After several years of furiously collecting national parks under our family belt, along with hiking a swath of trails from Colorado to California to Washington, I felt the urge to go off by myself and do something a bit bigger than Brianne’s little legs would allow. I wasn’t getting any younger, and our tour of the western wonderlands had me itching for a bigger personal challenge.
One of our marathon trips in 2005 included the parks of the
Sierra Nevada mountain range in California – Yosemite, Kings Canyon and Sequoia. Yosemite in
particular just blew me away with its splendor and beauty. The enormous,
cathedral-like granite formations in this range, along with the many gorgeous waterfalls,
had made a deep impression on me. I had discovered during that trip that the
highest peak in America,
outside of Alaska, was located in Sequoia National Park, and was actually
surprisingly accessible.
Mt.
Whitney, at 14,508 feet
above sea level, is located along the crest of the eastern Sierra, where the
range’s tallest mountains seem to congregate. There are twelve “fourteeners” in
California,
and ten of them are placed in a relatively compact area of the Sierra’s eastern
side. Of these ten, Mt. Whitney is one of the two most accessible from US 395
that runs north/south through the Owens
Valley. The Whitney Portal Road
rises from US 395 at the tiny town of Lone Pine, to the Whitney Portal, which is the trailhead location for
the mountain. From an elevation of 8,365 feet, the Mt. Whitney Main Trail
begins an 11-mile journey to the summit of what was for years America’s
tallest peak, pre-Alaska. That means a 22-mile round trip. The vertical gain
works out to about 6,300 feet, once incidental numbers are included. That’s a
lot of up.
I should take a moment here and put these numbers in
perspective for non-hikers. Covering 22 miles in a day or two is a lot for most
people, but is quite doable for anyone reasonably fit. Hoofing out 22 miles on
flat or rolling terrain isn’t that big a deal. The vertical gain in a mountain
hike, not to put too fine a point on it, is what kicks your ass. You stress
different muscle groups than just walking the flatlands, and they quickly rebel
unless they’ve been accustomed to coping with it. Your legs, knees and hips
take a serious pounding, especially on the descent which is an under-appreciated
part of a big mountain climb.
Add in additional factors like having weight on your back
and, most importantly, the declining amount of oxygen pressure in the air as
you ascend, and life can get pretty damn miserable if you’re not prepared. The
air at the summit of Mt.
Whitney has only about
65% of the oxygen content as at sea level. That’s a lot. Most humans begin
experiencing serious problems at 80%, which is why acclimation is so critical
to any successful ascent of a mountain over 10,000 feet elevation.
So, after a ton of research I decided I would take on the Mt. Whitney
challenge. My homework also revealed that this peak was very likely the most
sought-after summit in America.
So much so that the National Forest Service (in whose territory the largest
section of the trail resides) severely limits traffic on the mountain during
the high-volume summer months. People come from all over the world to attempt Mt. Whitney
and, if left unrestrained, the hordes would soon overwhelm and seriously damage
the fragile alpine environment. Therefore the NFS (Inyo County)
has a lottery in place for securing a permit to put your boots on the Whitney
trail. They issue a maximum of 100 dayhike permits per day, and 60 overnight
permits per day. This is a broad explanation and there are several variations
and exceptions to this process, but you get the idea. In February of each year
you can submit your application(s) for dates to the Inyo NFS lottery, and by
April you’ll know if any of your dates hit.
I had decided in 2006 that I was serious about trying
Whitney, so I submitted a lottery application in February of 2007. And got
skunked. I tried again in 2008 with the same results. This was harder than I
had expected. I tried again in 2009 and, lo and behold, I received a permit in
the mail for my requested date of August 19th. At the time I was
thrilled, after playing this lottery game for almost three years. Like so much
else in life, though, you live and learn. As future blogs will show, the
eastern Sierra in general and Mt.
Whitney in particular,
would eventually become my family’s second home, and I would soon figure out
how to completely bypass this entire lottery process with nearly 100%
confidence that I could obtain a permit for the mountain. My future familiarity
with the Whitney lottery institution would also reveal that a closed stairwell
and a gas-powered leaf blower were integral to the selection process. Extremely high-tech!
