Year of the Cow (10 page)

Zac points the car into the mountains, and we ascend. Up and up, into a bowl situated high in the range, surrounded on all sides by stark granite cliffs and hundred-foot pines. This is Whitney Portal. The air is thick with the scent of pine trees and a feeling that somehow the world is bigger here than it is in cities at sea level.

We start unloading our gear. After my first enthusiastic trip from car to campsite, the altitude hits me. Just a touch dizzy. Just a touch out of breath. The High Sierras are no joke. My second trip is a little slower. More purposeful. Soon, the five of us are sitting on a crude wooden bench with an entire REI scattered around us.

I start to cook as night falls. Because of my recent bovine acquisition, I'm in charge of dinner at base camp. Steaks, as one might surmise. New York strips, to minimize variables—I can't afford to mess this up. I'm cooking over a campfire, at elevation, with a dull knife and a handful of wishes. I need something I know.

It probably isn't the best steak I've ever cooked, but it might be one of the best I've ever eaten. Moderately seared and red-rare on the inside, but eaten in a tall pine forest as a mountain stream gurgles nearby. Eaten in the dark. With a spork.

We talk about prep and the trek to come. There's anticipation in the air. Something about the moment compels us to speak in low tones. There are jokes sprinkled among the logistics. And optimism. And just beneath the surface, a little trepidation.

Before dinner, we learned that the Whitney summit was snowed in.

We aren't geared for snow.

*   *   *

The next morning, we set off. The trail winds along the side of the mountain, steadily uphill. I'm a little winded from the altitude, but nothing too bad. We all joke and chatter, excited to be under way. Soon enough, a stream of water gurgles and splashes out from the thick brush to our right. Lone Pine Creek. “Up,” Rich commands, pointing.

This is where the trail ends for us. But the route continues. We leave the nicely maintained trail, affectionately called the Mule Trail, and head directly up Lone Pine Creek. Thirty seconds later, a large sign warns us, in all caps: THIS IS NOT THE MOUNT WHITNEY TRAIL. Then, lower down: THE MOUNTAINEERS ROUTE IS NOT EASY. It goes on to clarify: “Visitors without proper skills, knowledge, equipment and experience have died here.”

“There are a lot fewer people on the Mountaineer's Route,” I note.

“Just ten a day,” Rich says. “And we're five of them.”

We continue upward at a much steeper grade than the trail we just left—probably over triple the incline. The Mountaineer's Route climbs the same elevation as the main trail, but in about a third of the distance.

Forty-six pounds—the weight of my pack—was light at the bottom. It's not so light now. Did I really need to bring that extra pair of shoes? There's no signal on my phone. Why did I bring it? How many cameras are too many?

Continuing up, we cross back and forth across Lone Pine Creek a half-dozen or so times, stepping across slick, wet granite and dodging spray from waterfalls. It's fun, but tiring. We break every minute or so, just for a few seconds, to give our lungs a chance to wring out every last molecule of oxygen from this so-called air.

At about 9,600 feet elevation, we bump up against a tall granite wall. Our path is not immediately obvious. We sit to rest, drinking water like camels and scarfing down enormous handfuls of sugary homemade granola. I have more than a little sugar in my pack, intended to help me power through any exhaustion I might encounter. The glucose is a welcome and immediate lift to my mood.

I look around. “Where do we go from here?” There is only the path that we came up, ending at a sheer granite wall.

Rich, leaning against the wall, points a single finger skyward. “These are the ledges, man.”

I look up. Zac had mentioned something about the Ebersbacher Ledges in passing. According to some, they're the most difficult section of the route. Though not the most technically challenging, they offer some of the most daunting exposure of the journey. In other words, it's an easy climb, so you probably won't fall. But if you do fall, you'll probably fall several hundred feet.

“Can I bum some jerky?” Rich asks.

“Of course.” I offer my stash. He takes a piece, and I shake the bag, weighing it roughly in my hand. I may have brought too much. In my zeal to prepare for every possible contingency, I may have burdened myself further. Still, I'm going to be hauling this entire bag to the top, either on me or in me. Better in me. I pop another stick in my mouth.

As I munch my jerky, I look up at the cliff. There isn't a trail to be seen. From my perspective, it's just a wall.

