On Top of the World

I didn’t know how much further I would be able to go. I didn’t know if my overuse injuries would once again take me off trail. The synergy of my steadfast resolutions and faltering knees was misaligned and unconvincing. What I did know - was that I was nowhere near ready to stop. I knew things would be different upon return. Having listened to my body intently for two months, I knew what I was able to handle. I could “send it” for several miles at a time and knew my exact speeds for each grade of elevation, but I also knew that bigger miles and harder climbs required longer breaks and rest days. With pain as my wild card and my LOA running out, I knew I had to slow down and shave off some sections of trail to increase my chances of reaching Canada on time. So I excused my intentions of a “purist” hike at the Greyhound station that took me back to trail - I’d continue the hike with my own rules, or lack thereof. After thirteen hours of travel via plane, buses, trains, and long walks on an open road, I made it to Lone Pine, California - a tiny town nestled in the eastern foothills of the Sierra Nevada. The quaint town booms in the summer with hikers, climbers and film buffs touring its many well-known filming locations and rock climbing the distinctive Alabama Hills. I stayed two nights in Lone Pine to acclimate for the Sierra, which promised to keep me above 10,000 feet. For those two days, I sat at a picnic bench outside the hostel staring up at the mountain range in front of me; Mt. Whitney, dead center, was staring right back. Its stature was intimidating. While in the northern end of the desert, word spread of two untimely deaths of hikers in the Sierra. One was a PCT hiker, who suffered a pulmonary edema after experiencing Altitude Sickness on Mt. Whitney. The other was a day hiker who fell on the “99 Switchbacks” on his descent of the same mountain. They were two of five deaths on the mountain this year alone. Mount Whitney - although not a part of the actual PCT, was my first mission back on trail. It’s the tallest mountain in the contiguous US, standing at 14,505 feet, and a rite of passage for many PCT-ers due to its proximity to trail and relevant degree of challenge and opportunity. The Mount Whitney Trail is an 8 mile path connecting the PCT to Whitney’s summit - an easily accessible side-trip that many refuse to pass up. Hiking the mountain requires a permit, which luckily is included in our PCT permits. With two months of hiking under our [hip] belts, it’s safe to assume we are amongst the more well-trained hikers undertaking the mountain. With strong trail legs and minds tuned in to our bodies, we can understand what Whitney demands and its dangers. I, too, could not pass it up. A trail angel drove me to a campground close to the trailhead at mile 750 the following morning. I spent the day there with other wayfaring strangers acclimating to the higher altitude to give myself the best chance at a successful pursuit. I asked for beta from returning hikers but only received tips passively filled with fear-mongering. It was a long night. On July 9th, I began my solo venture through the Sierra Nevada. It was clear within the first hour that all the desert prepares you for is the desert. Learning how to ration water, planning your day around the sun, hugging the inside of the trail on eroded sheer drops, looking out for rattlesnakes - all good for the desert. Our schedule and attitude in the desert became de facto regular - it didn’t work the same in the Sierra. In comparison to these new surroundings, the climbs were lazy. The mountains encompassing me now are twice the size, colder, steeper, and more isolated. The confidence and invincibility I felt in the desert was quickly humbled and subdued by the Sierra. The scale of the mountains and the challenge they present shrink your mile-crushing desert ego and demand nothing short than strong lungs and an arduous footslog to succeed. Major environmental difference aside, what could not go unnoticed was the extra three pounds in my pack with the inclusion of my required bear canister and microspikes. Every step I now took jostled the food canister in my ultralight pack, causing the unwieldy object to slide from side to side, despite the many tetris games I played in the morning to stabilize it. The large cylinder became a new source of pain and anxiety with it inevitably bruising my back and being a new puzzle for Mama bear to grow frustrated with a few yards away from my tent. It took me two days to reach the junction where the PCT meets the side trail to Whitney. The first half of each day was sheer vertical acclivity. Sweat! Heart palpitations! Headaches! Doubt! A woman who climbed Whitney several times was quickly approaching during one of my habitual respites. I asked if Whitney was as steep as our morning climb. She laughed, and was out of sight within minutes. The only solace recouped was the second half of each day where I could briskly descend to the valley on cruise control. Confidence! Endorphins! Joy! The hype for the Sierra was real. The aptly designated Crown Jewel of the PCT is awe-inspiring, majestic, and humbling. I was hooked. It amazed me how a road at the western end of Lone Pine divided the geological environment around me. From exposed, dry, desert on one side, to high alpine scenery on the other. The land's bones were now of stone, dusted with the coverings of familiar larches and Giant Sequoia with Jeffrey and Tamarack pines that dotted talus-riddled slopes. The Sierra, and its ubiquitous granites pave through valleys and shine with flecks of tourmaline, mica, and feldspar. Its grandeur beauty is both strange and enticing. The desert