So, it’s April of 2009 and I’ve got an August date with the
highest mountain in the Lower 48 (49 actually, since the only summits higher
are in Alaska,
but traditions die hard). Time to begin preparing, planning, training! Oh yeah
– one small thing. I should probably tell my wife that I’m about to embark on
this solo adventure . . .
I explained my plans to Barb and got one of the most
uncomfortable stares she’s ever delivered to me. It could have flash-frozen a
sizable lake. “So . . .,” she began, “you’re going off all by yourself, at almost
52, to climb a mountain somewhere across the country, not knowing a soul out
there, and with no help if you get in trouble?”
“Yep!”, I replied beaming! “How cool, huh?”
“Hmmmm. I don’t know about ‘cool’. Do people ever get hurt
or die on this mountain?”
“Of course not!”, I said defensively. Silence. “Well . . .
not that many, anyway. Besides, you know I’m careful – I’ll stay out of
trouble.”
Famous last words, as it turned out. One of my favorite
quotes regarding mountaineering (and folks, there are a ton of them besides
Mallory’s famous “Because it’s there” quip) goes like this: your limit is the thing you did right before
the one that killed you. Why do I suspect a hardcore cynic came up with
that one?
After a little more back and forth, Barb eased up on me.
After all, this wouldn’t be my first solo hiking trip on the other side of the
country – I had spent a week hiking and scrambling in Death Valley the year before,
all by my wittle self, and returned whole and unharmed. This would just be another similar
trip, only going a bit higher. Okay, a lot higher.
The permit I had received was for a dayhike. After waffling
back and forth between this option and an overnight permit during the
application process, I had selected it because I simply didn’t want to drag a
ton of overnight gear across the country. Or up a big-ass mountain, to be
honest. Tent, sleeping bag, pad, stove, bear canister, water filter, extra
clothing, food – that shit adds up! I
had calculated that, with the necessary essentials for a dayhike to 14,500
feet, I could get away with a pack of about 17 pounds as opposed to my best
guesstimate of a 38-pound overnight load with my current inventory of mostly
non-ultra-light gear.
Again, if you don’t hike, trust me on this: there is very
little in this world (at least from a non-catastrophic standpoint) more miserable
than hauling heavy weight up a mountain in thinning air. The possible exception
is hauling that same damn load down a
mountain on fatigued legs and barking knees. Dante somehow missed this singular
horror in his vision of Hell’s nine levels, but it belongs.
So, going light and fast (both relative terms) was going to
be my MO for Whitney. The downside of this whole dayhike thingy was that it
would make for a long day. A very long day. I would need to start at the
trailhead no later than 3:30 a.m. (more on this “Mountaineer’s start” logic
later), and all my research had indicated that the average Whitney dayhike was
10 hours up and 6 down. Despite my public school education, I managed to cipher
this out to about 16 hours. Yep, definitely a very long day.
I had walked 20-plus miles in a day before, so check. The
most vertical gain I had managed in a day was about 4,500 feet, but that was
due to there being all there was to be had on that hike, not cuz my legs
gave out. So a check with an asterisk. Gotta work on that. The most critical
factor was going to be my ability to handle the 14,500-foot altitude. Fortunately,
I had been above 14,000 feet several times in the past few years, and above
12,000 feet many more times. Never a twinge of AMS. This is the area I felt
most confident about regarding this hike’s challenges. Big, bold check!