I offer jerky to Uriah, who's also looking upward. He nods once to himself, definitively. “This'll be fun.”

Rich leads us uphill, parallel with the cliff, beneath a canopy of gigantic woody bushes. We aren't really on a path so much as a thin divide where the enormous plants looming over us can't grow any closer to the granite cliff. I feel like a child again, hiding under the bushes that grew along the wall of my elementary school.

Another forty feet or so, and we turn around. There are boulders leading up and onto the granite wall. And upward from there in a series of sloping ledges.

“Ready?” Rich asks. But Uriah's already up. That guy's like some kind of goat.

We take our first tentative steps across the ledges. To my left, the ledges step up in increments five feet tall, one behind another. They're like Little League bleachers for giant children.

The path in front of me is about three feet wide, narrowing to two as I continue. The ledge slopes gently, but noticeably, to the right. I trail my hand against the cliff wall to my left. Its solidity is comforting.

To my right is nothing but open space.

“Is this safe?” Natalie asks. I look back, and she has stopped, eyes fixed on the sheer drop to our right.

“Sure.” Rich nods. “Just don't fall.”

I take a deep breath and turn back to my task. Ahead, Uriah's strolling happily along, completely nonchalant. As if at any moment an entrepreneurial Sherpa might appear and sell him ice cream. He might even be whistling.

I begin to walk.

Just don't fall. Why would I fall? I haven't fallen yet. There's no reason I should fall now. I have solid new boots. I even hiked in them beforehand to break them in. Mostly. I'm sure I won't roll my ankle in them, like I did a couple weeks ago. On the sidewalk. The flat sidewalk. I shouldn't have fallen then, either. And I have terrible ankles. Ever since I broke them in high school and—

Shut up. Just walk.

I press on, acutely aware of every ounce of my pack and the newness of my boots. I'm slightly top-heavy and I wobble with every step, the wobble amplified by my awareness of the precipice to my right. Once, I catch my right boot on my left calf and stagger for half a second before my foot finds the ground.

“You alright, man?” Uriah asks, shooting me side-eye.

“Oh, sure,” I answer, masking my clumsiness with humor. “You know, I'm thinking maybe I should get into parkour. Climb some walls. Jump some gaps. It'll be great.”

“Yes!” Zac concurs. “Let me know when. I'll go, too. We can get matching compound fractures together.”

I laugh.

“Up here, I think,” I hear Uriah say. I look, and he's five feet or so above me, one level up, next to a small cairn. I grab the rock above me and pull myself up onto the ledge.

We continue upward. Another cairn. Another ledge. A gnarled tree root to grab. A sketchy crack to inch along. Uriah gives me a hand up. I do the same for Zac, who does the same for Rich, then Natalie. Then, suddenly, it's over. A trail winds up and away now, leaving the ledges behind.

We pause. That wasn't so bad. I look down. The ledges extend maybe twenty feet in front of me before ending at a sheer drop. To our left, the valley descends hundreds more feet to the portal, then thousands to the valley below.

Uriah shoves his hands in his pockets. “Cool.”

“That's amazing,” Zac agrees. “How much farther to Lower Boy Scout?”

Rich looks up the hill. “Fifteen minutes or so.”

*   *   *

An hour later, we crest the lip of a cliff and come to the edge of Lower Boy Scout Lake. A broad expanse of water spreads out before us, placid and clear, to a broad granite cliff a half mile distant.

We sit for lunch. A fat handful of granola and some sticks of jerky. “Dude, how much did you bring?” Rich asks.

“I'm not sure. A lot. I just made it and packed it. Better to have and not need than need and not have.” That's a Boy Scout thing, right? I was never a Boy Scout.

“Until you have to carry it,” he replies. “Then it just slows you down.”

Rich has a point; I may have overpacked. I'm tired, there's no doubt about it. And the elevation is a variable that my sea-level body couldn't anticipate. Sitting on a rock for lunch, I realize that even though I've been eating jerky whenever I wanted, my bag still looks full. As I munch another stick, I can feel my strength returning. Sitting here, resting for a moment, eating this jerky—this is key. It's good for my psyche. If I'm pissy and hungry, I won't be good company, either physically or emotionally. However, there's a very fine line between being prepared and having too much baggage. It's a line I may have crossed.

