Whitney
June 9
“On June 9, 1921 James Monroe Holton was born. He was one of nine children, he lived through the Great Depression, two World Wars, was married for over 50 years, had 3 daughters — our mothers, provided for a family, and fixed everything with his bare hands. He did as much as he could.
It was never pretty…but he got it done.
As he did, so shall we, his grandsons, on his 100th birthday. Come hell or high water… we will get it done.”
I repeated this to myself multiple times over the course of the ascent under my labored breaths. I needed motivators. Samuel had done this hike before and he didn’t seem to need the same motivation I did. He was more concerned about the temperature and wind (single digit wind chill and gusts up to 50mph projected) — something I should have been worried about if I wasn’t so fixated on the possibility of failure.
I hate quitting. I hate losing. I hate failing. I usually cover it with good sportsmanship, congratulations, humor, but with only myself to compete against on this climb I knew if I failed it was all on me and that scared me.
It was too serendipitous an occasion to fail.
Our lottery permit was on our grandpa’s 100th birthday. I had turned 30 two months before. Sam hit 34 one week before. It was an homage, a celebration, and a challenge. I wanted this.
In my head leading up to the hike I told myself I was doing it for him. For Papa and his memory. As we got closer to our scheduled start and the weather was looking impassable I realized that wasn’t the case. I wanted it for me.
“There is honor in the start. There is glory in the finish.”
Another thing I kept telling myself with every cold step. Papa would be proud of us for undertaking this journey no matter the outcome. We had traveled great distances and beginning the challenge was enough to honor him. We were starting it for him.
I wanted to finish it for me.
02:10 am
Sam’s alarm goes off as expected. Our bags are already packed. We slept in our hiking clothes. We trudge to the car and quietly drive the quarter mile to the trailhead. A banana, some water, and granola bar later we begin at 02:40. The first steps of the 22 mile round trip (hopefully) journey that will take us to 14,505 feet — the highest point in the continental United States.
There is honor in the start.
04:00 am
Sam’s headlamp is brighter than mine and he is in the lead so he spotted them first; the glowing wide-set eyes about 60 yards up the slope staring back at us. It was something big and this was bear territory. We slowed down but kept moving and talking to each other. Up one switchback. 40 yards away. Up another switch back. 15 yards away...
“Deer,” Sam said with a sigh. “Just two deer eating some breakfast. My heart rate can go back to normal now.”
Papa would have laughed at us for being so afraid for those few minutes.
04:45 am
We make it to Outpost Camp — what I considered the 1/3 mark of the uphill and we layer up and eat some food. Sam tells me if it keeps getting this cold and windy we are not going all the way up today. It would be foolish to risk our health. I nod my head but for the next two hours I am sad and angry at that possibility. I want this. As the sun comes up we stare at the light reflecting on the mountain faces and its beautiful orange glow. It is beautiful.
07:10 am
We make it to trail camp where some folks camped overnight to split what we are doing in one day into two. We fuel up and make sure we’re layered properly then begin the infamous 100 switchbacks to Trail Crest — the spine of the range and the marker with two miles to go. It was here that the elevation started to do its work. My calves and heart had the strength but my head and lungs were battling. Sam’s jeans have begun to chafe him. He had hiking pants but learned last night while packing that they had a hole in the crotch. Not the omen we were looking for — but another challenge to overcome.
08:15 am
On the way up we yo-yo with various groups. We pass them. We take a break. They pass us. We cross a pair of well-outfitted and rugged guys on their way down. They had already summitted and say, “It’s cold and windy as hell but it’s doable.” I hung on those last three words. “It is doable…”
Not a glowing endorsement but it’s enough for Sam and I to get excited and the possibility of finishing grows.
09:00 am
We reach Trail Crest — the spine of the ridge. Two miles of boulder walking at over 13,000 feet with a few spots where 500 foot drops await us on either side and we will reach the summit. Sam points out on a distant ridge a small lego-like figure perched atop a peak. Before the peak had looked close but then he tells me that tiny lego is the summit hut on the top of Whitney. We still have a long way to go and the gusts have only gotten strong on this side of the ridge. I suck wind for a few minutes and eat another one of my eight Clif Bars before we head out.
10:15 am
I am dying.
I am in great shape, mentally strong (mostly), have great muscle endurance and cardio (usually)…and I am dying. I take 30 steps then bend over my hiking poles exhausted. I wait 45 seconds until I no longer feel like I just finished a half-marathon. I feel refreshed… then take two steps and revert back to exhaustion. I am tired, sleepy, weak, sore, hungry, thirsty, and beginning to become a husk of a person. Sam asks me questions and I stop responding with words. Only nods or shakes of my head.
10:53 am
“80 more yards,” Sam lies to me. It’s truly not far off — maybe only 110 yards but I still have to stop three times in that distance.
10:57 am
Summit.
There is glory in the finish.
When we began the climb and the day before I had pictured this moment. I would let out a primal scream of accomplishment. I would say a few words about Papa. I might even cry.
I had teared up a few times the day before sitting by a creek thinking about this moment…going over my little mantras in my head…thinking about the possibility of coming all this way to California and it not happening too.
I didn’t get that good emotional catharsis at the summit and I am OKAY with that haha.
I was toasted and was content with an immediate trudge back down.
We spent maybe 15 minutes at summit. Snapped some pics, I put on another jacket, tried to eat calories through the pounding headache, then we set off again. That was that. We summitted. We stopped. We started again.
The downhill portions came quickly and the uphills on the way back to Trail Crest felt like death all over again. We reached the base around 5:05pm after being up on the mountain for a little over 14 hours.
Papa would be proud of us. We were faced with conditions that were irregular and downright atrocious yet we powered through. With a little planning, a lot of preparation, and surprisingly few incidents we made it.
On the way down we stopped and chatted with a couple. The man told us, “I have been at 22,000 feet in the mountains of Pakistan and other places all over — THAT was the coldest and windiest summit I have ever had to face.”
Hiking isn’t a competition, but he told me exactly what my ego needed to hear after feeling like a sack of shit for 5 of those 14 hours.
There is honor in the start. There is glory in the finish.
This wasn’t a vacation. Was never meant to be. It was voluntary hardship — a pillar of my life I am coming to enjoy more and more. It tells me I am still alive, still capable, still a good human — whether it be physically or mentally. I need that validation sadly and by setting myself up for success or failure it provides it. I soak it up.
If I ever decide to climb that mountain again (unlikely unless Jeff Bezos offers me money to be his sherpa) then I hope I can soak it in more from the summit…rather than chugging pedialyte, cramming almonds and Clif Bars in my face, and trying to breathe through a splitting headache.
It was a beautiful and awful day. So many are. Happy to have made it to whatever the next horribly wonderful adventure is.
PAT
