The air was cold and damp as we stepped out of the van at the trailhead – very different from what we were used to after 700 miles of desert. Still, it felt good be back on the trail. Our time at Grumpy’s and Kennedy Meadows had been enjoyable, but we all agreed that it was time to leave. At a certain point, camping in the middle of a junkyard gets a little depressing. Between the single bathroom for the entire establishment (that we agreed was worse than digging a cathole in the rain), the consistent mediocrity of the food (much of which was astronomically priced), and the general feeling of being pulled away from the trail for the sole purpose of spending money, we were glad to be back in the wilderness. Additionally, for the first time, it was also appropriate to state that we were glad to be back in the woods. The difference was that we found ourselves hiking through a forest, not just open land. As we gradually climbed up into the mid-elevation hills of the southern Sierra, we couldn’t help but smile. This was why were here.
As we walked, I spotted a wooden plaque on a tree that marked the beginning of the South Sierra Wilderness of Inyo National Forest. We had made it! Although we had technically been in the southern Sierra foothills since all the way back in Tehachapi, it finally felt real. Clouds and mist hung low over the ridges above as we climbed up a narrow valley beside a rushing creek. As I began to internally materialize my illogical joy, it occurred to me: this is why I was out here. I’ve been asked many times why I don’t just fly or drive out west to see these sights, to take day trips and short overnight backpacking trips to see the same places that we had walked over 700 miles to see. The answer, I discovered, is that without the struggle of crossing the desert to get here, I wouldn’t be able to fully experience the beauty of this area. Without having walked 700 miles to get here, I wouldn’t be able to fully appreciate it. There’s a difference in simply visiting a place and calling that place your home. When you live somewhere, you have no choice but to completely experience every aspect of it, the good, the bad and the painfully difficult. I guess that’s really what I want to do. I want to experience the beauty of this creation, in its rawest form, along this long, winding path north.
As we made our final approach toward camp, the sky opened up and it began to snow. Large, wet flakes swarmed as the wind reached down into the valley. The snow falling over the clear, rushing water of the creek was a stark contrast to areas that we had walked through just a few days ago. We set up camp quickly, but the snow suddenly stopped and allowed us to enjoy a leisurely dinner, complete with smooth boulders to sit on. In the back of our minds, we were still preparing ourselves for the winter storm that was supposed to be sweeping through over the next couple days. The temperatures that we had seen on the forecast were brutal. That night, however, remained cool but perfectly comfortable. Waking the next morning to bright sunshine, we packed up camp and headed up, further toward the heart of the Sierra.
I passed many groups of backpackers as I walked, but there was a marked lack of thru-hikers. Most groups were either small, family groups or large, clubs of some kind, all of which were coming southbound, likely looking forward to reaching Kennedy Meadows by dinner time. I tried to judge, by the look on their faces, whether or not their trip had been enjoyable. Many were clearly enjoying themselves, but others looked more exhausted, irritated. I guess that’s fair, backpacking definitely isn’t for everyone. Reaching a low ridge, I descended briefly and promptly emerged at the edge of a huge meadow. The first meadow of the trail, it was also one of the largest. From my vantage point, it appeared to be roughly a mile wide and several miles long, sloping gently toward a distant ridge. The air was still chilly, but some spring grasses were starting to come alive across the expanse. Soon, there would be a blanket of lush, green grasses, interspersed with vibrant wildflowers of every color. First, however, it would probably snow a few more times. Afterall, it was only mid-May. The trail skirted the eastern boundary of the meadow, crossing in and out of the tree line, before climbing up and over the low ridge to the east and descending down into Monache Meadow.
