I entered the Whitney Lottery with the hordes back in February. I got my chosen climb dates immediately because I was just one person applying. Immediately I began running, shed some winter weight, and did a lot of longer endurance hikes. I wasn’t too worried about the physical aspect, since after all it was an overnight, and I wasn’t trying to do the torturous one day marathon like so many others on the mountain this summer.
How many of those folks make the summit in one day on average I don’t know, but it’s a surprising number considering the hike is 22 miles round trip. The main factor that takes the daytrippers by surprise is not so much the hike itself, with its gentle grades, but the altitude. Most people can’t just get out of the car and walk up to fourteen thousand feet without feeling pretty rough, so the smart hiker plans the trip out with a little buffer time to acclimatize at some high campgrounds and trails in the preceding days. But a lot of people don’t. I was amazed at the number of people who seemed ill-prepared, and even more amazed by the number of those people who swiftly made it up and down.
For this trip, I’d been more or less packed since June. I could post my equipment list, but I don’t really think it’s necessary for what's essentially a one-night hike. The Sierras can get cold even in August, so use the layer system. Filter your water. Pack light because the ascent is a bitch. There are plenty of trip reports online, and literally anything you need to know can be found at the Whitney Portal Store Message Board, and its invaluable “first-timers” page with driving directions, permit information and campground listings.
I flew into Ontario airport, because it was cheaper than Inyokern and closer than Reno. The drive itself is really easy and fun, although I’ve forgotten what it’s like to drive at high speeds, having become accustomed to Oregon’s coma-inducing 60 mph limit. The two lane highways through high desert definitely keep you on your toes. I made it to Lone Pine in three hours flat, but I was pushing it. It’s amazing how dramatically suburbia drops away after Ontario, with nary a strip mall in sight for 200 miles or more.
Lone Pine is the hub of Owens Valley, a massive dry lakebed between the Eastern Sierras and the mountains just west of Death Valley. The area figured prominently in the California Water Wars, which the movie Chinatown is actually based on. Basically, L.A. stole all of Owen's Valley's water thus killing all their crops, but Hollywood execs continue to use the area whenever they needed to replicate some exotic desert or mountain landscape (think Russell Crowe crossing in front of Whitney in Gladiator). The Alabama Hills at the base of the Whitney Portal are also cinematically famous, although I can’t think of when I’ve seen the striking potato-shaped finger and toe rock formations in any movie.
Whitney is easy to pick out when you know what you’re looking for. You actually can’t see it until just before Lone Pine, although it’s immediate neighbors are visible from Highway 395 over an hour away. For a glimpse of your destination, you have to wait until you can see the entire Whitney Portal, an aethestically ideal wedge in the Eastern Sierra range showing off Mount Muir, the Keeler Needles and Whitney as its high-altitude centerpiece.
Lone Pine itself is small and bare bones. It’s the kind of place where the grocery store sells bait rather than cosmetics, and the postal clerk refers to his clients by name. There are a few hotels, and some diner-style restauants which are much better for a hearty mountain breakfast then for their greasy dinners. I blew right through there the first night, determined to make it to my camp at Horseshoe Meadows before dark.
From its junction with Whitney Portal Road, the road to Horseshoe Meadows rises south above the valley and winds 22 miles to its end at the campground at 10,000 ft. I decided to camp there instead of at the Portal to speed up the acclimatization process. The developed campground was vast, idyllic and crowded, but I still found space in the plentiful bear lockers for my food and hygiene items, as well as a prime spot for my tent. I slept well that night despite a slight altitude headache, thanks to my indispensible camping earplugs and 15 degree sleeping bag.
At dawn I broke camp and drove down into Lone Pine for breakfast with Roxy Music’s “More Than This” on my car radio, the only good song in what appeared to be an all-out crap fest of religious freaks and girly pop. Owens Valley was ablaze with color, and I stopped at every pullout to take pictures.
At the Mount Whitney Restaurant I had a big bowl of oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar, as well as a bagel and coffee. Already cold and out of my comfort zone, it provided some welcome warmth and familiarity as I studied my maps. My plan was to pick up my permit at the visitor center, and then do some sightseeing, before taking a practice hike back at Cottonwood Pass near last night’s camp.
