"It takes a person who is wide awake to make his dream come true."
Roger Ward Babson (1875-1967), American financial statistician
I did not have a restful sleep. Too many logistical issues going through my head. Do I take it? Do I need it? What if? What if not? Trail conditions? Weather conditions? How am I? How will I? I am at the mercy of my own decisions. I am responsible for what I do or fail to do. Isolation. Desolation. Desperation.
I "awoke" at a 4:45 a.m. I gathered my gear and was ready to go. I ate 2 bite-sized Snickers bars for breakfast. I contemplated making some hot tea to jump start, but my main focus was to get ready for the summit. I figured the hike ahead would be enough jump start.
Around sunrise, Steve and Mark were getting ready. I went over to their camp to go over any last minute questions. Their uncle decided he would not go with us and that he would return to Whitney Portal. I looked at the attire Steve and Mark were wearing. Steve wore blue jeans, a jacket, a baseball cap, a wooden walking staff, Merrell boots. Mark was wearing shorts, three layers of cotton clothing, a pack, couple of water bottles, boots and a wooden hiking stick. They had no cold weather gear, no gaiters, no crampons, no trekking poles, no ice axe. I said to myself, "You gotta be kidding me! You are going to the top in that?" Well, whatever trips your trigger. These guys have no idea what they are up against!
I walked back to my tent passing by Brian and Eusebio were also getting ready. I can tell by the look in their eyes, they were anxious to get started.
I got all my gear together and donned my pack and was adjusting my poles. I was having a difficult time with one of my trekking poles. It would not lock to the desired length. This can't be happening! I tried all types of options and finally I got it to work. I looked at the group and asked, "Did someone say a prayer?" Steve answered, "I scratched my head!" "Good, it worked!"
We leave for the summit at 6:04 a.m. Again, I am the scout. Followed by Brian, Eusebio, Mark and Steve. We crossed the creek and headed up the switchbacks towards Mirror Lake. The sun cast its early morning orange glow on the mountains around us. Incredible.
We had to overcome some snow pack along the way to Mirror Lake (10,640 feet; 4.3 miles). Somewhere along the way, I missed the trail because I was so focused on the snow pack beneath my feet. We wound up along the banks of Mirror Lake. We weren’t supposed to be there. Took that wrong turn at Albuquerque!
Anyhow, it was a perfect photo opportunity. There was a log we had to cross to get back on the trail. One false move meant a nice cold soaking. I commented to Steve and Mark, "You don't see this in Iowa!"
After I crossed the log, I immediately started looking for the trail. I just so happened to look to my left and saw the trail and looked down and realized I was standing on it! Imagine that! I can see where we lost it. All I had to do was look to the left while on the snow pack on the way up and there it was.
We hit the trail again and made it up more switchbacks. I kept my eyes open for the trail. Scanning. Looking. When I hit the snow pack, I scanned some more, picked up the trail and went. I would tell the others to wait until I found the trail. There was no need for them to waste energy. Let me do the walking. You just stand there and rest and catch your breath while I "seek and destroy."
We pass the last tree along the trail. A whitebark stump at around 10,950 feet.
I see the avalanche up ahead that I read so much about on the Portal Store website. Wow. Glad I wasn't here to see it happen! Wouldn't be prudent!
I stop to gaze around before stepping on to the snow pack. Trailside Meadows (11,395 feet; 5.3 miles), formerly known as Ram Horn Park, does not exist. It is covered in snow pack. There are parts of the trail exposed up ahead, but I felt it was in our best interest to stay on the snow and make a bee line for Trail Camp.
It was a decision that changed my whole entire day.
As soon as my right foot hits the snow, I posthole up to my crotch and hyperextend my knee as it hits terra firma. Pow! Excruciating pain. A lot of obscenities with the "f" word. My first thought was this can’t be happening. Not now. Why me?
I recollected my thoughts and started thinking of a contingency plan. Do I turn around and go back now or do I proceed with my plan of attack? What about the others? Can they make it without me? My only hope was that there were no more future incidents involving postholing and that my knee will hold up to the grueling hike ahead. My friends ask if I were okay. "Pain is weakness leaving the body," was my battle cry. However, this kind of pain was not a weakness.
We proceeded up the sloshy snow pack. I pointed out to the group that the avalanche is a reference point on the descent to get back on the trail and eventually to Outpost Camp. There is another route straight down the snowfields to OC, but it is a route I am not familiar with.
Up. Up. Up. There was no end. You reach the top and there is another ascent. We stop along the way to put our crampons on.
I am writhing in agony. Every step with my right leg hurt. Factor in the altitude and it made matters worse. But I kept pushing. I am going to the summit with my new friends.
Off to the left is ice-covered Consultation Lake. Some have called it Constellation Lake and Consolation Lake. Damn, I forgot my ice skates! I am trying to take my mind off my agony. I do not let my friends see my face. They ask a question and I turn around gritting my teeth through labored breaths and respond to their questions with enthusiasm. They are relying on me. I am going to get them there.