As I crossed the crest of the ridge, the cool air suddenly acquired a frigid bite. I’m not sure if I have ever witnessed the temperature change as quickly as it did as I descended down toward the Kern River. Here, the Kern River is not much more than a large creek, but there is a nice steel bridge that has been built over it. I had heard people refer to the bridge as Swallow Bridge, and I soon discovered why. I joined Anchorman and Sausage on the bank of the river to eat lunch, and watched as hundreds of swallows darted in and out of their nests built on the lower structure of the bridge. In addition to the swallows, several paddlings of ducks were enjoying the cool water below. We, on the other hand, had now donned nearly every article of clothing we had, and were still freezing. If it had been warmer, I could have sat there and watched the Swallows darting and the ducks swimming and river winding through the broad valley, but I soon found myself hoofing it on down the trail, just trying to restore feeling to my extremities.
Like yesterday, as afternoon set in, grey clouds began to drift down onto the ridges and flow into the valleys. The wind began to blow, and the occasional snowflake drifted by. Unlike yesterday, we were now several thousand feet higher, at around 8,000 feet. Soon, instead of just seeing the storm clouds above us, we found ourselves climbing up, directly into a mild snowstorm. As we walked, waves of snow blew over us, cutting visibility down to less than a quarter mile. Looking out over the vast landscape below, all we could see was white. Finally, we reached our campsite for the night and scrambled to get our tents up without getting entirely soaked. Staying dry while hiking is one thing, but staying dry while setting up camp is completely different. Luckily, we had over 700 miles of practice, and were in our tents in no time. Unlike last night, the snow didn’t stop for dinner. Instead, we all cooked and ate in our tents, talking back and forth through our tent walls across the campsite. By now, the snow was not only falling from the sky, but also seemed to be blowing up, out of the valley. We were camped under the cover of trees, but they provided little in the way of protection. After dinner, the only noise besides the howling wind and pelting snow was the frequent sounds of all three of us beating the walls of our tents to keep them from sagging under the weight of the snow.
Frost. There was frost on the outside walls of my tent. There was frost on the inside walls of my tent. There was frost on my sleeping bag. There was frost on everything. It was morning, and the sun was rising over the mountain. Peeking out of my tent, I realized that it hadn’t snowed as much as I had feared, only a couple inches. That couple inches, however, was just enough to thoroughly soak everything. Luckily, I had kept my hiking clothes dry, but that was about it. Over the next two hours, we attempted to dry everything out as much as we could. That’s easier said than done when every surface is already wet from melting snow. As we slowly packed up, several groups of thru-hikers passed by. Apparently, a dozen or more hikers had gotten caught in the worst of the storm down by the Kern River late yesterday afternoon. I was glad that we had stopped before it got too bad. Leaving camp, we continued climbing up the steep valley, toward the peaks above. Reaching the ridgeline, we got our first, small taste of being above the tree line. To the south, the lower ridges fanned out toward the low meadows and arid plains of Kennedy Meadows. To the north, towering, snow-capped peaks and ridges and alpine lakes were standing guard, like sentinels, welcoming us into the majestic landscape.
Leaving the saddle, we descended down toward Death Canyon (I don’t want to know how it got its name) into a new, unfamiliar landscape. Here, rocks covered the ground and dominated the landscape. Not grey granite that is typical of the Sierra, but more jagged and brittle, reddish-brown rocks. The forest was now more widely spaced, being dominated by Foxtail and Bristlecone Pines. There were no longer enough trees to provide a canopy of shade, so I found myself hiking along a dusty, sandy trail, with the heat of the sun beating down. This area could have easily been mistaken for a desert landscape, but I had already hiked through the desert, and this wasn’t it. Despite the short, gnarled trees, there was still shade enough to prevent the sun from being unbearable. Plus, I was still above 9,000 feet. Reaching Death Canyon Creek, I stopped for lunch and to let my gear dry out a little more in the hot sun. Soon, however, I was trekking back up another 2,000-foot climb, out of the hot, arid valley and up onto a flat plateau of shady forests. The land here was almost perfectly flat and rolling, as the trail meandered among towering White and Sugar Pines. I could catch an occasional glimpse of the Owens Valley to the east, but soon the trail turned slightly back westward to stay on the plateau.
