How I Did It : The View From Mt. Whitney’s Summit Is a Climber’s Delight

It was the summer of facing Mt. Whitney.

It’s 3:15 a.m., and we’re standing in the pitch dark at the foot of the Mt. Whitney trail for our first photo op. We get a quick group shot in front of the trail sign: “Mt. Whitney, 14,497.61 feet.”

We’re geared up and giddy from lack of sleep. The majority of us--five of the six who trained together for eight weeks would do the hiking; one would get terribly sick--resemble coal miners, wearing lights strapped to our heads, so we can see where we’re walking. Our group leader, John, hands out walkie-talkies and explains how to use them if we get into trouble. A sense of quiet fear fills the air as we hook our electronic lifelines onto our backpacks. We take a collective deep breath and look up at the sky before we begin our journey. Brilliant streaks of light from a magnificent meteor shower crisscross the sky. We take this as a good omen and start up the first incline.

We’ve been training for eight weeks with Manhattan Beach trainer John Waszak. Although we’re as ready as we’ll ever be, there are times when life intercedes and has other plans for some of us. One of our group members, Sandrine, came down with mononucleosis a few weeks ago, and hiking is out of the question for her.

So now we’re five backpacking troubadours, tromping through the Sierra in the middle of the night. I’m constantly drinking water; dehydration can bring on altitude sickness, and that’s not something I want to relive. A few years ago on another climb in the Sierra, I experienced a stop-you-in-your-tracks throbbing headache. My biggest concern this trip is that this will happen again and prevent me from reaching the summit.

At 11,000 feet, our group starts dispersing. Finding your own rhythm is paramount to survival and success on a climb. Early signs of altitude sickness become apparent to a few in the group. I tell John about my low-grade headache. He’s as concerned as I am and keeps his eye on me.

Sasha, who has never camped or hiked before, also has symptoms. Richard, who’s climbed this trail before, is feeling tightness in his chest, so he slows his pace. Tara, like John, is not feeling symptoms. We all put our best foot forward and push on. However, both of my feet hurt so much that I’m not sure which is my best.

*

Arriving at an elevation of 12,000 feet, I feel anxiety and excitement. There before me is a panoramic view of what lies immediately ahead, 98 switchbacks speckled with snow and ice leading to the trail crest. This serpentine path takes you up the switchbacks, and onto a narrow rocky trail leading to Whitney herself!

Before pushing on, I meet up with John and Tara. My headache has lessened, but now my legs are wobbly. I take a short break and try to eat a sandwich. I’m feeling a little better, but Sasha is feeling worse. John asks her pertinent health-related questions, and they decide together that she’ll continue but will have to go back down immediately if her symptoms progress.

After many hours, I finally make it up the switchbacks. It’s been 8 1/2 hours, and I’ve hiked nine miles to 13,480 feet! I pause a moment to take it all in and am pleasantly surprised to find I’m still alive. Then I look down. Big mistake--13,480 feet is pretty high up. I’m about to climb an additional 1,000 feet! I need John!

I turn on my walkie-talkie, and what I hear stops me in my tracks. I’m frozen as I hear John say, “Did you check her heart rate?” Standing alone on the trail crest, I desperately try to listen and piece together what has happened. Sasha is experiencing altitude sickness and is being cared for by a good Samaritan. John is running down the narrow mountain trail and will be by her side shortly.

When John passes me on the trail, he spends a few minutes with me making sure I’m all right. He says Tara is waiting up ahead and that we should stick together because Tara is afraid of heights. Great, so am I, but I don’t let on. I’m about to conquer one of my fears.

*

The last 300 feet to the summit is called “The Scramble.” It looks like one big rock slide. It is one big rock slide! There is no trail. You make your own way. I find comfort in the fact that after all this hard work, each person’s summit is unique. After 11 hours of hiking, Tara and I are on the last stretch. At 1:55, we are on top of the world!

We take photos, proudly sign the summit register and then get John on the walkie-talkie. He’s full of congratulations, like a proud father. At 2:20 p.m., we radio Richard to see where he is. Unfortunately, he’s an hour away. Although Richard’s feeling strong, we all made a pact with John to turn around no matter where we were if we didn’t make it to the top by 2:30. Now, an hour away may not seem like a lot of time when you’ve come so far, but it is imperative to be off the summit before sundown. You still have to come down the mountain, and doing so in the dark can be dangerous.

Tara and I hook up with Richard, and the three of us come down the mountain together. Could it be possible that coming down takes longer than going up? It certainly feels that way. By the time the sun sets, we’re only halfway down the mountain. We still have about three more hours to walk in the dark. Tara’s hiking boots are giving her a mean blister, making it difficult for her to walk.

Once again, John to the rescue! After he settles Sasha into her tent, he makes his way back up. He’s a human mountain goat, bringing with him Tara’s comfy sneakers.

Things are going smoothly for this weary group of hikers until I trip. I slam my left knee on a rock, and Richard comes to my rescue. As I limp down the rest of the trail, we laugh about holding a black-and-blue-mark contest the next day, since he had fallen earlier.

It’s 10:33 p.m. when I pass the trail sign where it all began some 19 hours earlier. I feel the sense of pride and accomplishment that comes with fulfilling a dream. The hike was blissfully grueling. I came down a little wounded and weary but stronger and wiser.

Back at camp, I literally crawl into my tent, falling asleep in my dusty, dirty hiking clothes. Who has the energy to take them off? I am one with my mountain dirt.