resembled Mars, with its red rock and sand. The igneous rock combined with the silence and remoteness of the Sierra made me feel like I was on the Moon - all the while never feeling more grounded, more human. I arrived at the Crabtree Meadows tentsite, a mile into The Whitney Trail, around 5 PM. I relaxed against a tree and watched anxious hikers eat their dinners and set up camp before I did the same. Most hikers begin their ascent at midnight in hopes of witnessing a summit sunrise, so by 7 PM, they were asleep. To allow myself to rest and give myself more time to acclimate during ascent, I decided to forego a night hike and sleep in. I awoke at 3 AM. It was dark, cold, and wet from the frost seeping into my tent. Apprehension of the daunting task ahead of me began to seep in as well. I honestly don’t remember a time where I felt such fear. It was the first time on trail that I feared failure. I didn’t fear it in the sense of not reaching the summit and hurting my pride, I feared what failure would entail. I dreaded the effects of the unknown altitudes on my body. If I became too ill to reach the bailout trail 5 miles ahead, then the only way out would be via helicopter evacuation or turning back 30 miles with limited provisions. I made my parents a promise before I left: I would always choose safety. Regardless of how badly I’d want to push forward, I would always choose the safer route, even if that meant turning around. I promised that I would return in one piece. I would not return casted. I will not return via heli-vac. There will be no Search and Rescue, no evacuations, no missing hiker posts online. And most importantly, I will not go and not return at all. Taking on a risky and critical mountain like Whitney, alone, was the closest I had come to breaking that promise since running out of water on Mt. San Jacinto at mile 200. Lying in my tent, I procrastinated until it was light enough to see ten feet in front of me without my headlamp. At 5:30 AM, I took one more look at the map on my phone. For a short moment I was relieved when I saw the grade was not as steep as Baden-Powell, but was quickly dismayed knowing this hike is twice the length, and half the effective oxygen. Atop Whitney, we are breathing in 57% of normal oxygen with each breath, leaving us at risk of hypoxia. I slowly made my way up and out of the forest, taking long deep breaths to lower my panicked heart rate. I cautiously navigated the trail around the trees and rocks illuminated by the moon. Flickers of hikers' headlamps further in the distance confirmed my direction. I initially planned on filling up on water at Timberline Lake one mile in, but the savagery of the mosquitos relentlessly eating me alive prevented that stop. Once above the treeline, I began to shake with trepidation. My nerves were exacerbating and dissuading me in full force. Yet I was still somehow putting one foot in front of the other, as if the roles reversed and my body was motivating and steering my mind for the first time on this trek. Despite the angst, I knew deep down I wasn’t turning around without a fair attempt. Part of the excitement of a new environment is testing my limits. In higher elevation, I can find my threshold, go slightly past it, and find out how I do. It strengthens my will and tenacity - I wanted to see how high and how far I could go. I took a moment to look back at the trail - sunlight was starting to peak over the treeline, its warmth and glow revealing my surroundings, slightly easing my nerves. Something about being able to see really takes the edge off, you know? A set of mothers and their daughters were soon behind me. One of the daughters couldn’t be more than 10 years old. She literally ran ahead of me, and I wondered how we were on the same mountain. I envied her excitement and energy - unphased and pure. The girl and her mother enthusiastically looked back at me chanting “we’re doing it!”. I smiled, and sat down to let their words sink in. What I needed at that moment was not to elevate my body but elevate my mind. I knew I needed to fully relax if I wanted to succeed. “We’re doing it!”. I was so worried, but two miles in already, here I was, doing it. I was still okay. After two full days of hiking - no, two months of hiking - I was now at the saddle of Whitney steadily ascending. I had already come so far - just 5 miles left to the summit. I was doing it! I had been so hesitant about something that I had been preparing and training for for the last couple months. Duh, Amanda, you’re fine. I made my way over to Guitar Lake with a fresh, stouthearted mindset. It was the last water source before my intended campsite on the other side of the mountain - another 10.7 miles away. I sat with the mothers and their daughters and wished my mother could be there too to experience the beauty of the landscape in front of me (despite predictable objections to the hiking part). We camelled up on the crystal clear, cold alpine water and filled our bottles - about 6 lbs worth. Since the altitude caused us all to lose our appetites, elevation was now our enemy. We needed the fuel, so we ate strategically. I watched them press on, as I waited a little longer to take in my surroundings, mosquito-free. I didn’t want to rush the experience, and knew with a mountain like this, time was my friend. Moving forward, I balanced my thoughts with health and safety check-ins and taking in the environment around me. There was no more room left for fear, but I was amongst giants, and needed to tread carefully. The trail weaved up the couloir and over to the southern shoulder of the mountain. Looking up, I felt insignificant. I felt negligible in comparison to the magnitude of one side