Anchorman and I reached camp first and waited for Sausage. We really could have camped anywhere. The entire area was flat and covered in pine needles with very little undergrowth, but we chose one of the last spots before the trail entered back into range of sloping hills. As we ate dinner, the golden sun sank through the trees, casting deep shadows and sending glowing rays through the towering trees. The temperature was now cool but not cold. We had made it through the storm and through the worst of the cold front. Tomorrow would be our final long day on our approach to Mt. Whitney. Our plan was to cover roughly 21 miles tomorrow so that we would only have about 7 miles the next day to reach Crabtree Meadows. That would be our basecamp for Whitney, which we planned to summit for sunrise in two days. As we sat around camp after dinner, someone mentioned that there was nowhere else they’d rather be. We all agreed.
Breaking camp early, we knew it would be a long day: 21 miles, almost entirely above 10,000 feet. We also knew it would be a good day: we would pass Chicken Spring Lake, the first alpine lake of the trail! As I walked, excitement began to build. Some of my favorite backpacking memories revolve around the steadfast beauty and complex simplicity of alpine lakes. From my time on the JMT last year, swimming in the reflective waters of Upper Cathedral Lake, to my time on the PCT in Washington last year, almost contracting hypothermia after thinking it would be a good idea to swim across Ridge Lake, I knew that the presence of lakes just makes the hike more fun. Throughout the morning, I crossed ridges and circled valleys. Far below, I spotted Horseshoe Meadows (It’s shaped like a horseshoe), a common exit point to resupply in Lone Pine. Finally, towering above, was Cirque Peak, notable in its own right, but mostly known as the backdrop of Chicken Spring Lake. Continuing to climb up to the body of water, I found about a dozen hikers congregated in a rocky area along the shoreline, taking refuge from the wind.
Unfortunately, it was far to cold to swim, but the lake still served as an impressive lunch spot and a hopeful reminder of what was to come. Even with the cool wind and frigid water, one guy still decided to go for a swim. He claimed it wasn’t that cold, but his uncontrollable shivering for the next hour told a different story. Continuing on, the trail climbed up and around the ridge and finally entered Sequoia National Park, the first national park of the trail. Several times, the trail transitioned from rugged, rocky ridgelines to broad, flat forests and back again, before descending into a valley toward Rock Creek. Reaching camp on the banks of the creek, we found several dozen hikers already there. Between being an established campsite with ample water and bear boxes for food, and its proximity to Crabtree Meadows, this is apparently one of the more popular sites on this section of trail. Luckily, we were able to secure one of the last vacant areas, and spent the evening catching up with several people we knew. As darkness set in, the moon began to appear in all its blazing brilliance, nearly blinding me through my tent: perfect for our summit of Mt. Whitney if we would be lucky enough to get clear skies.
Before going to bed, we had predicted that we would be the last people to leave camp in the morning. We were right. We knew that we only had seven miles to Crabtree Meadows and the rest of the day would be spent resting anyway. I cooked two breakfasts just because I wasn’t in a hurry. As we walked, I noticed that the terrain was changing once again. Instead of dirt, the trail was now transitioning to a path filled with baseball to softball-sized, ankle-rolling rocks. It didn’t help that my foot had a strange twinge in it. It had first appeared the day after Anchorman’s calf had given him issues just past Walker Pass. I could feel it whenever I pushed off with my left foot, and constantly tripping over rocks along the trail didn’t seem to help it any. I tried not to think about it, but in the back of my mind worried about it getting worse. I reached Crabtree Meadows camp by lunchtime and found several dozen tents spread around the edge of the meadow. Some people had just arrived and planned to summit tonight or tomorrow. Others were returning from the summit and resting before continuing on. As I was searching for a good tent site, I met some hikers that had gotten caught with Norovirus in Lake Isabella with us. They had just returned from a sunrise summit and gave us valuable information on how long the climb normally takes. They also informed us that Jackpot had summited two days ago. It was good to hear from him, even indirectly.
