The wild bunch

Some backpackers shoot us evil looks. The bears steer clear.

Who can blame them? There are 13 of us -- three men, 10 teenage boys -- rambling through the remote reaches of the high Sierra with all the stealth of a tank brigade. Each campsite we claim threatens to become Party Central. There are card games and football, and mealtime resembles a busy Italian kitchen.

I’m getting an education in what the rangers call “social impact.” It’s a big part of wilderness management these days, as forest officials try to ensure that there’s enough solitude for those who aren’t looking for the E! channel’s “Wild On, Sierra Style.”

As a Boy Scout troop, we want to be respectful of the wilderness and of other hikers. But is that possible with a group our size?

In two decades as a ranger, K.C. Wylie has seen other Scout units wrestle with this dilemma -- how to adapt the tradition of big-group hiking trips to the modern etiquette of lower-octane forays. “We’ve got the guys who want to re-create the trips they remembered from 20 or 25 years ago, with roaring campfires every night,” says Wylie, director of the Inyo National Forest’s Lone Pine Visitor Center. “But more and more, we’re getting Scout leaders who want to make as little impact as possible.”

No argument here. Backpacking for me is a chance to find a secluded high-country lake with a friend or two, cast for trout, and see the mountains the way adventurers did a couple centuries ago. Could that spirit live amid 10 teenagers? I’m about to find out.

A classic trek

Peace and quiet actually isn’t the main mission here. The idea is to pass on backpacking skills, just as they were handed down to me by Jim Bullock. Nearly 30 years ago, Bullock took half a dozen of us on the Silver Knapsack Trail, a 50-mile loop through Sequoia National Forest. We carried $2 plastic tube tents and drank water straight from lakes and streams, blissfully unaware of Giardia.

Bullock packed a hammer because he knew my jury-rigged backpack would need repairs along the way. If memory serves, he also carried a carton of Marlboros. It was a glorious trip, and I caught the backpacking bug.

When my son Kevin joined La Crescenta’s Troop 319, I signed up as an assistant scoutmaster. And having made just about every mistake you can make on the trail, I felt qualified to lead a 50-mile backpack this August. Two other adults, Greg Lievense and Jim Douglass, signed up to help.

To lure recruits, I planned a trip that would appeal to our troop’s best hikers: Onion Valley to Whitney Portal. This classic trek would take us along a magnificent stretch of the John Muir Trail and give the guys a chance to conquer Whitney.

Preparation was the key, and on details large and small I found myself falling back on things Bullock had done on that hike long before. The boys got the message. When we left for Onion Valley, everyone was prepared. But, of course, you can’t anticipate everything.

A soggy start

Rain unloads on us the first day out, which means a damp crossing of 11,823-foot Kearsarge Pass. Sprinkles on the trail that Saturday turn into a downpour once we set up tents at Kearsarge Lakes. The storm breaks so we can cook dinner, but a duty roster for cooking and cleanup chores hasn’t been done, so everyone gets in each other’s way.

For someone used to hiking in small groups, leading a crew of 10 city boys in the wilderness is a bit like taking wrestling fans to the opera. You need a large area to camp. There are clashes on what to eat, when to eat, when to stop and where to stop. And when you’re ready to start again, invariably someone isn’t.

It takes us nearly three hours to break camp and hit the trail Sunday morning. Our eight-mile hike is deceptively tough. From Kearsarge Lakes at 10,600 feet, we would drop to 9,600 at Vidette Meadows. Then we would have to painfully gain it all back, and more.

Our objective the next day is 13,200-foot Forester Pass. As we begin the long, slow climb out of Vidette Meadows, Ben Henry, 15, starts gasping for air. He walks for a couple of minutes and then has to stop. He feels like throwing up.

Altitude sickness can be serious, and the only sure cure is descent. As in turn around. It’s an ugly thought on a trip like this, but when you’re responsible for 10 kids, you don’t dismiss it.

At the same time, Ben has trained for the hike by running eight or nine miles a week. A water polo player, he has the stocky build of a quarter horse. Maybe he’s trying too hard to keep up with the racehorses in our crew. Slow down, but try to keep going, I tell him.

Ben gradually seems to get his rhythm, although when we roll into camp that evening, his condition isn’t far out of mind. Another Scout, meanwhile, has developed a wicked cough.

There are other concerns. Two of our water filters have conked out, and leaky fuel lines on our stoves need attention if we don’t want to ignite another river of fire, as we did at breakfast. On top of that, we’re all snapping at each other.

