The destination was but a step away. Lift leg, place leg, and done. Now, all that remained was the next destination, also just one step away. Easy.
It got harder, a lot harder when the veil of delusion was abruptly lifted, and the Summit Hut showed itself. The unassuming hut seemed so tiny, and a whole mountain away from the one we were on. A few steps later the hut improbably seemed to have shrunk, a mocking mirage shaking what little resolve was left in us.
Don’t look. Thats not where we are going anyway. We have just one footfall left to go.
The sun and wind both beat down on us as I tried to recollect how this had come to be. It may have been alpha male talk at a New Year’s party, the distant peak mentioned between sips of ostensibly expensive wine.
“Chal karte hain!”
Lets do this, lets bag this trophy. Lets mention the peak again at later party, only now quaffing the the liquor of conquest.
It may have all come to nought, a whimsical moment of bravado forgotten in a day. But I had to put it into my phone calendar and the mighty mountain had been pencilled in between my dentist and the conference.
The date wasn’t going very well. The trail was a mountain of rubble, with no obvious next step. One side fell away sharply to the valley floor, nestling the beautiful Hitchcock and Guitar lakes. I noted with relief that they were glassy smooth, portending calm winds later that night back at Trail Camp. We were all looking forward to Trail Camp, a few tents in psychedelic colors, sheltering in drab, barren rock.
It had been a long 10 hours the previous day getting to Trail Camp. We had been received at dusk with whipping winds, too tired to eat or even fetch water. The wind only got worse, wailing like a banshee. Go back to your dentist, she screamed.
That Trail Camp suddenly felt like home now. But it was hours away, and I was still headed away from it. Thankfully, the hut had disappeared behind the summit ridge. There was even a pattern emerging amongst the rubble that could be called a trail.
Lift leg, choose rock, place leg.
Every so often we would pass the innocently named Whitney Windows, a deep gash in the Sierra crest opening up a inspiring view to the East. The wise choose not to linger here toying with camera aperture settings. With sheer drops on each side, and a playful wind waiting to surprise I enjoyed the windows as I would tequila--in a quick unflinching gulp.
The “Mt Whitney” sign at Trail Junction had said 1.9 miles. Only a couple of miles. Nothing to it, it lied. As soon as we turned our backs on the sign, the trail descended steeply as we came down the western side of the ridge. That meant only one thing--it was going to be a even steeper 1.9 miles than the climb so far. And coming back was not going to be all downhill.
They say that at 12,000 feet there is only 60% of the oxygen at sea level. Living at an altitude of 300 feet had turned me into an oxygen glutton--plain livin’ we call it--and the air around me felt bland, like a low-cal substitute. It was tempting to breathe in quick gulps, but a deeper rhythmic breathing had been working better over many miles, and I wasn’t feeling any of the dreaded and mysterious Altitude Sickness.
No nausea, check.
No headache, check.
No appetite … well I was tiring of that trail mix, which sat like a lump in my stomach.
I thought a lot about this mountain malady as I trudged along to the pace set by my lungs. Among the Tibetans, who live unaware of this affliction unique to plains-dwellers, a gene called EPAS1 is considered responsible. The Ethiopians they say, have their BHLHE41 gene. I prayed an itinerant Tibetan or Ethiopian gene had made its way to me, imparting me with oxygen-free vigor.
My co-hikers had been wiser in this regard, and had taken pharmacological precautions in the form of a Diamox regimen. The only side-effect they mentioned was that soda tasted bland. While not much of a soda drinker, this tinkering with taste left me suspicious.
I wondered if the Tibetans and Ethiopians had lost their ability to taste Coke, in a Faustian pact for larger arteries.
As we finally stepped on to Whitney, the trail rubble turned into large, flat blocks of granite. The mountain top is a large rounded plateau, with the summit impossible to discern. The Hut has not been visible for a while either, but the flecks of colored parkas crowding together tell us we were getting close to the top.
Finally, finally, the Summit Hut started to rise out of the boulders. Every step actually took me closer. My rhythmic breathing gave in to my excitement, as a carbonated beverage would to Diamox.
Is this what they called Summit Fever?
I sat heavily by the Hut, reminding myself to picture-take and be-picture-taken. Looking around I saw we were ringed by mountains. One or two peaks even seemed just a mite taller than Whitney, but how does the eye argue with the geologist.