of a single peak. The higher I climbed, the more revealed the mountain peaks stretching far to the horizon. I could see both Timberline and Guitar lake below, their deep blue water now lustred in the sun, and snow patches, granite spires and crags highlighted in golden hues on the peaks of the mountains in the distance. The 700 miles of the PCT that runs through the Sierra may be one of the most isolated places in the continental US. There are minimal signs of human intervention in the rugged wilderness beyond the trail itself. With the scarcity of hikers, it was easy to imagine myself on another planet, or another time. One which would be of exploration and adventure in vast, desolate, uncharted wilderness. The mountains themselves felt timeless, their age reminding me how fleeting our time on earth is. The slight changes in terrain as I slowly gained altitude and the soaring military jets sporadically flying overhead was the only sign that I advanced beyond the locomotive power of my own two legs. Whitney was putting that power to the test. My first goal was to get to the junction where The Whitney Trail meets the Whitney Portal. The portal is an 8 mile trail which would be my bail-out route if needed and the trail I’d later take toward basecamp, water, and town. I would hike 10 switchbacks and climb 1300 ft in elevation over the next 1.3 miles to reach the junction. I rested twice on each switchback to hydrate, carboload, and acclimate. On the sixth switchback, a hint of vertigo set in. I remember thinking that it wasn’t the altitude that made me dizzy, but the surreal and strange expanse too overwhelming for me to grasp. (Not to take away from the splendor, but it was definitely the altitude). I sat for thirty minutes to acclimatize and watched marmots sniff out crumbs from previous hikers. Regardless of the 1.9 miles I had left, I was immediately relieved once I reached the junction. To support that relief was a sign that warned us to “immediately leave the area” in the event of a storm. If I thought I could out-run lightning before, the six hours it took me to get to this spot proved me unmistakably dead if a storm were to roll in. With that, I wished myself luck and glanced at my map. I was pleasantly surprised to see a flat trail for the next 1.4 miles. A break from climbing! Although true, as there is minimal change in elevation, it was still a technical ridgeline. Rock piles made the narrow trail incredibly uneven. Now hiking the rugged edge of the mountain, I knew one step on an unsteady rock would cause me to plummet. Faced with the perils of Whitney, I prayed to get to the finish line safely - I wanted to bag the peak. Up and around the bends, there was a mutual respect for the challenge and its challenger. Seeing the rocks ahead of me, I thought it a battle. I didn’t know the mountains every move, but it didn’t know mine either. I didn’t need to win without a fight - make me nervous, make me dizzy, make me winded; I just had to take my time, and cautiously put one foot in front of the other, never picking up a foot unless the other and my trekking poles were secure. With my game face on, I was able to feel my legs and lungs strengthen with each rock-strewn step. A half mile from the top, the now descending mothers and their daughters cheered me on. I was still doing it. They wished me luck considering the challenge up ahead. The remaining half mile had a 1000 foot gain in elevation - I’m pretty sure I cursed every foot under my breath as I trudged on. I needed to hurry, since it was already afternoon and all but 7 other hikers were already off the mountain. I summited Mt. Whitney on July 11th at 2:35 PM. I threw my pack off by the hut and collapsed on a rock to catch my breath. Five older men congratulated me while celebrating their own success. Once settled, I looked around in awe. I had a 360 degree panoramic view of the Sierra Nevada and its cresting peaks through the alpine wilderness. The distant stretch to the horizon felt like a backdrop fooling me. I stood at the highest point on the summit while one of the men took my picture. Turning around, I could see I was on the cliff. There was one rock separating me from thin air. Safely back towards the emergency hut, I immediately took advantage of the highly anticipated cell service to FaceTime my parents and alert them of my safe summit. I called the rest of my family as I watched the men begin their descent. Once off the phone, I looked around and realized I was completely alone. For eight minutes, having the entire summit to myself, I was the tallest man in the US. I was on top of the highest mountain in the contiguous US alone. For eight minutes, at 14,505 feet, I was on top of the world. Summiting this peak was not just about the conquest. Conquering a feat like this re-ignites the fire within us, the reason we are out there, like coal within a furnace. What started as a spark six years ago, with a dream to attempt the PCT, became a full-blown inferno inside me as I stood at the summit. Its euphoric moments like those - packed with thrill and adrenaline - that make me feel so alive, and so grateful for being so. Tears, true to form, came pouring out, blurring the view I worked so hard for. I made it. I was overwhelmed with how far I’d come - on that day, on the hike, and in my life. Never did I think I would be there, and from the deep abyss of my depression, I never would have believed it. I felt empowered, and grateful for my strength, patience, and health for getting me to that summit. And for my family and supports who would not allow me to give up. This walk in the wild, my footloose odyssey, had completely revitalized my sense of hope, peace, will and happiness. I