Maybe it’s the 11,000-foot altitude, the fatigue of a hard day’s hike or just that 13 is a crowd, but as twilight settles in, the trip seems wobbly.

When things start going south, it’s helpful to slow down and regain your bearings. I ask everyone to gather for a Scout’s Own. It’s a tradition the troop has when camping on a Sunday, a time for reflection that stands in for church or temple. We go around in a circle, everyone getting a chance to share his thoughts. I ask them to talk about why we are here. The same two words keep tumbling out: “Mt. Whitney.”

Just about everyone who hikes in California feels Whitney’s tug. The peak is already at the top of their list. As we talk, two young women come down the trail, pretty as mountain wildflowers under their floppy hats. They had crossed Forester Pass earlier that day.

Forester looms large in our minds. The highest pass on the John Muir Trail, it was dynamited in 1932 to create a shortcut. We have to cross this steep, wind-swept, unnatural obstacle with almost full loads of food and fuel, still adjusting to the altitude.

No problem, the women tell us. “It’s gradual,” says one. It has the ring of “nice tie,” when you’re wearing one from 1985. But they had made it and seemed none the worse for wear. So much so that the boys, just a few years younger, start repeating questions on trail conditions, water availability, anything else they can think of to get the pair to linger.

But the women have to move on; they are doing no less than the entire John Muir Trail, and still have some ground to cover before dark. Nothing is said, but their example is as plain as day: This is fun -- no bellyaching allowed.

The next morning, we rise at 6 and hit the trail by 8. Forester Pass is as close to gradual as you can get for a 13,200-foot pass (the approach from the south is steeper). Ben shows no signs of trouble.

From the top, it’s a long, steady downhill to Tyndall Creek and our layover day. We’ll have Tuesday to fish, wash clothes, maybe even splash off some of the trail dust in the chilly creek.

Fantasy in the sky

Tyndall Creek is the part of the trip I’ve been most looking forward to. I’ve done Whitney twice before, and think its sky-high views are scant reward for putting up with ant-like streams of hikers combing its slopes. But Tyndall is a three-day walk from the road. We won’t find much competition for campsites. And maybe we’ll have a chance to savor a bit of solitude.

That’s something forest rangers are working to preserve. They’ve imposed quotas on popular trail heads -- a 15-person maximum for hiking groups. Partly that’s to minimize physical impact, but it’s also to limit people-to-people encounters and “social impact.”

As the trip progresses, we find ourselves doing better on the social impact front -- dividing into smaller groups as we set up tents and explore the areas around our campsites. On layover day, the boys go their separate ways, fishing and hiking, and no doubt happy not to have me telling them what to do.

Greg and I take our poles and follow Tyndall Creek northeast as it veers away from the trail. The day is dazzlingly clear. Forester rises in the distance, a giant wall of forbidding granite, and the river twists and turns in a series of sparkling pools.

The group trudges on, camping at Crabtree Meadow and then pushing to Guitar Lake, on the backside of Whitney at 11,600 feet. We get there before noon, nab the best campsite, and then just about everyone catches golden trout. That evening, wispy clouds pass above in surreal shapes. The granite peaks to the east are awash in red-golden alpenglow, and to the west the setting sun and clouds create a fantasy in the sky.

At last, the peak

You hate to say Whitney is easy. But you’d be surprised the shape you get in after a week of backpacking, especially when you’re two to three miles above sea level.

We set out at 7 a.m., fortified by Power Bars. A little after 9, our lead group is at the 13,480-foot mark on the Whitney Trail. We shed our heavy backpacks, wait for the stragglers and ascend the final chaos of boulders to the summit. Even if you’ve been here before, you can’t help but feel a thrill. A steady wind ensures clear views for miles. We mug for the cameras and relish our good fortune.

It’s different on the Whitney Trail, of course. Large parties of day hikers are here, many dressed as if they were out for a jog. Moving down the mountain -- dusty, bearded (some of us) and still lugging those big packs -- we can’t help but feel that we have an entirely superior appreciation of the mountain.

I also feel pride in the 10 young men -- Ben, Cameron, Chris, Christian, Colin, Dan, Jon, Kevin, Michael and Quinn. Who knows what mountains these guys may climb in the future? I know one thing -- they all will be able to lead a crew through the Sierra one day.

By trek’s end, the hassles of big-group backpacking seemed a faint memory, overshadowed by the spirit of shared adventure. In the end, we had serenity and camaraderie too -- all it took was a few days to get the hang of working together, and figuring out how to leave some space for others to fill.

Who says says wrestling fans can’t have fun at the opera?