They say Mount Whitney has itself been rising over the years, rendering the plaques obsolete. This is a mountain that climbs. Slowly, to keep pace with its lungs.
We broke out celebratory candy bars, signed the register, and looked into the derelict hut. The hut was adorned simply with a bench for two and a stern hand-written warning about no graffiti.
As we waited for the last member of our group to summit, I lay back on a flat sunny rock and let its warmth lull me into a deep sleep. Boy, it felt good. I could do this for hours.
I woke with a start, to a sickening realization. We weren’t done. We were only half-way done, maybe. The 4 miles back to Trail Camp was a hard non-negotiable reality. That only got us to the land of whipping winds and 60% oxygen. “Done” was another 6 miles down beyond that, to where the cars were parked.
Any celebratory joy left in me went out like fizz out of a soda at high-altitude. We put away the cameras, turned our backs to the Summit Hut and started for home.
I hurried downhill (mostly) promising to not stop to rest until reaching the top of 99 switchbacks at Trail Crest. I was worried about another cold, windy night at Trail Camp, and I wanted to know what it looked like down there.
As tough as this day’s hike to the summit had been, the first day’s climb from Whitney Portal to Trail Camp seemed tougher. It had been a longer-than-necessary 10 hours to cover 6.5 miles and 4000 feet. In what developed into a Whitney theme, the camp was always “around the corner”, and we were always “almost there” as it got darker, and we got tireder and colder than anyone had expected.
We reached what looked like a perfectly good campsite, and as I lay down in relief it was revealed that this wasn’t Trail Camp after all. It was, of course, just round the bend.
Trail Camp had greeted us with an unfriendly dusk. The wind made it impossible to setup camp properly. Our tent ended up somehow on top of a large rock, so each of us had to sleep on either side of it. A hot meal was out of the question. I hiccuped and gagged over dry flaky rice. My Platypus bottles were dry, and the walk to the fancily named “tarn” took a resolve that had left me an hour ago.
We fell into our sleeping bags in our clothes, hungry and thirsty. The wind tore off the tent-fly stays, and I thought we’d all get blown away during the night, tent and all. It was possibly the most uncomfortable night I’d ever experienced.
As dawn lit up the tent, it was my thirst that got me out. The wind was still up, but it was getting warmer. I’d have preferred a running stream for water but the darn tarn will have to do. Water never tasted as good as it did that morning.
For breakfast, we stashed our pockets and deliciously light summit-packs with trail mix and snacks, and a special Cadbury’s for summit celebrations. Stashing food, toiletries and scented trash (wipes) into bear cans to protect from marmots was a tiresome chore, especially when someone needed a chapstick or sunscreen deep under instant food and bagels.
The marmots are brave, and seem to know to hit the camps when they are empty. They also seemed to ignore perfectly good food lying out out in the open, in their vain quest to crack open the bear cans. I suppose they were like us, hungering for conquest not consumption.
The famed switchbacks loomed over us. Legend has it there are 99 of these. Some think there are only 97 or 98. No one claims a 100 or more.
It is a child’s angry scrawl on a featureless ridge. Like ants climbing an anthill we zig-zagged. As we rose, the campsites became smaller, yet sharper. Hikers passed us in either direction, some friendships lasted a whole switchback.
Now I was back atop the switchbacks, at Trail Crest. The tarn surface looked calm, the sun glinted off a piece of granite far below. Almost home, just 99 or 98 switchbacks. They looked different, as if they were meant only to be ascended.
I lay back on a soft rock, rewarding myself with some rest as I waited for my friends to catch up. The scrawling child soothed me into slumber. When I awoke -- maybe minutes later, maybe hours -- the mountains were bathed in gold. It would be dark soon, and I hurried downward.
My group caught up with me as I was still counting down. Together we reached home. The Primus was fired up, steaming Maggi was imprudently shoveled into hungry mouths. The Milky Way rose, attended at either end by Sagittarius and Cassiopeia.
Tomorrow we would travel out of our rocky home, thin-air denizens descending in unbroken strides into a forgotten world. Tomorrow we would begin relearning the ways of the bottom dwellers, their quick breaths and easy waters.
But tonight we shall eat as children, and sleep as marmots.