I pull out a few more sticks before offering the bag back to Rich. “Take some more. Please.” He shrugs and obliges.

Our trek paused, I pull out my phone and check my e-mail. No signal. I shove it back in my pocket and look around, momentarily without stimuli.

And then I remember that I'm on a mountain.

I take a deep breath. And I start to relax.

*   *   *

We scramble across a field of talus boulders, varying in size from washing machine to small house. I wield trekking poles to negotiate the uneven terrain and uncertain footing of the big rocks. The poles are lifesavers here—it's like the entire world has handrails. I cross the boulder field like some kind of gently brain-damaged giant arachnid.

Our ascent is punctuated by three large plateaus. Lower Boy Scout Lake is the first. The second, Upper Boy Scout Lake, is our target now. The third, at Iceberg Lake, is our camp for tonight. “How long before Upper, Rich?”

“Oh, forty-five minutes. Hour tops.”

Two hours later, we crest a low ridge to the campground at Upper Boy Scout Lake. The sun is low above the crest of the mountains all around us. There are no trees—we left them behind five hundred feet below.

Rich leans against a rock. “Forty-five minutes may have been a little optimistic.”

Zac surveys the sky. We're supposed to camp at Iceberg Lake tonight, another 1,300 feet up. “Rich, how much longer to Iceberg?”

“It's a pretty easy hike. Maybe an hour.”

Uriah nods. “So two hours.”

“And change,” I add.

Rich looks over at us and breaks out into a wide grin. “Okay, maybe.”

We laugh. “I'm not sure we have the daylight,” Zac notes.

Rich nods. “We can camp here at Upper Boy Scout. No big deal. We'll have a longer hike tomorrow, but nothing we can't handle.”

“I think that's probably a good idea. That cool with everybody?” Uriah asks.

“Yes.” Natalie drops her backpack to the ground and slumps against a rock. Rich sees and offers her some water.

“You okay, Nat?” Zac asks.

“I'll be alright. The altitude is getting to me.”

“Make sure you stay hydrated, honey,” Rich suggests, still holding out the water. “Dehydration sucks up here.”

She takes the water. Rich pats her back. Uriah looks out over the valley floor, thousands of feet below us. “It's getting cold.”

It could be a trick of my eyes, but shadows are racing across the granite cliff walls high above us. “Does it get dark up here earlier than in the valley below?”

Rich nods. “Much earlier.”

*   *   *

Twenty minutes later, I'm wearing every piece of clothing I have. The temperature has dropped at least twenty degrees, and we're racing to set up camp—half as shelter from the wind and half to stay warm.

“Zac, do you have an extra shirt?”

He swivels to me, suddenly concerned and in doctor mode. “No. I'm wearing everything. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. It's just that my nipples have sliced through the three shirts closest to my skin, and I thought you might have an extra.”

He cracks a grin, and we work faster. Some Good Samaritan previous camper hand-built a rock wall windbreak, and now I see why. Freezing winds whip through our camp at twenty miles an hour.

Moments later, two tents are up. That done, I set out to find a suitable place for my bivy sack. I'm not in a tent on this trip—I'm in a much lighter, much smaller waterproof bag only slightly larger than my body. It's definitely not for the claustrophobic or those who have a persistent fear of mistakenly winding up in a body bag, but I like it. It doesn't stake down like the tents do, so to keep it from blowing away I need something by a windbreak, but not too far from the rest of the crew. Some ten yards off, I find a boulder the size of a large house propped up on some smaller boulders the size of small cars. This'll do.

I roll out my bivy sack and drop some rocks on it. Standing there, I look up at this gargantuan boulder looming above me. That's a big rock.

I pull out my phone and check for a signal, idly curious what the seismological history of the mountain range is. It'd be great if Google could tell me whether this rock was likely to crush me like a bug in my sleep. No signal. I slip the phone back into my pocket, unaccustomed to being out of touch.

I rejoin the crew. Zac, something of a camp chef, offered to do both of our backcountry dinners. Rich and I go to a nearby stream to pump some water for our Nalgene bottles. Up here, water is everything. There is no other beverage.