It took me 2 days to climb Mt. Whitney. Looking at the map I thought, “Oh, I can do these 22 miles in a day.” 4 ½ hours later, when I arrived at Trail Camp, 12,000 feet up, and only 6 miles into the hike, my knees were shaky, my heart was beating out of my chest, my eyes were swirly, and my breath was short. Unable to move any further, I set my pack down and slowly set my tent up for the night.
Though it was only 5:30 in the afternoon when I arrived at the camp, the sun was already blocked out by the mountains encircling Trail Camp, which sits in a bowl-like valley. On almost all sides, nearly vertical sheets of rock and snow stretch up 2,000 feet from the valley floor to the surrounding craggy peaks of Mt. Irvine to the South, Mt. Muir to the West, Keeler Needle to the Northwest, Pinnacle Ridge to the North, and Wotans Throne to the East. Whitney itself is hidden behind Pinnacle Ridge. There are 2 small lakes in the valley in which Trail Camp is located, both of which were nearly completely frozen over. Just south and north from camp about a ½ mile in either direction, are larger lakes, Consultation and Iceberg, both of which are still frozen through. Due to the elevation and the cold there is nearly no vegetation, giving the valley a Martian or moon-like appearance. There, among the lakes and the growing dusk, I set up camp with 5 or 6 other small groups.
When my mom dropped me off in Mojave early in the morning on Tuesday, I had no real intention of climbing Whitney. It’s not that I didn’t want to, it’s just that when I had looked it up the day prior, it seemed that it would be nearly impossible to obtain a hiking permit. When the ranger at Lone Pine station said, “Yeah, we have a bunch of permits open,” I was surprised, but nearly as much as when I showed up at Whitney Portal, where the trail begins. Dressed in shorts, a t-shirt, and water shoes, I laughed as I looked around and saw men and women in specialized pants, jackets, boots and packs, with ice shoe cramp-ons and ice axes in tow. “So you going on a day hike?” a man in a group asked me. “No, I’m going to the top.” The group looked at me in unison perplexed by my reply, “In those?!” they asked, referring to my water shoes. “They’re all I’ve got,” I answered.
On the first day the snow wasn’t too bad, and through both days, there turned out to only be about 3 or 4 relatively intimidating snow crossings. Each of those 4 stretched nearly a football field in length which wasn’t a big deal, except for the fact that if your foot was to slip the slightest bit you were looking at a 600 – 1,000 foot slide down an ice sheet into huge boulders at the bottom. No, the snow wasn’t bad, it was the altitude sickness that was the hardest to overcome.
After sluggishly setting up my camp, I changed into warmer clothes, forced myself to eat some canned tuna and trail mix, took a couple Excedrin tablets that a woman was kind enough to give me, and retreated into my tent. My head was really shaky, and it was hard to hold a thought. As tired as I was, my eyes kept fluttering, and my heart rate was still above normal, which made me anxious. I could feel my heart beat in my throat and shoulders. I had the momentary thought that I might die, but that’s just because I’m dramatic. Somehow I slipped into a shallow sleep, and an hour later I woke up much calmer and aware of my surroundings.
Outside the tent, the last bit of light was still lingering in the sky. I stepped out to take a breath and stretch my legs. An 18 year old Vietnamese boy named Brandon, there on a trip with his older family friends, was out taking pictures. I asked him if he’d like to walk with me around the bend to see if we could spot Whitney’s peak.
For the next hour and a half we sat together on a collection of rocks talking about many things. Mostly I listened to him tell me about his current struggles and questions concerning love, manhood, and his life path. We laughed as we talked about how amazing it was that when your body is so beat, a simple energy bar sounds like the greatest meal you could ever have. “I’ve never done anything this hard before,” he told me. “I really like it, but it’s so hard. I didn’t think I’d make it.” The night had set, and the moon reflected off the lakes, the rocks, and the snow creating a soft glow that sat like mist above our heads and the valley floor. The air was stiller than I’ve ever known air to be. There were no critters and no leaves or plants to rustle in any breeze. The only sound was silence, interrupted intermittently by the cracking of ice on the hills and lakes. The earth felt bare, and still my senses were fuller than almost any time I’ve ever known.
People often ask why I travel the way that I do. Part of it is financial, but that is the smallest part. I hitch, I hike, I camp, and try to live on very little because in doing so I am stripped down to my core. I suppose this is a type of escape, though unlike most escapes, the intention is not to flee from reality, but rather to delve deeper into it. Our lives are filled with so many things, so many distractions, that our finer senses are numbed, and we become detached from all the things that matter most. In denying the body for as while we can grow closer with the Spirit, which is what I believe we are in the end anyways. We come closer to the essence of ourselves, both in our interactions with nature and in our interactions with others. This is a sort of fast, and I believe it to be the reason all religions call for a period of fasting: in depleting and depriving the material self, the spiritual self can grow.
In the past 6 days, I have been given rides by 9 different cars, and have shared some very real and important conversations with at least another 10 people. In 6 days I have connected on a very deep level with 20 – 30 people, and in that connection we have shared a bit of our lives together. Somehow my adventure has become their’s, and their lives mine. Meeting people in such humbled circumstances creates a vulnerability which allows for a deeper honesty than is usually possible on such short encounters. The usual walls that are thrown up in our everyday routines for the sake of stability and security, are stripped down, and there we are standing face-to-face, fully present. In such ways, the soul is refreshed.
Still, personally, I know that an entire life in the barren wilderness is not for me.
I must live among the living things. For now I trek…
My Mt. Whitney experience was just as hard, but not as spiritual unfortunately... Sometimes we lose sight of the beauty even when it's right in front of us. However, listening to your experience has made me rememeber some of the things I learned as well on that weekend trip two years ago. I'll probably never do it again, but I'll never forget that I did.
ReplyDelete