Guest Post: "The Climb" as told by Brian Beane

As many of you may already know, Garrett and Brian made their most recent hiking trip in May to Mt. Whitney.  Though it almost caused heart attacks for me and Mom, the boys made it back safe, sound, and triumphant.  We'll skim over the fact that Mom and I have created a "Hiking Protocol" sheet for their future hikes to prevent worry and hyperventilation on our parts, and put the real focus on what a great time the guys had and how proud we are of their accomplishment!

Now, for the real story, as told by Brian Beane (slideshow of pictures below):

I had the privilege last month to climb with my brother-in-law and some friends to the summit of Mt Whitney, at the Southern terminus of the John Muir Trail. Nestled on the boundary of the Sequoia National Park and the Inyo National Forrest, a mere 76 miles West of the lowest point in North America (Badwater, Death Valley National Park, elevation: 282 feet below sea level), Mt Whitney is the highest mountain in the contiguous 48 United States at an elevation of 14,505 feet. The summit of Mt Whitney lies along the Sierra Crest in a cluster of many of the highest peaks that the Sierra Nevada has to offer. Our expedition followed a unique progression from the infancy of its conception to the culmination of our efforts and the ultimate fulfillment of achieving the summit. Because the mountain is located in a National Park, it is necessary to obtain Backcountry permits from the National Park Service for any climber to attempt reaching the summit. When applying for such permits, an applicant may submit several dates he or she would be willing and able to make the trek. In our particular case, permits were issued for one of the least desirable dates we had requested, however, we were presented with a unique opportunity and challenge. The month of May represents the early season for climbers summiting Mt Whitney, and there is often significant residual snow and ice on the mountain throughout the month, with the possibility of additional snowfall. The presence of snow and ice on a climbing expedition drastically changes the prerequisite skills and abilities of the climbers involved, as well as the necessary gear and equipment without which such a climb would be virtually impossible.

During the late Summer, climbers of all skill levels often summit Mt Whitney in nothing more than shorts and tee-shirts. The clearly defined Mount Whitney Trail climbs up the primary Southern chute via a series of switchbacks, not unlike the zig-zag movements of a skier trying to reduce their speed on descent. During the Winter months, however, the entire trail is completely obscured by several feet of snow, making it possible for climbers to trudge straight up the chute, often at angles of incline nearing 45 degrees. The precariousness of the angle combined with the snowy and icy terrain require the use of specially designed footwear and hand tools. Crampons are a modified boot sole which are strapped to the outside of a climber's boot, and consist of a series of spikes protruding from the bottom intended to give the wearer purchase on snow and ice. An ice axe is a mountaineering tool held in the climber's hand on the side of their body oriented to mountain facing uphill. The ice axe consists of a pick and an adze at the head, and a spike or ferrule at the base of the shaft. This multi-purpose tool may be used for balance and stability, carving out footholds in hard packed snow or ice, and most importantly in the event of a fall the climber uses the axe to perform a self-arrest and prevent sliding down a mountain without control. The use of both crampons and ice axes is quite necessary for a successful summit climb in winter or frozen conditions.

Ironically, of the nine individuals who made the trip, none of our crew had any prior experience in frozen conditions, and none of us had the necessary equipment, much less did we know how to use it. We were notified of our approval for permits less than a month in advance, and it was only weeks before the trip that we became aware that the conditions surpassed our expectations, and would necessitate the use of such specialized gear. The result is that we all purchased these items as a last minute consideration, and the extent of our experience in using them consisted solely of watching instructional videos on YouTube. As if these circumstances weren't enough, two days prior to our attempt at summiting, the area was inundated with another two feet of late season snowfall.

So on a Thursday afternoon when I finished my work, I flew out to Los Angeles where I met up with my brother-in-law and stayed at a hotel for the night. We woke early the following morning to make the three hour drive North to Lone Pine, where we expected the rest of our crew to have already embarked. We had planned to camp out at a designated area along the trail for the first night, and to attempt the summit early the next morning from this intermediate elevation. It was agreed that we would all meet at the Outpost Camp in Big Horn Park, and climb together as a crew on the second day, however, when we arrived at Outpost, there was no one to be found. We assumed that the rest of the crew had pressed on, and considering that we had not anticipated the arduousness of the hike, we made a decision to climb higher on our first day and essentially lessen the extent of our climb to the summit on day two. Again we underestimated the difficulty of the climb, and the hike from Outpost Camp to Trail Camp, just a little further up the mountain, sapped from us what little remaining energy we had. The mere two miles separating the two camps consisted of a steep vertical climb of approximately 200 yards, from which we struck out horizontally along a well used path in the snow along the Big Horn Traverse. This proved to be the first opportunity to use our crampons and ice axes, so after watching several other climbers slide from their perch and lose 100 yards of elevation, we dutifully put them to use. Upon arriving at Trail camp, we un-slung our heavily laden packs, sat down for a quick drink of water until our hands and feet began to chill, then we set up our tent and sleeping bags for a late afternoon siesta. Searching for our remaining crew members proved too ambitious for our worn-out twosome, so about three hours later we were still cozy in our sleeping bags, and had no desire to stir. It was crucial that we eat a substantial dinner to repair the sore muscles and store energy for the trials to follow, so without venturing out into the cold, we lit our stove under the vestibule of the mountaineering tent, boiled some snow, and helped ourselves to some freeze-dried trail meals that you simply add water to and stir. Mine was Chili Mac with Beef, to which I added Tabasco, and while I bitterly contested the statement on the label that the course was for two, I was amply pleased with the warmth and flavor that brought me so much comfort in those final hours. Needless to say, immediately after dinner, we dozed off and relished in the best night of sleep you can possibly experience on a rocky outcrop in 17 degree weather.