The visitor’s center is a large modern structure just a bit south of Lone Pine, where hundreds of folks bound for both Whitney and Death Valley stop for information and souvenirs. A funny ranger issued me my permit and my poop bag, and then I wandered around the store for a bit trying to get in the mood by buying postcards and flipping through photography books. I’m not a gift-shop kind of person, but I wanted to get the most out of my time there. Later, I even bought an “I climbed Mount Whitney” hat, which I wore up the mountain for good luck.
I explored Movie Road in the Alabama Hills, and then impulsively drove up the Portal to check out the trailhead. Parking there in the afternoon turned out to be a more precious commodity than water, but I later switched to a great spot right near the bank of bear lockers I had chosen. Throngs of people had piled into the charming family campground, reserved far in advance by folks with recreational vehicles and kids and grills and folding chairs and generators and… wait, who has money to fill an RV anymore?
When I saw how convenient the Backpacker’s Campground was to the trailhead, I decided to grab a spot then and there, to get an early start in the morning rather than drive the (quick) thirty miles from Horseshoe Meadows again. Also, there was the cost of gas to think about, which at $4 a gallon was the only real expense of the trip once flight and car were booked.
I chose a spot right in the center of the little hill on which the campsites were organized, and as I lugged my pack up the trail I was horrified at how exhausting it was, even at an altitude of only 8,000 feet or so. I always forget that any sort of uphill sucks when you’re not warmed up.
I decided to take an acclimatization hike with my mostly full bag up to Lone Pine Lake, about 2.5 miles into the trail at about 10,000 ft. The lake is pristine despite the endless conga line of hikers. Built into a ledge of white granite and framed with gnarled coniferous trees, the small crystal blue pond resembles a mini Crater Lake. I definitely recommend doing this as a dry run the day before, with only a water bottle.
Back at the Portal, I chowed down on a mediocre dinner of prepackaged veggies and dip. I wanted to eat light rather than overload on the famously ample Whitney Portal Store grub. I wouldn't do that again - I'd say to go ahead treat yourself to one of those giant pancakes at the store.
By evening, I was literally surrounded by a tent city. I never saw a single bear, but there was talk in the air about the “six different ones” which frequent the Portal, “peeling the roofs from cars like tin cans for an empty Starbucks cup” and so on. I unzipped my tent around 11 or so to watch the Perseid meteor shower, and felt as safe as if I were in my own bed.
When you do Whitney as a two-day hike, there's no need to start early on that first day. But after six months I was no longer capable of waiting and broke camp by nine. The first part of the trail will go by faster than you expect, and the elevation is even gradual in parts, but a 25 lb. pack slows you down considerably.
The beginning of the trail is extraordinarily picturesque. The view to the east never changes, but ahead of you lies an endless parade of gentle forest switchbacks heading west into the Portal, with plenty of creeks at which to fill your water bottle. My drinking water of choice for day one came from Lone Pine Creek, the third major water source you’ll come across, after Carillon and North Fork creeks. There’s no need to carry much in terms of water weight until after Trail Camp, and I found the Katadyn tablets I used to be quicker, lighter and easier than the folks carrying pumps.
Surprisingly, I saw no one else going up until much later. But near Lone Pine Lake, the inevitable early birds started descending and every half an hour someone (either dressed as a day-hiker or with huge backpacks coming down the John Muir Trail) passed me coming down from the summit. I was never truly alone, and from then on was certain that the main Mount Whitney Trail is absolutely fine to hike solo in the summer. I would learn later just how many hikers do the entire 200+ mile JMT alone.
After Lone Pine Lake, the trail ascends to the next plateau and the terrain becomes a little more rocky. You’re still well below treeline at this point, and just before you reach Outpost Camp you’ll pass through Bighorn Park, a lush meadow dancing with deer and pika at the bottom of a three-walled canyon.
At the west end of the meadow is a large undeveloped campground where many people stay the night. My destination was still 1,500 ft. higher, but I did stop to take a nap in the sun as the very last of the overnighters broke camp slowly and headed back down. I woke up an hour later, chilled to the bone, and bolted into action to warm up. The next highest level would find me at Mirror Lake, where soon after I would hit timberline – but it took me a long time until I was looking down on the lake from above. The switchbacks are more grueling between the Outpost and Trail camps.