was truly on top of the world. It took me 9 hours to summit Whitney, but I was ready to descend after 20 minutes. I still had to reach camp safely before dark and I was running low on water. The invigoration of having the summit to myself quickly lost its thrill considering the hazards. Only passing two hikers on my way back towards the trail junction, I knew aside for us three, the mountains crests and ridges were deserted. Once there, I began to worry. I didn’t have the Portals map since it’s not on the PCT, and rockslides had obscured the trail. Not being able to see the path, I debated sleeping at the lone tentsite at the junction and wait for a hiker to follow down the next morning. The idea tempted me - as it would simply be the coolest and highest place in the US to camp, but my lack of water and fear of hypoxia had me scrambling over the rocks in front of me looking for the trail. A few minutes later, the other two hikers had turned the corner. They didn’t anticipate the time needed to summit, and too were running low on water. Half a mile from the top, they decided to turn around and take the Portal down as well. I offered them water and followed them down and over the rocks until the trail became clear. Thus began the infamous 99 switchbacks to reach the Lone Creek tentsite and water. I couldn’t help but think of the death that sadly took place here a few weeks prior. The trail then was covered in snow. Now the patches of the remaining snow allowed for a stream of snowmelt to trickle down the mountain's slopes, over each switchback, into Lone Creek. The slippery rocks forced me to walk slowly, each step with intention. The cold water seeping into my shoes provided refreshment as well as incentive to hurry down to camp. The tentsite sits two miles below the summit, on the slope of the mountain, at over 12,000 feet. I quickly set up my tent and filled 4 liters of the clearest crispest water I’ve ever seen and nearly downed it all. I spent the evening surrounded by hikers pacing in anticipation for their morning ascent and was greeted and congratulated by other intrepid mountaineers recovering from their own descent. We sat in awe, as the view was honestly more impressive than the summit itself. To the west we watched as the remaining light slowly drifted behind the 99 switchbacks, allowing the billions of stars above us to come into view. The lake to the north reflected the mountains crags, and held dozens of marmots chasing each other throughout. South of the lake were boulders surrounded by colorful tents which extended down the trail to the east. With the milky way above us, we all star-gazed, completely mesmerized with the view and the ambience of that bucket-list-worthy night. The next morning I awoke from the mumblings of hikers packing up camp. For the first time, I was propelled to open the vestibule of my tent to enjoy the view prior to getting ready. The sun was beginning to rise over the lake. Thankfully I had enough time to immediately emerge from my tent and take what would become one of my favorite photos from the entire trek. Knowing I only had 6 miles to descend for the day, I was able to take my time and watch the sunrise. I ate breakfast, stretched, gathered water, and wished luck to hikers making their way up the mountain. An hour later, I said my goodbyes and took to the trail. The beauty of the Sierra became more and more pronounced the deeper in I went. Green flora, blue skies, granites, sparkling lakes, fir trees for miles, surrounded the trail unraveling ahead. Although not on the PCT, these were my favorite miles of the entire trek.The beauty of the Whitney Portal is truly unparalleled. The changing terrain as I made my way toward the treeline left me jaw-dropped and spellbound. Around every turn, the portal offered a new view. I descended in a state of awe, often muttering eloquent statements like “get the fuck outta here” and “shut the hell up”. Graceful deer prancing in the weeds, duck and ducklings trailside, birds I’ve never heard of above. The trail weaved alongside waterfalls, with its cascades tumbling alongside the trail in a series of falls, audible before they are seen. I made my way down into the heavily wooded canyon, immersed in the evergreens, with towering granite cliffs on either side. It was an endless and vibrant spectacle, like a live-action Disney forest but with a much more disheveled and sublunary lead. Despite the contrast, I felt giddy and truly immersed in nature. It took me five hours to descend Whitney. The emotional high and energy could have gotten me there sooner had I not stopped to enjoy the view and photograph every turn on my way down. I was lucky enough to catch the pity of a guy sitting in his campervan at the trailhead. He confessed on our ride out that he had seen me with my thumb out an hour earlier, but was hesitant to pick up - a hobo. I explained I was on the PCT and was just as hesitant to get into a windowless van. He explained he was a Wildland Firefighter on a day off, but was headed toward the wildfire in nearby Yosemite, the section I had planned to hike to next. Once back at the hostel, I sat for lunch at the same picnic table, and looked back up to Whitneys' summit. I couldn't believe I was there just a few hours before - the accomplishment I never fathomed. There I sat, remembering that I may be small in comparison to those mountains, but my determination was Whitney high. I am not done summiting mountains. Kilimanjaro - I am coming for you. Everest Base Camp - see you after. Back in Lone Pine, thousands of feet lower in elevation, I felt I was still the tallest man, still on top of the world.

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