It was roughly 7:30 on Saturday morning when the sun broke the horizon down the valley, and we were the first to stir on the wind-swept rocks. We boiled some snow to make water for the day's climb, then shed the bulk of our gear so that we could travel lean and fast to the summit. What we left behind we simply stowed in the tent, and once again donned our crampons to break fresh snow. We were the third group to set out from Trail Camp that morning, but we easily overcame the second group as they leisurely ambled up the chute. The first group, however, were experience mountaineers with whom we had spoken briefly the previous night, and whom we knew to have consumed a full bottle of Jack Daniel's to stay warm in their minimalist bivvy sacks. They angled out across the chute towards the scramble route on the SE face of the ridge, which can considerably shorten the climb for those experienced and confident enough to brave the much steeper inclines. We opted for the safer, though arguably no less difficult route straight up the belly of the chute, so we were the first to make tracks up the powdery face. It was at least an hour and a half before we reached the Trail Crest at the top of the chute, where the Mount Whitney trail intersects the John Muir trail on the ridge of the Sierra Nevada's. We broke for a half hour to eat a breakfast of Clif bars and energy gels, and enjoyed our first glimpse of Guitar lake down below on the far side. The most demanding part of the climb behind us, we struck out along the Ridgeline towards the Whitney summit. The ridgeline section is a few miles of gently undulating trail that meanders along the west side of the ridge. The terrain, however, is a coarse mixture of gravel, rock, snow and ice, making it difficult to keep one's footing, with a sheer drop-off on the left side that would surely claim the life of anyone so unfortunate to slip and fall. Only a half mile or so into the ridgeline we could make out the summit shelter off in the distance atop a massive granite shelf. The granite structure, replete with stovepipe and tin roof, appeared a haven from our tedium, so we stepped ever onward and upward with renewed vigor. By this point, we had reached elevations where any man, regardless of health and fitness, will come to a gasping halt almost every twenty paces. It was almost another two hours before we were at the base of the shelf, and we faced one final ascent of 150 yards over a snowy pass that seemed to disappear in the distance the way an infinity pool blends with the ocean beyond into oblivion. Blinded by the sun's reflection on the snow and exhausted by the effort of the climb, we triumphantly staggered across the field of loose boulders on the summit towards the shelter, and the plaque which symbolized the highest elevation in the lower 48 United States.

The view atop the summit is humbling, with a 360 degree uninhibited panorama of the Sierra Nevada's. We took advantage of the momentarily clear skies, and took several photos of ourselves, the shelter, the plaques, and the scenery. It wasn't long as we sat sedentary on the summit before the temperature brought a sharp reminder of the harshness of the mountain, so we donned our jackets to enjoy the brief respite. While we lay stretched out on the rocks warming in the sun, our crew began arriving intermittently from across the boulder field. Within an hour, all but one of our party had made summit, and so we took several group shots of the crew standing in front of Summit Shelter looking Northwest. As the afternoon progressed, the wind began to shift, and clouds loomed over the western skies from the Pacific. It became imperative that we move off the summit and make our way off the mountain before temperatures dropped significantly. We set out together to descend the mountain, and our progress along the ridge was swift and filled with light-hearted banter among the crew. We reached Trail Crest within an hour, and peered down over the vast expanse of snow on the Chute that we had toiled up only a few hours prior. Rather than climb slowly down the face, we took advantage of the unique opportunity to glissade, a technique of running and sliding down the snow without ever stopping to get stability, but with some degree of control of direction and speed. What had taken us hours to complete that morning took a mere ten minutes with the aid of gravity. We strolled cheerily into Trail Camp to gather the rest of our belongings, resupply with water, and make our final descent to the car park.

It was a slow walk to the car, down every switchback and over every stream. We dreamed of water and beer, and fish tacos from the Mexican restaurant in Lone Pine that we had heard so much about. More than anything, though, I couldn't wait to take off my boots, to warm my toes and relieve the pressure and discomfort. Only after several hours of knee jarring downhill, slogging through the half melted snow and slush that covered most of the trail, did we finally arrive at the car, just minutes before nightfall and complete darkness. Tired but utterly relieved to be off the trail and finished with our ordeal, we hopped in the car and headed to the Mexican restaurant to celebrate.

I have been backpacking my whole life, and I always marvel at the power of the human mind and its ability to suppress memories of pain and replace them with memories of triumph and joy. This trip was, without question, the most difficult climb I have ever attempted, and while I have no intention of repeating the exercise any time soon, I will always recall the memories and smile, and the photographs will serve as a reminder of the accomplishment I now share with my brother-in-law and our small band of novice climbers and outdoor enthusiasts.