I lost the trail for a minute near Mirror Lake, but used the opportunity to take a private piss. When I caught sight of the trail again, a group had caught up to me, and poked gentle fun at me for getting off trail. “Look what we found,” one of them called up to his buddies. “Can we keep her?”
From that point on, I tagged along behind them, chatting with the guys who were taking a more relaxed pace, and leapfrogging with them all the way up to camp. They called their expedition “Whitney 2008 – What Could Possibly Go Wrong?” and in my head I called them The Dudes. I found that the social aspect is really much of the fun of climbing Whitney.
It still was a long way from timberline to Trail Camp, but with steep white granite walls rising all around and rushing glacier melt watering tufts of neon green grass here and there, it was an inspiring place to be. Sweating on a cliff in the baking heat, I was happier than I’ve been since backpacking in Hawaii last January. I gnawed on a Peanut Butter Crunch Cliff Bar as The Dudes passed me again. “Come on, Anne from Portland,” Tracey from San Diego called out. “There’s a Starbucks up here!” They eventually just shortened my moniker to "Starbucks."
When I reached the mouth of the basin where Trail Camp is nestled at 12,000 feet, the bulk of Whitney loomed overhead for the first time since I left the Portal. “Fuck yeah!” I yelled at The Dudes, and they burst into laughter. I was finally there, and it only took five hours of actual hiking, although in real time I had taken even longer.
All around, the jagged peaks enclosed Trail Camp in a barren horseshoe, and along one slab in the distance you could just make out ant-sized hikers on the 97 Switchbacks. I was dismayed at how tiny they looked, but tried to put it out of my head as I set up camp in a perfect spot just a bit up off to the left of the trail. It was hardly evening yet, and I had nothing to do for the next 12 hours but sleep. I’m glad I left when I did though, partly because it allowed me to meet The Dudes.
For the rest of the afternoon I filtered water from the algae-ridden camp lake, napped fitfully, and listened to the conversations around me. The Dudes were cooking Pasta Primavera for dinner, while I munched on boring GORP in my tent, grateful for the M&Ms in the mix. All night, people were cutting through camp, from the grim-faced dayhikers powering back down to the Portal to the young couple who had never hiked before who were looking to borrow a can opener, of all things. All around me, people were recapping the day. “Did you hear about the eighty-year old guy who went up yesterday and is going up again today with his wife?”
I dug my earplugs in tighter and waited for night to fall.
At 2 a.m. I awoke and got out to do some business, i.e. use my "wag bag," a lovely new experience I do not recommend. At high altitude you have to drink and eat a lot, and usually I hate getting out of my tent in the dark. Tonight was different. The full moon lit up the entire basin, and I could see the tents around me and the peaks above. Leftover shooting stars from the Perseids occasionally crisscrossed the sky, and I watched the satellites high above move in a smooth arc through the earth’s orbit. The air was cold, but not brutal, and in stocking feet I sat for a moment and drank it all in.
At 4 a.m. I was ready to go, but listened for The Dudes. I wasn’t sure I wanted to be high up on the ridge in the dark alone, so I made it one more hour and until I couldn’t take it anymore. The headlamps in the distance from last night appeared to be on the move, too. I motored down the easy-to-navigate path with my headlamp lighting the way now that the moon had set.
Turns out, I needn’t have waited, because I was so sick to my stomach that it took me about an hour and a half just to reach The Cables (handrails about midway up the switchbacks). I would walk a couple feet in the dark, and the urge to puke would be so overwhelming that I’d sit on a rock and watch as the campground below me came to life. The sun came up and I ate a power bar. I looked up at trail crest at 13,000 feet and was sure that I was done for. I had altitude sickness, and it was dehabilitating.
At the cables, The Dudes caught up with me. “Hey, Starbucks!” they yelled, and I groaned realizing I was being leapfrogged by guys who were still sleeping when I'd begun hiking. They stopped for a snack and I joined them, asking their opinion about my nausea. “If you get a headache too, then I’d be real careful,” they advised me. So I kept on, but stayed close to the back of the pack (with Dudes Mark, Tracey and George) going very slowly and concentrating on the uneven terrain and steep dropoffs on either side while we talked about how long we’d all prepared for just this moment and how funny it was that some people like The Spaghettios seemed to have just been passing through and bagging the summit as an afterthought.