About AMS (Acute Mountain Sickness): this single factor is
what defeats most people who fail to summit Mt. Whitney,
or any other mountain over 12,000 feet elevation. Reverting back to Dante’s
Hells, let me add that AMS should have its own special level reserved. Anyone
who has had the misfortune to experience this evil manifestation of your entire
body short-circuiting all at once knows what I’m talking about. The simple fact
is that AMS symptoms are the result of reduced oxygen to the brain. It usually
starts out with a headache, but that can quickly become migraine-intense. The
headache is often accompanied by violent nausea. Additional symptoms can include
lethargy, blurred vision, vertigo, trembling, and confusion. A mild “altitude
headache” is not uncommon above 10,000 feet, but once it intensifies and is
accompanied by a second symptom from the list above, the assumption has to be AMS. The only relief
from AMS is immediate descent to a lower elevation where there is more oxygen
in the air. Failure to descend promptly can result in symptoms worsening to
cerebral edema (fluid on the brain) or pulmonary edema (fluid in the lungs).
Either can kill you astonishingly quickly.
Not to jump too far ahead in this story, but illustrative of
the seriousness of AMS: while I was on an acclimation hike a few days before my
first Whitney attempt, I ran across a group of SoCal backpackers near
Cottonwood Pass, at about 12,000 feet elevation. One of the group, a sixteen
year-old boy was clearly not feeling well. As I spoke with the group, all teen
males, I realized they didn’t have any first aid supplies with them. They were
backpacking on a lark and were not experienced in the mountains, nor were they
very knowledgeable about AMS. I explained the symptoms and seriousness, and
gave the boy a couple of Advil for his headache. Before we parted I left them
with a few more tablets of Advil and Tylenol, and advised that the ill boy be
watched closely for worsening of symptoms, and to get him down fast if that
occurred. Two days later I heard (and read) that this poor kid had indeed
worsened and unfortunately died of cerebral edema before SAR (Search and
Rescue) could get him down to a hospital. That event will haunt me for the rest
of my life. I know there was nothing more I could have done at the time,
especially with a group of we’re-invulnerable teen boys, but it didn’t have to
happen.
Although I had never experienced the hell of AMS, I had seen
it up close and personal a couple of years before, and it really scared me. We
had flown out to Colorado for a Rocky Mountain
adventure, and during a visit to the summit of Pikes Peak
(14,115 ft) Barb became suddenly and violently ill. One minute she was fine – 20
minutes later she had a headache so intense she was crying. Barb regularly deals
with migraines, so this told me she was suffering beyond anything a migraine
had ever thrown at her. She was nauseous as well. I may have set some kind of
speed record getting her back down to Colorado
Springs, where she spent the rest of the evening in very
worrisome shape in our hotel room. By the next morning she had recovered
reasonably well, but the impression that her AMS symptoms had left on me was vivid.
She was literally incapacitated for 14 hours. Even getting out of bed for a
bathroom visit seemed like a marathon for her.
So, I had overcome what I thought at the time was the
biggest hurdle to climbing Whitney: I had a permit! Making travel arrangements
and training were next. This was early April, and I had a mid-August date, so I
was left with 4 solid months to train. I knew from experience that I could get
in mountain shape with 8-10 weeks of dedicated work, so I felt I had a
comfortable margin. I immediately set out to hit Kennesaw Mountain
twice a week until it was time to depart.
Kennesaw Mountain National
Battlefield Park
is a 20-minute drive from our home, and affords one of only two opportunities
in metro Atlanta
to hike some reasonably serious gain. The other is Stone
Mountain, on the other side of the city and an hour away in the
absolute best traffic circumstances, so I’m really fortunate to have Kennesaw
in my figurative back yard. The next best option is a two- or three-hour
drive north of Atlanta to the Blue
Ridge Mountains, which can eat up most of a day.
Kennesaw is actually two mountains and a very rocky hill,
with one of the park trails doing a pretty good imitation of a roller coaster
over all three. The trail starts at the NPS
Visitor Center,
going up and over Kennesaw
Mountain, up and over
Little Kennesaw Mountain, then down Pigeon Hill to Burnt Hickory Road. An out-and-back (OAB)
gets you six miles and 2000 vertical feet of cumulative gain. There are also a
series of interconnected trails that meander around the mountains, so plenty of
opportunity to put in miles and gain if you plan it properly. The ever-present
problem at Kennesaw for someone training for a much bigger peak (and there are
quite a number of Atlantans that do, based on my experience here over the years),
is that there is no real sustained gain opportunity. It’s all a series of ups
and downs, with a 700-foot gain being the biggest challenge before you’re
headed back downhill again. Your legs never experience the kind of stress that they
feel on a mountain like Mt. Whitney, which is over 6,000 feet of sustained,
unrelenting uphill (with a couple of exceptions, but the general idea sticks). That,
however, can be said for just about anywhere east of the Rocky
Mountains, so you simply do the best you can.
