Acute Mountain Stupidity (Part 4 of 5)

 

 

Zero Hour of D-Day. After planning for almost 4 years, playing the stupid Whitney Lottery permit game, I was finally here – it’s now time to climb the highest peak in America outside Alaska! I once again checked my pack, ensuring I had everything I needed, then weighed it on the handy-dandy spring scale provided at the trailhead. It came in a tad heavier than I had planned. I had hoped to get away with 15 pounds, but the overstuffed daypack weighed in at 17. I very briefly considered throwing Tucker back in the car, but in the grand scheme of things he was virtually weightless, and besides took up no pack space since he just bounced merrily along on his carabiner attached to my pack’s daisy chain. And, yes, I would have felt guilty. Eventually. While also not having my favorite punching bag to curse at when I got tired or irritated. Oh well, I’d begin eating and drinking that excess weight away pretty soon.

During this O’dark Thirty gearing-up process, I kept a very close eye on my pack and supplies, never getting more than a couple of feet away from them. The bears around the Portal are notorious for their grab-and-go tactics. They watch from the dark and as soon as a hiker’s back is turned or they step away from their gear, the bear darts in and absconds with the food-filled pack. It’s a scene that plays out over and over here, and the bears often prove smarter than the hikers. I have no doubt I was being watched, but I was alert to the trick and stayed right on my gear. The other heavily-emphasized caution by the Forest Service is to ensure there is absolutely no food in your vehicle, or anything that can be visually associated with food by a bear (coolers, bags, packs). While the bears in California are generally not aggressive towards people, they do grow fairly big and will rip a car door right off the hinges if they think there’s food inside. Most trailheads are equipped with heavy-duty bear lockers for people to store food and other scented items.

Headlamp beaming brightly, Tucker and I set off up the trail at 3:30 a.m. with a sense of anticipation and excitement. This was the first time I had begun a hike so early, and the trail looked quite different by headlamp than it did a few days before during my trial run up to the North Fork crossing. I took it reasonably steady the first few hundred yards, but I began to get my rhythm at about a half mile. I’m a notoriously slow starter on a hike, and it can take me up to a mile before I feel comfortable with my breathing, footing, and just general exertion level. Once I find that rhythm I generally pick up the pace steadily to the point that I’m breathing deeply but not gasping in oxygen debt, so I was actually pretty pleased to have found my stride after only a half mile.

It was eerily quiet that early and, while it seemed a bit Twilight Zonish to be in this situation, I felt a profound sense of peaceful solitude. I kept looking up (very briefly – eyes on the trail, dammit!) at the incredible panorama of stars, and I’m sure that contributed to the range of emotions I was feeling. I hit the North Fork creek crossing after about 25 minutes hiking. This was the 1 mile mark, with 11 more to go, and I was very pleased with my pace.

The North Fork crossing is about twenty yards wide, with strategically-placed rocks for a smooth hop-crossing when the water level is reasonable. I’ve seen this creek raging, completely inundating the rock hops and looking pretty scary, but it was running just fine this morning. I crossed it without incident and continued on for another mile before stopping for a quick bite. It was still well before 4:30 and I had covered two miles already! I was mentally patting myself on the back for keeping a nice pace when a group of half a dozen guys with daypacks came seemingly out of nowhere, on their way up and flat-out moving. We exchanged brief greetings and they were gone in a blink. As I finished up my power bar I wondered if that extreme pace would come back to haunt them. I don’t recall seeing them again that day but it’s entirely possible we crossed paths again and I just wasn’t capable of recognizing them.

I made it to Lone Pine Lake, 9,200 feet and mile number three, at about 4:45. Three miles in an hour and 15 minutes – not bad! I knew I would eventually begin to slow down as I gained altitude, but I seemed to be well ahead of the mile-per-hour pace most folks average on a Whitney ascent. Just past Lone Pine Lake I would be entering the designated Whitney Zone where being caught by a ranger without a permit was a great way to ruin your day. My bright orange tag was attached to my pack next to Tucker, and my permit was safely stowed in a zippered pocket.

The eastern sky was beginning to lighten a bit with the impending sunrise, but it was still pretty dark. This was one of the few flat areas on the hike, so I ventured the requisite 100 feet off-trail to take a whizz (steady hydrating and all, y’know). That was when the first problem of the day reared its ugly head – after taking care of business I found that my zipper was stuck!

I spent several minutes wrestling with it, but the damn thing was seriously locked in place. I could not believe it! I had worn these hiking pants dozens of times and never had an issue. Why, of all possible occasions, would the stupid zipper malfunction while I was on Mt. Whitney for the first time?! I finally gave up and just pulled out my shirt tail to hang free. I assure you, knowing you’re going to be spending the vast majority of the day encountering other people on Mt. Whitney with your fly wide open is a very distracting thought. Tucker caught it pretty hot, since it was obviously his fault. Everything is Tucker’s fault, the way I see it.

