"After an hour of plodding through snow, and getting soaking wet, we are beginning to get frustrated..."

The trail down had iced up a bit, but we are more concerned with the fact that small, dry flakes of snow continue to fall. Our legs are becoming progressively weaker, our knees are like giant rubber bands. Small aches are becoming big ones. By putting one foot in front of the other, we make it past the Outpost Camp, and down to Lone Pine Lake. We take time to refill our water bottles, and all greedily swallow up cold Country Time Lemonade, mixed with a tinge of iodine tablets.

By this time, it is getting dark, and the snowflakes are bigger and wetter. We brush the snow off our packs, and keep moving along. Though the weather gave us cause for concern, it is so beautiful that we feel we are walking in a Christmas card. It seems a fitting end to the fall trip, symbolizing the beginning of winter to the five of us who didn't want summer to end.

Because we ascended this part of the trail half asleep, and in pitch black, we don't remember it being as long as it is. We think we are within a half-hour of the trailhead. After an hour of plodding through snow, and getting soaking wet, we are extremely frustrated. Denise begins to curse my name. Mark and I keep commenting that we just want to be home. Our feet are aching, our knees are raw, our gloves are wet, and we just want to be done. It is at this time we see the lights of the camp in the distance. To our unbearable dismay, we still have at least a mile to go.

"Rarely in life do we pay so much attention to what we're doing. Rarely are we "in the moment."..."

Then, almost from nowhere yellow parking lights appear right in front of us. We quickly determine it is Josh, who made it to the car about an hour before us. Taking off the wet packs is glorious. Sitting in the car even seems like a great reward for making our trip. We all jump into the car so fast we neglect to take the "expedition photo". Getting to our motel, and out of our boots and gear, is foremost on our minds.

The Author on the left stops for a quick picture.

When it's all said and done, I often ask myself the question that others have so often asked of me: "Why do you climb mountains? What's the attraction?" The answer isn't really simple. It's not the trite line that we often hear "because it's there." It's not the glory of reaching the summit. I suppose that for me it has to do with the attention I give it while I'm there. I'm in a completely foreign, ultra-sensory place. I put behind me 100% of what's not important, and at the same time, I accentuate what is important. For a short time, you are completely aware of your surroundings, and aware of your body and soul. You feel every pain. You consciously and carefully place one foot in front of another. Rarely in life do we pay so much attention to what we're doing. Rarely are we "in the moment." Often I find myself reverting to basic beliefs. I often speak with God as I walk, and think of my wife Jeri, and other family members. I never think of work, and things left undone. Everything is boiled down to precise fragments. Nothing is overwhelming. Nothing is impossible.

The memories of the hardship of the trip are already fading. I recall fondly the company I had on the journey, the laughs we had on along the way, the lessons we all learned about ourselves and our abilities, and the grandeur of the Sierras. As we leave Lone Pine Sunday morning, the clouds had enveloped the peaks, and the storm continues to rage. But for those of us leaving the town behind for now, Mount Whitney is bright indeed.

John Porcaro is a Contributing Editor at GearReview.com.