At about the eightieth switchback, Mark broke into the conversation and said “You know what? I feel really good right now!” I thought about it, and then realized that I did too. No nausea, no headache, nothing. It had passed, and I was going to make it to Trail Crest, at the very least.
We joined the rest of the group at Trail Crest, where the jaw-dropping view opened up to the west, with Kings Canyon and the Ansel Adams Wilderness in the distance. We took pictures at the Trail Crest sign, and I felt like hopping up and down with pride. With the summit still two miles away, though, I began to focus on the long hard last haul to the top. The downhill in this section is a bitch, because you know that when you come back you’ll be spent and in no mood for any more incline. I had read about it, and was still irrationally pissed off at the trail for throwing me a curveball.
There were more hikers now, and we all leapfrogged each other at rest stops. It’s a little scary to have so many people on a thin ridge stepping around each other, but it didn’t become a problem until later on my descent, when a handful of people were acting truly stupid and barreling ahead with no regard for right of way or stopping and parking themselves right in the middle of the trail.
At the junction with John Muir Trail, I understood just how many real badasses were on this mountain when I saw the giant packs of the folks who’d walked the 200 miles and two weeks from Happy Isles in Yosemite, who were now summitting the same day I was. Those bearded, stinky backpackers made a big impression on me –I’ve been watching people’s You Tube travelogues since I’ve been back– I particularly liked the very funny and quite watchable Adventures of Mutcluck.
A lot of hikers seem to express anxiety about The Windows, well-known sections of the ridge where you’re exposed on either side. If you’re paying attention there’s no reason why they should cause you any more trouble than any other portion of the trail. I felt far more precarious on the wobbly boulders nestled snugly into the back of the ridge wall than I did at any point of exposure. I spoke to one lady who had an attack of vertigo and turned around, but most seemed fine just pausing at the windows to take in the once-in-a-lifetime vantage point.
I’m going to skip the play-by-play here, suffice it to say that the trip up the backside of the main Whitney peak is really tedious. Although you have incredible vistas all around, you really just start wanting this beast to be finished with already. The summit hut in sight, I just tried to be patient. I had made it. Now it was only a question of when.
The Jackrabbits had graciously waited for the rest of The Dudes before heading to the top. They let George –group leader and mastermind– go up ahead, and I trailed along behind preferring to do this last part in silence.
At the summit hut I choked up a little, and could hear the colorful prayer flag flapping in the wind. The Dudes busted out a beer, and I went off to find cell phone reception. An inexplicably obese marmot stood up in front of the group, looking confused when he received no immediate handouts. His expression read: “Look, I go like this and you guys throw me food, that’s how this thing works, okay?” He was soon nibbling part of someone’s sandwich, and then retreated only a few feet, probably in case we wanted to give him our backpacks full of power bars. 'Cause you never know.
I had no coverage up there, but it depends on your provider. Not a big deal in the wilderness, but it’s nice to be able to call home when you’ve just gotten to the top of a mountain.
We all signed the register and had lunch. It wasn’t even that cold, and my Arcteryx shell had been too warm for every single activity so far except eating trail mix at 14,505 feet. FYI, ladies – the powder room is at the northwest edge of the summit, marked by a couple of cairns. Don’t fall to your death with your pants down.
The return trip is basically a death march, requiring careful concentration to avoid tripping when you’re rapidly descending rocks and scree and those hideous uphill portions I mentioned. Remarkably, I was back down to my tent at Trail Camp in two hours, at which point it began to dawn on me that the fun part was over. Loading and hefting the heavy pack (thankfully unmolested by marmots), I said “Geronimo!” to The Dudes and began the last leg, a truly boring and exhausting three more hours to the Portal.
And then it was over, and I felt emotional and empty at the same time. I stayed in the Whitney Hostel that night, because I wanted a shower and some creature comforts. My fingernails looked as if I’d been working on a car, and my sports bra was no longer white. I’d had enough adventure –not to mention I had pooped in a bag – to justify a cushy bed for the night. I don't give a damn what anyone says about this being a tourist's climb - it's a badass accomplishment I'll always treasure. And, yeah, I'm keeping the trailname.
I left for Death Valley the next morning, and sped around in the early dawn light marveling at the California highway system. I made it to Badwater basin by 9 a.m.... but that's a post for another day.