I continued to climb above Lone Pine Lake as the sun rose, eventually looking back to see the gorgeous spectacle of the lake far below shimmering in the morning gloom, and then much further below the hazy desert of the Owens valley and Lone Pine. I was beginning to get a real sense of the altitude. I crested out at Bighorn Park, about 10,000 feet and one of the few flat areas along the 11-mile trail. There is a fresh-water spring here – maybe the best water available anywhere on the Whitney trail – and I stopped to replenish my water bladder. Using a filter, of course. Most hardcore Sierra vets will tell you the water is perfectly fine anywhere in the Sierra, and filtering is just a waste of time and unnecessary weight. Me, I’m in the better-safe-than-sorry school.

After topping off my water from the spring, I rock-hopped across Lone Pine Creek and soon found myself in Outpost camp, one of two designated camping sites on the trail. This is really a very pretty campsite, situated just below an idyllic waterfall. The downside to camping here, though, is that the trail runs directly through the campground. Dayhikers that get a really early start (2:00 or so) often go tramping and yakking through the campground before many of the backpackers are up, and it can be very irritating. Seems that some people feel that since they’re up and on the trail, that everyone should be awake. I passed through very quietly, trying to be considerate of others sleeping.

I was now at mile 4 and a little above 10,000 feet. I still felt strong and was almost giddy with how things were progressing. My pace had slowed a bit, even accounting for the time tanking up at Bighorn Park, but I had expected that to happen as I got higher. It was a bit before 5:30, so I was still on the positive side of a two mph pace after climbing about 2,000 feet. My legs were not feeling fatigued at all and I was on schedule, reasonably allowing for more slowing as I ascended, to hit the summit in well below 10 hours. If I could just keep a snail’s pace of 1 mph the rest of the way, I would reach the summit in about 9 hours total. More likely 8 or less at the rate I was going. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was by far the best and most positive I would feel all day. As far as I was concerned, it was in the bag.

Feeling supremely confident, I forged ahead and soon found myself passing Mirror Lake and ascending the granite slabs that rise above it. I was moving above timberline now and the last of the diminishing pines were left behind me. The terrain changed abruptly to a moonscape of rocks and more rocks. Only the occasional bright purple/blue polemonium (sky pilot) added any real color to the grayish-white granite panorama. The sky was cloudless and the sun was steadily rising. I actually began to feel uncomfortably warm and stopped to strip off and stow the fleece I had started out in. After another couple of hundred yards I still felt warmish, so I stopped to strip off and stow my convertible pants legs.

I sort of got lost in the rhythm of walking what was now a much more rocky trail. The path was cut out of granite and offered either slabs requiring close attention or stone staircases that required more effort. The incline became steeper and the work became harder, and I found myself tiring for the first time today. When I reached Trailside Meadow, a small sanctuary of green amidst the stark granite landscape, I felt the first throb of a headache coming on. I was at roughly 11,000 feet and about 5 miles into the hike. My pace had slowed noticeably. Looking at my watch I was surprised to see that it was past 6:30. Even accounting for the multiple stops to strip off clothing and nibble/drink, I was beginning to lag.

The headache, however, concerned me even more. How could I have an altitude headache? I had been at 11,000 feet and higher three of the past four days! There was no reason I should have a headache at this altitude, especially since I just didn’t get headaches to begin with. I stopped to mull this over and drink some more. I had peed about half a mile back, so I wasn’t dehydrated. What the hell was going on? I popped a couple of Advil and continued my ascent, unsettled at this unexpected development.

I continued on past Consultation Lake, a gorgeous blue alpine tarn that would eventually become my favorite camping destination on the mountain, knowing I was slowing down even further. The headache was intensifying and I was becoming very, very unhappy. Tucker got a good tongue-lashing for letting this happen, which made me feel a tiny bit better.

The next major landmark was Trail Camp, at 12,000 feet and mile number 6. This is the other designated backpacking campground on the trail, and is the primary first-day destination for most overnighters climbing Whitney. It looks like anything but a campground since it’s mostly a jumble of boulders, talus and scree with an unappealing, greenish pond off to the side, but there are an amazing number of extremely primitive campsites to be had here if you know what you’re doing. Nothing is marked as a campsite – you just do the best you can with the rocks. As there is no soil to drive a tent stake into, and since this plateau is notorious for being scoured by ferocious winds, the art of stabilizing your tent by tying guy lines to rocks is critical.