I see the solar toilet facilty to the right. We are here! We have reached Trail Camp (12,040 feet; 6.3 miles) a little after 8:00 a.m. What a magnificent sight with all the snow.
There was a man and woman there. Greetings were exchanged. I dumped my pack on the dry ground and proceeded to do a survey of the area of the route ahead. I proceeded up to a point where I could see Whitney to my right two and one-half miles away. I took a picture. That's the objective.
I look back at the 99 switchbacks that lead to Trail Crest. About a third of the 99s are still covered in snow. The best route is a straight shot up 50° grade or more in the snow chute just right of the 99s. I see other hikers making their way up to the snow chute that leads to Trail Crest. I envy them. Do I? Yes! I am going. Failure is not an option.
I turn around to return to the others and offer my plan. By God we are going. Then my right knee postholed again. Only this time the pain didn't phase me. It woke me.
I am not going. I decide it was best that I not proceed any further. I didn't want to do any further damage to my knee or they would have to carry me to Whitney Portal and that would not be prudent. I tell my friends of my decision. They will have to go without me. My heart was heavy. They understood.
Instead of feeling sorry for myself, I give my friends a rundown of what lies ahead for them. I tell them about the 1,620 feet of elevation gain they will hike up the snow chute. I tell them about the 2.5 miles they would still have to cover to get to the summit once they get to Trail Crest (13,660 feet). I tell them to be careful as they make their way to the John Muir Trail. I tell them to continue to pace themselve. I tell them to yoga breath. I tell them to keep hydrated. I tell them to nibble on whatever they had to subsist on. I tell them to if they do not reach the summit by 1:00 p.m., turn around. I belayed that. I tell them if they do not reach the summit by 2:30 p.m., then turn around.
I shook hands with my four friends. To the summit and safe return.
As they left, a tear welled up in my eye. Not of sadness, but of joy. I am seeing four hikers in pursuit of a dream. The same dream I had last year. Off they went. They joined up with other hikers who decided to leave about the same time.
I take off my crampons. I grab a camp towel and fill it with snow. I hunker down in a campsite with my pack to my back as it rests against a man-made stone wall. I unzip my convertible pant leg and place the my field expedient ice bag on my knee. Cold. Very cold. Uncomfortably cold. But I keep reapplying. If you don't do this, Gary, you will have someone carrying you down.
I pull out a Clif bar and started nibbling on it while drawing water throught the tube from my Camelbak Unbottle in my pack.
I am not a very religious person, but somehow someway, the Person Upstairs has ways for me to tolerate my discomfort. There is chipmunk flitting here and there looking for a morsel of food. Its tail in the air as it scampers around the site. It draws nearer to me only to run back to the safety of the rock wall. This routine goes on and on. I chuckle. Then enters this huge marmot to my left. It is no more than two feet away from me. It is eating a peppermint chocolate candy left behind by a careless hiker or it was taken from someone's pack without their knowledge. It is gnashing away at its dessert. It occasionally pauses to survey what other foodstuffs are available. Then the marmot inches closer as it senses my Clif bar. Oh no you don't as I take my take the handle of my trekking pole and scare him away. I also notice a crow hopping among the rocks making its familar "caw" sound as it looks for food. To my right a grey-crowned rosy finch lands by my feet pecking away at the ground occasionally looking my way for a handout. All I can do is smile. My furry and feathery friends are keeping me entertained. I had forgotten all my troubles.
I then glance up at the 99s to spot my friends. They are about a third of the way up. I look at my watch. At the rate they are going, they will be cutting it close or they will never make it at all.
About 10:30, I thought it would be best to start back down. I am of no use here. I must return to Outpost Camp. But before I left, I had some unfinished business to attend to. I placed BJ’s lucky penny in an inconspicuous spot where I will pick up next time. I said hi to a friend’s mother and brother who have passed on. I hope they heard me. I said a prayer for my new friends. I thought about all my co-workers. Man, I wish I could make a documentary to take back and show to everyone.
I put on my crampons and head back down. Every step was a very painful experience. One step at a time. Slowly.
I pass one man hiking solo with trekking poles and snowshoes on his pack. "Will I need crampons?" "Yes, but you won't need those snowshoes."
Next, about 15 minutes later, two women. One of the women was having a very difficult time with the altitude. "You're almost there!" "You wouldn't happen to be lying to me?" I just gave her a smile and said to her, "You are closer than you think. Hang in there! One step at a time." Practice what you preach, Gary, practice what you preach.
I stopped to take a picture of Consultation Lake and to adjust the knee brace on my right knee.
I pick up my avalanche visual reference and proceed to descend along the trail. I gingerly cross the snow pack. I get to the trail and put away my crampons. They have served me well.
I followed the trail. Downhill. But going downhill is worse than going uphill. Different muscles, different techniques.