The rest of the day was spent eating, resting, and strategizing. Our plan was to wake up around 2am and push to the summit. We would likely reach the top long before sunrise, but at least we would have some time to spare if it took longer than expected. Remembering my climb up Mt. Elbert (which is less than a hundred feet lower) last year in Colorado, I anticipated that it would take every bit of four hours to make it 7.5 miles and almost 4,000 feet to the summit. I remembered stopping to breathe every hundred feet and still feeling like I couldn’t get enough oxygen. The difference this year, however, was that we had been hiking around 10,000 feet for the last few days. I was hoping that would help. By late afternoon, I was asleep in my tent.
My alarm went off promptly at 2am. To my surprise, Anchorman and Sausage were already up. Somehow, even though I didn’t cook breakfast, it still took me 45 minutes to leave camp, about twenty minutes behind the other guys. As I passed by other tents, all was quiet. I wondered if everyone had already left, or if we were starting way too early. The moon was low in the sky, but almost full and still rising, casting long shadows through the forests and meadows. For a while, I tried to hike without my headlamp, but finally turned it on when I kept tripping over stuff. The trail followed the creek for several miles, before entering into broad, alpine planes. I couldn’t see much of my surroundings, but it seemed like I was now above the tree line. I could see the jagged peaks circled above, and the dark shapes of various lakes to my right as I continued to climb. It seemed like I was in a bowl of some kind, with vertical, jagged edges. In the darkness, something about the terrain seemed apocalyptic and otherworldly. Looking ahead and behind, I couldn’t see any other headlamps. Silence. I kept pushing.
Suddenly, I realized why I couldn’t see anyone else: I wasn’t looking up far enough. Looking up toward the towering ridge ahead, I spotted two faint lights bobbing, disappearing and then reappearing higher up. That must be the switchbacks. While not as infamous as the 99 switchbacks of the Whitney Portal Trail up the opposite side of the ridge, the switchbacks from this side are still ominous on the map. Continuing to climb, the trail became difficult to see. I wondered if my headlight was losing its charge in the frigid cold, but after shining myself in the eyes, concluded that it wasn’t the culprit. Continuing a little further, I looked up and realized that the moon was shrinking. After a brief moment of confusion, I remembered that someone had mentioned a lunar eclipse back in Lake Isabella. That was undoubtedly what was happening. By the time I reached the tenth switchback and began to catch up to and pass other hikers, the full moon was almost halfway gone. The climb through the darkness wasn’t easy by any sense of the word, but it wasn’t difficult either. I was having no problem catching my breath, and ultimately only stopped to rest twice during the entire ascent. I guess we were more acclimated than we thought.
At some point during the climb, I passed Sausage. He was moving slow in his typical fashion, but still making good progress. A little bit further up, I passed the Whitney Portal Junction and entered into the Whitney Zone. A sign by the trail warned about the deadly dangers of lightning at this exposed elevation. I had now passed quite a few people and could finally see other headlights bobbing through the darkness below. The trail broke from its pattern of switchbacks and settled along the ridge, still climbing, but climbing in a direct line toward the summit. There were a few patches of snow, but nothing dangerous. Every so often, the trail would crest along the ridge and provide a narrow window of a view down toward Lone Pine, over two miles below. The wind was now blowing steadily, and the moon was almost gone. Judging from the bobbing pattern of a headlight about a quarter mile ahead, I was pretty sure that it was Anchorman. Eventually, the trail turned back toward the east and began to level out. We had almost made it. Slowly, the outline of the Smithsonian Institution Shelter came into view. We had made it. I had made it. Stumbling past the shelter, I made my way to the summit marker. It seemed unreal; I was standing on the highest point in the continental United States. If it had been warmer, I may have stayed by the survey marker a little longer, but the biting cold was catching up with me. Returning to the hut, I found Anchorman huddled inside. Someone else, a day-hiker from Whitney Portal was signing the logbook outside. That made me the third person to reach the summit on this particular morning: May 26th, 2021.