Trail Camp is a very desolate place, and suffers even more from all the overnight traffic it receives. By late summer this camp is truly a ghetto of discarded trash and used WAG bags, and from my very first visit I swore I would never overnight here. As I walked into the camp it was pretty empty, most of its occupants having already departed for the summit. I decided it was time for “lunch” and settled down on a rock outcrop by the pond to fish something to eat out of my pack. It was then that I looked at my watch and saw that it was almost 8:00.

WTH?!?!? It had taken me an hour and fifteen minutes to cover the last mile?! I was just a little over halfway to the summit, but my pace had degraded that much? And I was surprised that I had not even noticed, or been checking my watch like I had throughout the first 5 miles of the hike. I was feeling a bit lethargic and fatigued to go along with the pounding headache and I definitely needed to eat something and take some more Advil. I wasn’t hungry at all (my appetite always seems to go MIA when I’m at elevation), but I knew I needed fuel. I had pulled out some tuna, cheese and crackers and sat there nibbling while looking at my next challenge.

Rising 1,600 feet above Trail Camp are the infamous 97 Switchbacks that lead to the Sierra crest, and the junction with the John Muir Trail near Trail Crest. This steep granite face, seemingly impassable without technical climbing equipment, has been ingeniously engineered with a never-ending series of switchbacks cut into the rock. It’s truly an impressive work, especially considering it was built a hundred years before using man-sweat and mules, but it also looks very daunting. The switchbacks literally climb up and over each other at sharp angles in a very narrow, precipitous manner. This serpentine, spaghettied impostor of a trail goes on for two and a half miles before finally reaching Trail Crest at 13,600 feet, and is notoriously tedious and boring.

I sat in that spot way too long, pondering the switchbacks and feeling pretty crappy. At some point I topped off my water (the last water source before the summit). I only ate about half of my snack, the other half being stealthily snatched away by a roly-poly marmot when my head was turned. These fat little golden waddlers are famous for surreptitiously stealing food at any opportunity, and Trail Camp is literally overrun with them since that’s where the food is.

By the time I swung my pack onto my back and looked at my watch, it was 9:00. Jeez, where did the time go?! I had spent an hour just lazing around when I had planned for fifteen minutes at the most! I buckled up my pack, determined to pick up the pace, and set off towards the switchbacks. And went maybe a hundred yards before I unexpectedly, violently puked.

Oh hell, this isn’t good. This qualifies as a second symptom and by rights I should assume I have AMS and turn around. But there’s no way I could possibly have AMS at 12,000 feet. I don’t get AMS, right? And certainly not at 12,000 feet. Yes, many, many people do, but not me! My stomach was roiling, threatening another expulsion, but I managed to convince myself that it was the tuna I had eaten and that it would soon pass. It didn’t seem to matter that, just like with headaches, I almost never have nausea. I desperately didn’t want this to be AMS and I was looking for some way to rationalize going forward. So onward I went.

I began the switchbacks (and started counting as well, since there was some dispute as to whether there were 97 or 99) and tried to keep a moderate pace. My head was pounding and it actually seemed to be increasing in intensity. Waves of nausea were coming and going, and visions of that horrific day with Barb on Pikes Peak began to enter my mind. But it was just the tuna, I kept telling myself. Keep putting one foot in front of the other and it’ll eventually go away. The sun was beating down on me very uncomfortably and my legs began to bark at me. I was definitely tiring. I stopped at maybe the 20^th switchback to take a blow and drink some water. It was at that point when I realized that my arms and legs were trembling. I stood there, trekking poles gripped and firmly planted on the ground, but it felt like I was standing on a rope bridge swaying in the wind. Nothing felt firm or substantial. I threw up again. Damn tuna.

Screw it, I told myself. It’s just fatigue. Shake it off and keep moving.

Some time later I came to the most dangerous section of the switchbacks, about the 45^th, known as the Cables. The trail drops precipitously from here and is compounded by the fact that its north-facing, shaded, and tends to hold snow and ice much longer than other areas of the switchbacks. A series of posts with a steel retaining cable was constructed long ago to assist hikers who were forced to the outside edge by ice. There was very little ice left by August this year, and I continued on through after stopping to take a couple of photos. Looking at my watch I saw that it was now past 10:00. I was still moving at less than a mile per hour. Not good. Not good at all.

Although it was a steady buildup of symptoms, it felt to me as if everything came crashing down at once. I had been slowly climbing the switchbacks above the cables, almost in a stupor, when I felt I just could not go any further. I stopped, planning to rest a bit, but I heaved once again. The trembling in my extremities had increased and when I went to lean my butt against a boulder I almost fell. That feeling of being on a swaying bridge intensified and, now that I was standing still, I realized my vision was intermittently misfiring – double vision, which I had experienced a couple of times before in my life but not for at least ten years.

