Summit as often as you can

CATHARINE COOPER

“Are you crazy?!” my father exclaims when I tell him I’m off to climb

Mt. Whitney again. “You did that last year.”

I assure him that I’m not crazy, and yes, I did climb Whitney last

year, but Lynn and James have a permit for four and I love to hike.

How could I refuse?

Climbing Whitney means training, i.e., getting in shape. We start

with long hikes in our local chaparral, increasing miles and

eventually weight. Adding Mt. Baldy to the mix provides the lungs

with the practice of functioning at altitude.

The Mt. Whitney trail is the most heavily traveled in all of the

National Park Service. The annual lottery for the 60-per-day

allocated hiker slots fills within two weeks. There are several

possible routes to the top, but the most common is straight up from

Whitney Portal. Some choose to do the trip as a day hike, a brutal X

Games kind of approach. Others, like myself, are more interested in

the journey, and so we spread the distance and climb over two or

three days with a backpacking/camping stop in the middle.

We’ve chosen, as we did last year, to take the trip in several

segments. First stop, Bishop, where we move our lungs from their

heavy sea-level laden state to an easy 4,000 feet. Chinese food and a

bit of last minute shopping fill the hours. Then it’s off to Whitney

Portal and walk-in campground, where we pitch our tents and enjoy the

antics of a black bear fishing in the river.

Same bear (likely), wakes us that evening rummaging through

Steve’s pack, which is empty of all food stuffs, except the bear

canister. James leaps out of his tent to shoo the bear away, and we

decide to sleepily lock the backpacks into the food lockers near the

parking lot. Damage report: bag intact, two puncture holes in

Ziplocks holding clothes.

Morning coffee and a slug of oatmeal starts the day. We don heavy

packs (what in the world can possibly be in there -- except the

weighty bear canister), and set out up the trail. We will pass and be

passed by many hikers, including those on a short day outing to Lone

Pine Lake.

Camaraderie on the trail and in the camps is common. Fathers coax

young sons. Friends jovially encourage each other up the mountain.

Mothers, fathers, couples, foreigners, old, young, fit and not so,

flesh out a cross-section of hikers sharing the same goal.

The Whitney trail has unaffectionately been called a freeway, and

certainly, this is not a trip of solace and tranquillity, but it is

the road to the top, and the adventure is a popular one. Sixty

percent of those who start the hike never make the summit.

We pitch our tents at Trail Camp, a wide basin above tree line at

12,000 feet. A small lake provides water, which we pump and filter,

and solar latrines (thankfully downwind) capture solid waste. Camp is

noisy, and sleep is difficult. Altitude headaches are relieved by

copious amounts of Ibuprofen. In the cold, crisp, 30-degree, morning

air, we do not linger. Ninety seven switchbacks, five miles and a

2,496-foot elevation gain loom before our quest for the summit.

At 13,500 feet, winds rapidly cut the temperature of soft skin. We

quickly layer on wind pants, jackets and hats. James sets the pace

for the last two miles, while we reflect on the glorious view of the

Sierra backcountry which spreads out to the west.

As we approach the summit, sighs of joy and shouts of laughter

echo down steep slopes. We have climbed steadily, struggled against

the physiological effects of altitude and been rewarded with a stand

on the highest point in the continental United States.

The view from the top of Mt. Whitney is breathtaking, both

literally and figuratively. The air at 14,496 feet is thin, and great

gasps are necessary to fill the lungs. We view 360 degrees of

unimpeded wonder. A refuge from the lives we left behind spreads all

around us.

We sign the summit book, consume calories in the form of lunch and

take photographs of one another. A fellow traveler lends me his

cellphone (yep, there’s actually service up there). I dial my dad.

“Hey, pops! I’m not crazy at all! You should see the view!”

* CATHARINE COOPER loves wild places. She can be reached at

ccooper@cooperdesign.net.