I reach a snow pack. Where is the trail? I lost the trail! I couldn’t see it. Couldn't find it. I scampered among the rocks looking for the trail. Is it there? No. There? No.
Finally, I found it. Problem was it was 30 feet below me and gimpy me was up here with a lot of granite in between. You know 30 feet is only ten yards. Walk on a football field and you will know. Look up 30 feet and its nothing. Looking down 30 feet? That's another perception! It's a long way down. If the trail were a pool, I would jump!
I slid on my rump down the rocks favoring my sore knee. The movie, "Touching the Void," entered my mind. I don't need a Joe Simpson episode here where he jammed his knee so hard it sheared the patellar plateau and his tibia and fibula were now neighbors with his femur. Simon! I gingerly made my way down being ever so careful. Whew. I made it.
I return to OC around 12:30 p.m. I dump my pack. Relief. I went into my bear vault and pulled out two pouches of instant soup and some generic naproxen for my pain. I grab my Marmot DriClime windshirt and wrap it tightly around my knee for comfort and protection should I fall. I cook my soup and take one pill. Contemplated two. Naw. Take one. Didn't want stomach distress.
After subsisting, I take my mattress pad and bivy sack from my tent and lay them in the shade of the pine trees. I place the bear vault below my knee for comfort. I close my eyes. I am exhausted. Thoughts are of my friends on the mountain. The cool breeze lulls me to sleep. A deep sleep.
I awaken around 2:00 p.m. from the sound of approaching hikers. My friends are back! It is not them but other hikers making their way up the trail towards Mirror Lake.
I get up and gather my things as I try to regain consciousness. After putting my mattress pad and bivy sack away I glance towards the western sky.
Clouds. Cumulus clouds. Ah, just the same clouds as yesterday and the day before. No need for alarm.
Wrong.
The clouds took to grey. This is not good. I am not a meteorologist but when I see white clouds turn grey, that means rain. And at this elevation, snow and even lightning is even possible. I decide to place some rocks under my tent fly to keep the water off my tent just in case it started to rain.
Where are my four friends? Do they know the warning signs of an approaching storm? Do they know what to do? I failed to tell them if they see storm clouds to head back down immediately.
You do not want to be on Whitney when a storm hits. Lightning. Snow. Freezing temperatures. Hypothermia. Death. Not a good way to die.
At 4:15 p.m. it rains. Not a hard rain, but the raindrops were huge as they pelted me. Soon the rain turned into miniature slush balls and caromed off my shoulders. I decided it be best to seek shelter in my tent and hope those “slush balls” do not turn into huge hailstones or I will have to seek shelter elsewhere in the rocks that surround the camp. I take pictures. The rain hitting my tent sounds like popping corn. I peek outside my tent through the fly. You can see the soft hail hit the ground and bounce. The sounds get louder as the rain intensifies. Then like that it stops. The sun shines through. Good sign.
Five o'clock still no signs of my friends. I look up at the trail. No one. Five thirty. I see hikers coming down. It is not them. I do not ask if they had seen my friends. Ones asks me if this is the trail to Whitney Portal. I remember the hiker. He was one of several who came up the snowy way and left the same time my friends did. I did not ask if they reached the summit.
Six o'clock. I spot a figure on top of the snow pack by the waterfall. It is Mark. Then, Steve appears. They glissade down the last 30 yards of snow pack. They are elated. They reached the summit at 2:30 p.m. and started down at 3:00 p.m. They tell me that Brian and Eusebio are about one hour behind them. Mark says Eusebio is not looking good.
And this is how legends are made. Mark and Steve reached the summit without the aid of crampons, gaiters, ice axe, or trekking poles. John Muir would have been proud.
Around 7:00 p.m., I see another figure. It is Brian. He sees me in my hunter orange knit cap. I give the thumbs up. He raises his trekking poles high in the air with a triumphant cry. He does not come down. He waits for Eusebio. Fifteen minutes later, Eusebio appears. Both glissade down. Brian first. Eusebio sheds his pack and slides it down. He glissades only to pass his pack on the way down. He uses his ice axe to climb up to retrieve it. I told him to put the pack back on and glissade. He did. I quipped, "Longest 12 hours of your life, huh!" They both managed to crack a smile.
Eusebio did not reach the summit. He told me he was just 15 minutes away from reaching the summit, but the altitude was starting to take its toll. He made the right decision to turn around. I can see disappointment in his eye. I told him that he should be proud of what he done and that very few people make it that far. I also told him that he made the right decision to turn around. Brian tells me of his triumph. I can relate to his emotions. It is a feeling you will never forget for as long as you live.
In the meatime, Steve and Mark have retired to the confines of their tent. I imagine they are fast asleep.
Brian and Eusebio prepare to cook their meals as I retire to my tent for the evening.
Thank you, God, for looking out after my friends. Yes, You do work in mysterious ways.