I finally admitted to myself that I most definitely had a full-blown case of AMS going on, and took stock of my situation. I was feeling by far the worst I had ever felt in my life, almost incapacitated with these damn AMS symptoms and completely alone. I’m seven-plus long, torturous mountain miles from the Portal, with some dangerous terrain to negotiate, and my head feels like demons are using it for a bowling alley. I’m retching every twenty minutes. I’m dizzy, and I can barely put one foot in front of the other with any confidence. My thinking feels mushy and distorted. I’m trembling uncontrollably, almost like with fever chills, and a feeling of extreme fatigue – sleepiness, actually – has come over me to the point that I really just want to lay down and not give a damn what happens.

This could NOT be happening! I had done all the right things, dammit! I had trained well, I had taken 3 acclimation hikes, I had been hydrating religiously, I had been fueling my system regularly, I had been watching my pace and pressure-breathing – how in the freakin’ world could I possibly have such a severe case of AMS, especially when altitude had never – NEVER – bothered me before?!?! Jeez, just a couple of years before I had gone from essentially sea level to 14,100 feet in the space of 16 hours, with absolutely no acclimation, and it had not produced even a mild headache. I was beyond confused and frustrated, to go along with my laundry list of AMS symptoms.

I really can’t describe accurately the feeling of despair I experienced looking down, seemingly forever, at the Owens Valley almost two vertical miles below. Somewhere down there was the Portal and safety, but it might as well have been on the other side of the world for all the confidence I had in making it. But the worst part was that I knew I had failed. There would be no Whitney summit for me today, and all the months – years, actually – of preparation and planning were swirling down the toilet. I had been so confident of my plan! The weather, normally the biggest single factor in failed Whitney summits, was the absolute best I could have hoped for, but I was going to have to turn around and somehow make my way back to the trailhead.

I at least had the presence of mind left to blame Tucker for getting me into this, and I blasted him good with enough invective to shrivel his little puppy ears. It didn’t do any good, but I told myself that it made me feel better. It also made a descending hiker look at me like I had grown a second head, while noticeably increasing her pace down the trail.

I sat down on a rock, fighting the overwhelming urge to just lie down and go to sleep, and tried to consider my options rationally. It was about 11:30 a.m. and I had a bit over seven miles to descend. I still had about nine hours of daylight to work with, so if I could just manage a mile an hour – an absolute snail’s pace for me since I normally descend at 3-4 mph – I could be at the Portal well before dark. Even though I had a headlamp the idea of stumbling around Mt. Whitney alone, in the dark, and in my condition, scared me more than any other prospect. I was fixated on getting down before the sun set.

The idea of asking other people on the trail for help occurred to me briefly, but that’s just not my style. I had gotten myself into this mess, and I was going to get myself out of it as long as I could stay on my feet. Besides, what could anyone else really do for me? The harsh reality of a situation like this is that, if you’re not taken out by helicopter or on a litter, you make it out by walking, regardless of whatever assistance you may have. No matter how you slice it or dice it, barring a complete collapse I was going to have to hoof it out.

Now of course years later with a clear head, and having the experience of helping quite a few people in the same shape I was in that day, I know that seeking assistance could have prevented me possibly getting into an even worse situation. Lots of disoriented folks with AMS have walked right off mountainsides to their death. Many more have compounded their situation with a bad injury while discombobulated by their symptoms. The best help a person with AMS can receive is someone just walking with them, providing encouragement, making sure they go slow and easy, watching their footing, ensuring they’re hydrating and nibbling, and staying on the trail.

In other words, nannying them. And that concept was incredibly abhorrent to me at the time. I was very independent. And very stubborn.

I had made my decision. No summit fever for me. I was going to descend, carefully and steadily, putting one foot in front of the other and depending on my trusty Black Diamond trekking poles to keep me balanced and safe. Let’s go, Tucker.

AMS has a lot of scary qualities, but the most insidious is the way it scrambles your brain without you realizing it. If you’ve ever dealt with a person with advanced AMS, they can come across as confused, unresponsive, irrational, even hallucinatory. It’s not uncommon. I knew my thought processing was fuzzy, but I had been congratulating myself on having recognized what was happening, eschewing the summit fever that often grips someone with AMS, and rationally deciding to turn around. I knew I was in really bad shape, but at least I was still thinking reasonably clearly and doing something about it.

Then I realized about half an hour later, and to my horror, that I was still heading up the mountain.

Part 5 coming soon (hopefully the last segment).