From the summit of Mount Whitney only granite is seen. Innumerable peaks
and spires but little lower than its own storm-beaten crags rise in
groups like forest-trees, in full view, segregated by cañons of
tremendous depth and ruggedness
30 July 2010
My campsite was eerily quiet all night long. Neither the sound of rushing water nor the pre-nautical chirps of birds were heard. I was up and out and on my ascent to Whitney.
These last eight miles seemed like the longest miles on the entire trek. And I just didn't have much energy. I stopped and rested a lot, looked at the vistas, and took my time.
Two hours into my morning stroll I met the young mother-daughter team I had heard so much about: Heather and 7-year-old daughter Sierra (yes, she was named after these mountains!) passed me on the trail. Sierra seemed delighted to be summit ting Whitney today. Aaah, the joys of youth. Even Heather looked young, perhaps mid-30s at most. She's a second-grade teacher from Bishop who took Sierra on a thru-hike on the JMT when Sierra was just a year old.
This time this was Sierra's first JMT on foot.
I passed the mother-daughter team as they rested near the small pre-alpine lake named Timberline Lake at 10am. They then passed me up for the final time as I rested near Guitar Lake an hour later, the last lake before the three-mile steep ascent to Whitney. It was hot out, and I was worried about water. For the first time in 18 days I worried that my liter bottle, my only water source, would not be enough for the summit and back down again.
I rested at Guitar Lake for an hour, hoping Ryan would catch up with me. I sat up against a boulder and made myself more Asian Curry Chicken, which was really not all that tasty anyway. I sat down and enjoyed the scenery, from watching birds flit about to seeing other hikers pass me by. A ranger and her daughter were on the other side of the rock mass; was she watching me?
Two men on the far side of Guitar Lake had pitched their tents for an ascent tomorrow. One of the men told me that Mount Whitney was "just up that peak, look, you can see the hut from here!" I knew Guitar Lake was a popular place for thru-hikers to rest before climbing Whitney, but it was too early in the day for me to stop; what else had I to lose (besides running out of water?!)
So on I went, slowly. The ascent took me three hours. The views never changed; the view of Guitar Lake rose higher and higher and the higher I climbed, the more of a guitar shape the lake took. I stopped a lot, perhaps at every switchback, because the views never changed. I was going crazy from monotony. I had granitic brown rocks around me and a steep drop in front of me and there was no change in sight.
One man with a much younger partner (son, younger relative?) were the only people who came down the opposite direction during my ascent. The older man was wearing an NFL-AFC grey t-shirt with no hydration pack on. In fact, he looked like he was on a quick descent. "I've been up Whitney seven times" he boasted, "if I were you I'd go back down to Guitar Lake and start up again first thing in the morning!" This man doesn't know my determination. Besides, he didn't look THAT good in shape. Hiking up and down this 13,000' elevation is easier without a 35-pound backpack.
I eventually saw a line of people at one switchback and the closer I got to this the more I realized that what I was seeing is the intersection to Mount Whitney. Alas, there WAS a light at the end of the tunnel! More relieving for me was having other people around me, even if I was the only woman in the crowd.
It was 4:30pm and I was now at the intersection with the peak trail, a 1.9 mile climb to the Whitney cabin. This is where hikers leave their packs for a lighter ascent. Backpacks lined up against the mountain wall and hikers coming and going gathered here. I didn't recognize anyone.
In the end my ascent up Whitney was done alone. There was no Darlene, no Leslie and crew, no Abid, no Ryan and no joyous group hug. I had hoped for that. Instead, I followed a small group that had started ahead of me and finished the trail with them, a group from central Texas who had taken almost an entire day to climb the mountain. They struggled, but for me after three weeks on the JMT, this ascent was nothing, and it felt even better without a pack. I could almost jog again. Fragrant lilacs adorned the trail and attacked my olfactory senses. I didn't expect to see flowers this high up in elevation.
One of the guys was an Afghanistan veteran from Florence, TX. He must have thought I was superhuman the way I was able to move up the rocky trail. Little did he know how slowly the climb up from the mountain floor was for me, too! We chatted a bit, watched two gliders circle the mountain, and took off for the peak.
The sun was in its last rays. I got to the top at 5:50pm, signed the registry and recognized a few other names in the log. Barry had made it up this morning at 5am; I followed almost 12 hours later. I saw no entry for Tom and his sons.
So there I was, on the tallest peak in the lower 48 states. The views were...OK. I was expecting spectacular hues and endless vistas and instead all I saw was a hazy reddish-brown haze across the horizon. I could see Bighorn Meadow distinctively and even Forester Peak, but the rest of the crags meshed into one rocky ridge line across the western horizon.
Oh well. At least I can say I bagged this peak and I have photographs to prove it.
I didn't stay up at the peak for long. I wanted to get back to the intersection before it got too dark. The others from the group were still ascending when I got down; I wasn't going to see them for another three hours.
I had now finished most of the JMT and was ready to walk down in the dark to the eastern base camp. But who did I see when I got back to my backpack? Abid! He had made it up after all! We hugged, laughed, had our picture taken, and soon after that moment the Maryland Three came up. It was another reunion of sorts. I made the spontaneous decision now to stay with Abid at the intersection and to sleep under the stars with him so I could provide him company. We weren't the only ones there.
The Maryland Three spent the night at the summit in the cabin so they could take sunrise photos first thing in the morning. An older man found a sleeping area further down off the trail. We were never alone.
And that is how I spent the last day on the trail: under the stars at over 13,000', huddled in my sleeping bag. Abid was next to me. He told me "bedtime stories" of his life in Pakistan and how his father ended up emigrating to the United States in 1947 and moved to the San Francisco Bay area. It was a fascinating story. He did most of the talking. We sat there, side by side, looking up at the evening sky as falling stars fell down on us every few minutes. I wasn't expecting this celestial show, but these stars were the fireworks celebrating our big accomplishment.
"There goes another star!"
"Oh, and here is another one!"
"Wow!"
"Oooh!"
And that's how we fell asleep, two strangers who met on the trail and who opened up about themselves at 13,000'. Never would I have imagined a sky so brilliant anywhere in California. I could also see the distant city lights of southern California along the southern horizon, and what was probably Reno to our north whenever I went around the corner to pee.
I was expecting to have a cold night, but it wasn't much colder than what I had experienced on the trail. The winds were remarkably calm tonight. I was dressed in my fleece, my rain gear and my hat and as long as I remained bundled in my sleeping bag, I was fine. Abid, however, complained of the cold.
Early ascenters began to come up at 2am so our bliss didn't last. Nonetheless, I will never forget this moment under the stars for as long as I live.
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