I set out training at Kennesaw, quickly realizing how far out of
shape I had fallen since returning from Death Valley,
and began to get my legs and lungs in reasonably decent condition. I religiously
trekked twice a week. I bought new gear and gave everything a thorough
breaking-in. I did my due diligence, reading three different books on the
subject of hiking Mt.
Whitney, and plotted out
every landmark, mile, water source and terrain feature along the 11-mile route
(those who know me won’t be the least bit surprised at this – “There’s Hicks in
OCD mode again”). I scoured the internet for information, finally stumbling
across the Whitney Portal Store message board, which ultimately initiated a sea
change in both my and my family’s life.
Message boards: these are common in the mountaineering
community out west. They serve as an easily accessible central location to
exchange beta (current conditions) about a given peak, and can prove invaluable
for someone planning to climb or hike a route for the first time. Each board
has its regular contributors who are the source of great beta and offer a wealth
of experience to “noobs” (newbies) contemplating that first ascent. The Whitney
Portal Store message board (WPS from now on) is owned and operated by a gent
named Doug Thompson, who is also the author of one of the Mt. Whitney
books I had obtained from Amazon. Doug is a living legend in the Whitney area,
having owned and operated the actual Whitney Portal Store since 1987, and very
likely has more Whitney summits under his belt than any living mountaineer. I’ll
spend more time detailing this amazing man in future posts, and the impact he’s
had on my family, but for now I’ll just introduce him.
Anyway, having a bright-bulb moment, I promptly joined the
WPS board and began asking questions on-line about my first attempt at the
mountain. Some of these boards can be very insular and cliquish, and I was
afraid a noob from the other side of the country would get short shrift. I was
very pleased, though, at the number and quality of the responses I received to
my questions. I got really good advice that caused me to change some of my
plans and training regimen, and the more I posted, the more I learned about
some of these folks. I quickly built on-line relationships with several WPS
members. I know that sounds creepy but mountaineering message boards are not
your typical message board, and the vast majority of people that populate them
are simply outstanding human beings. Sure there are a few jerks who troll the
boards, but these losers are pretty easy to spot. The biggest difference is
that many of these folks know and hike/climb with each other locally, having
done so for years, and provide an inviting and comfortable environment for
others who are serious about learning.
My joining the WPS message board to ask a few questions
about this mountain was the first step in a series of events that progressively
led to a wealth of treasured friendships for both myself and my family. This
one simple choice truly changed the course of our lives in so many ways, and
would introduce us to a group of quality people in the California mountaineering community that we
would come to think of as our “Sierra Family”, complete with plenty of “aunts” and “uncles” for Bri. It continues to
grow to this day and I often wonder how things would be different for us if I
had not made this seemingly innocuous decision in 2009. I think we would be the
poorer for it.
I spent the summer of that year training hard and learning
as much as I could absorb about Mt.
Whitney and the Sierra.
Barb, though still chilly to the idea of my gallivanting off across the country
to take on this challenge solo, was reasonably supportive and actually joined
me for a few training hikes. Bri didn’t really comprehend what I was embarking
on, but definitely picked up on Barb’s concern. I had to assure her several
times that this was really no big deal, and that Dad would be just fine. Before
I knew it, August had rolled around and it was time to gear up and head west. I
was as prepared as I thought I could be, and I was eager to get on with it. As
I boarded my flight for Las Vegas, I was envisioning
my triumphant return to Atlanta
and the story I would be able to tell about conquering the highest peak in the L49.
I wound up with a story, alright. The old adage, “be careful
what you wish for” is sooooo appropriate . . .
Part 2 coming soon.
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