Inside of the shelter was no warmer than outside, but at least there was no wind. There was, however, snow. Only one of the three rooms of the hut was open, and due to a door that has been ripped from its hinges by the wind, the inside of the small room was filled with a massive snowdrift, nearly reaching to the ceiling in the far back corner. We made ourselves as comfortable as possible and waited for sunrise. Gradually, others began to reach the summit. Sausage showed up about thirty minutes later and we decided it was time to head outside and claim a spot to watch the sunrise. Out past the survey marker, we found a row of several flat boulders near the edge of the eastern face and lined up alongside the others. The icy wind pierced every article of clothing as we hung our feet over the edge of the cliff, 2,000 feet of granite, straight down toward the valley below. To the southeast, we could see a steady line of headlights leaving the Whitney Portal Trailhead, 6,000 feet below. They had one heck of a climb ahead of them. Looking back down, straight down, directly below my feet, was Iceberg Lake, still frozen solid. For a second, I contemplated the danger of slipping from this rock and falling. Sure death. Instant death. The wind was stiff, coming in strong gusts. The area is also along an active fault line. One shift of the boulders, stacked so precariously, would result in all of our deaths. Sure and Instant. We were sitting in one of the most dangerous places in the world, in one of the most unforgiving places in the world, and yet, somehow, it felt perfectly safe.
As the sun began to appear over the Inyo Mountains, across the Owens Valley to the east, everyone was silent, watching. Gradually, the sun made its way higher, into a thin layer of clouds. It was now bright enough to see the sheer cliffs and knife-edge ridges and peaks around us. The inner ranges of the Sierra Nevada were now illuminated behind us. The deep valleys were still covered in darkness, but the upper ridges were glowing in shades of golden yellows and reds and oranges, stretching out away from us for what seemed like hundreds of miles. Down below, the Owens Valley was still clothed in shadows, a cool desert morning, 11,000 feet below us. It was cold, frigid cold, and yet no one complained. We were witnessing one of the most beautiful sights in the world. Out of the dozen or so people at the summit now, no one moved.
Now some others would surely debate this claim, but I’m going to claim it anyway because I believe it to be the truth: what I saw that morning was proof of the existence of God. From the majestic, towering peaks under the eclipsed moon, to the sublime beauty of the sunrise and the alpenglow of the snow-capped Sierra Nevada Range as the first light of a new day touched the granite surface, I had a sense, stronger than anything else, of the peace and presence of God. If not God, how could these random boulders have stacked themselves so carefully up to such incredible heights? Without intelligent planning and creation, this spectacular place wouldn’t exist. It couldn’t exist. Later, speaking to a friend who would be best described as a gnostic atheist, he confided in me that he felt something he couldn’t explain while we were sitting on the summit. Personally, I’m inclined to believe that when surrounded by the sublimity of God’s creation, it is nearly impossible for anyone, regardless of personal belief, to avoid feeling the tangible presence of God. It’s just a matter of whether they recognize it as such.
We remained on the summit for nearly three hours past sunrise, just to take it all in, before finally descending. Even with the sun higher in the sky, it was still frigid. The hike down went quickly, but I stopped often to see the views that I had missed in the darkness. Passing Hitchcock, Guitar, and Timberline lakes, I was finally able to see what I had only been able to feel on the climb up. Pockets of snow and ice still held on along the northern edge of the ridges. Hitchcock Lake was still partially frozen. The many clear pools of snowmelt attracted creatures of all shapes and sizes. I lost count of the marmots and pikas and chipmunks and squirrels as I neared the tree line. Looking back upward, the towering, nearly vertical northeast aspect of Mt. Hitchcock and the western aspects of Mt. Muir and Whitney gave the feeling of standing in an ancient, massive cathedral.
