Cigars on Mt. Whitney

Because I am busy writing my next book on life at sea, I have had little time for writing blogs. This has also been a period of many long weekends with my wife, hiking and climbing and exploring the Mt. Charleston area around Vegas and trips into the slot canyons of Zion, among others. To top it off we will be vacationing in New Orleans through the first week of October. So I thought I would backtrack and offer up a little bloggish tale I wrote immediately upon my return from ships. This was when I had just decided to return to Reno, Nevada and pick up the pieces of land life (which is not easy, as any sailor will tell you). So the little story below was written about three years ago. It is still very bloggish: not polished at all, but a fun little bit of reading.

Terrified that I would not have any more adventures once I returned to land, I immediately set out for something great, something noble. Something stupid. I wanted to climb Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the United States (outside of Alaska, anyway). It’s a whopping 14,497 feet (4419 meters) and takes a whopping 24 miles (39 km) to reach the summit and back. It is nothing but freezing, wind-swept granite blocks the whole way. Perfect!

Crazy moves like this require crazy companions, and I had just the right one in mind. I called my friend Gunne (pronounced Goo-na) and asked if he would like to go. He’s from Norway, if you don’t recall. That means he’s a tough as nails and a little crazy. He said, “We’ll make a day trip out of it!” A man after my own heart.

My preparations for climbing this superlative mountain were simple: moving to Nevada and standing in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles for my car registration. I didn’t have time for anything else. I took a short jog two days out and encountered my first slight problem: I thought I was going to die. My throat locked up on me, probably from the altitude adjustment, and I had to walk the whole way. I was a wreck the remainder of the day, I could hardly move. That was only a five-minute run!

Now, you all know I have absolutely no modesty, false or otherwise. I truly feared I was not ready. I slept only 4 hours that night. I gathered all my gear and met up with Gunne at 11AM. Bless his wife for making sandwiches, because Gunne and I are very similar in our thoughts: we just brought a little granola and some Gatorade. Then came a five-hour drive through some of the prettiest country America has to offer. We pass near Mono Lake, Yosemite National Park, Mammoth Lakes, and all that good stuff. We even passed a prison camp where America locked up the Japanese citizens in WWII (now we just send them to Cuba). Then we were in Lone Pine, the tiny town at the portal of the greatest mountain in America.

We stopped at the Ranger Station to pick up our permits from the Department of Natural Resources (DNR). The two rangers there had a striking resemblance to Vikings. Now, I have been to all four Scandinavian countries and have seen reminders of their glorious war-mongering past in much of the youth: long, full beards tied up in all sorts of unique manners, facial-piercing, and a generally tough appearance. These guys would have looked quite natural carrying a battle ax instead of an iPod.

“Gun?” the DNR guy asked. I blinked in surprise.

“No, I don’t have a gun! Why would I want a permit for a gun? I’m a metrosexual.”

But Gunne was already talking to the guy, and I realized he just didn’t know how to properly pronounce his name.

With time to kill, we discovered a small saloon in Lone Pine called Jake’s. We sat at the end of the bar and prepared for our arduous task by hammering down three pints. A local gravitated towards us and struck up a conversation. When the next round of beers came, he raised his glass and said, “Skol!”

I blinked in surprise.

“No, I don’t have any Skol! Do I look like I chew tobacco? I’m a metrosexual.”

“That’s Norwegian,” Gunne explained. “It means cheers. He obviously recognized my accent.”

Turns out that in tiny Lone Pine, this guy was born of Norwegian parents and had visited Norway dozens of times. Small world! We then drove up the snaking road to the Whitney Portal. It’s good the road curved so much, because we were not able to drive straight anyway. We passed Alabama Hills, which were the ugliest pile of broken rock you had ever seen, then entered some nice pine forest. There we found a little restaurant next to the trailhead.

We had a burger and listened to the groans and complaints of all those who came off the mountain. It was Sunday, so it was a busy day. Joints would creak when people sat down, exhausted. As I munched on French Fries a handsome, young, Asian ex-Marine next to us narrated his story, “… those last 1,000 miles were awful! I didn’t think I could do it.”

“You said miles,” I commented, “you meant feet.”
“Nah, it felt like miles to me.”
“Are you one of those idiots who did the whole thing in one day?” someone asked.
“Yeah, but I shouldn’t have. Thank God I don’t have to drive home. That would be stupid.”

Great. We pounded a few more beers as a sensible precaution, then climbed into Gunne’s car for a few hours of rest. Gunne fell asleep instantly at 9:15 PM. I lay in my sleeping bag and worried about the next day. I looked at my watch: 10:15. Then 11:15. I rolled over and saw it was 12:15. I finally fell asleep at 1:15 AM.

Then comes 2 AM… rise and shine! It was brisk outside, but not too cold. There was no moon that night, and it was black as pitch. We assembled our gear and were on the trail by 2:30. You could see a few points of light pierce the darkness above from those few who rose earlier. We already had discussed plans in case one of us couldn’t make it. Gunne was worried that his injury might prevent his achieving the top (though he’s made the summit before). He had injured his ribs pretty badly. While I said nothing, I was positive I would not be able to handle the altitude.

Hours crawled by as slowly as we crawled over the rocks. The stars were amazing out there on the mountaintop. We solved all the world’s problems. I was always curious to hear his point of view on America’s dealing with the world because he is from Norway and his wife is from Iran. I find it refreshing when people don’t differentiate Republicans from Democrats because such distinctions are irrelevant once outside our borders. Finally, after several hours, the sun came up.

We were in a sea of broken granite blocks. As far as you could see they were piled up in mounds big and small. The trail beneath us was phenomenally well groomed. I couldn’t believe it: all these blocks of a million sizes and shapes had been pieced together like a puzzle to create a neatly paved walk. A short wall neatly embraced the sides. As we labored higher and turned on switchbacks, the walls rose as well, the rocks all fitting snug and tight.

Gunne explained that in the 1930’s, when America was going through its Great Depression, the president ordered this job done. That president, Franklin Roosevelt, was a very smart man: when morale was low and jobs scarce, he did all the great projects of the west: the Golden Gate Bridge, the Hoover Dam, and the Royal Gorge Bridge, to name a few. The amount of labor required for this well-groomed trail all the way to the top just amazed me.

The solar toilets on the trail, numbering only two, were both too full and closed down. This was fine with me, because I had no idea what a solar toilet was. We passed the last one at 12,000 feet (3658 meters) and began the arduous 99 switchbacks. As the sun rose behind us, we would labor our way to the right for a while up the steep incline, then switch over and go back to the left. This continued for almost two hours. Then, finally, you see the backside of the mountain. It was awesome.

Hidden behind the great, serrated peak of Whitney is a deep valley with a frigid blue-green lake in the middle. As far as the eye can see, there are granite jumbles of rock in piles thousands of feet high. No green, only granite of gray and red. Cameras were out instantly. I noticed I was feeling really good, and figured we weren’t up too high. Then we saw a sign that read 13,600 feet (4145 meters). I couldn’t believe it! I started babbling about how I felt like a million bucks. I felt great: no headaches, and I had energy to last days. If Gunne was annoyed by my blathering (as most people usually are) he said nothing.

One of the hard things about Whitney is that you reach such a high altitude so fast… and have to remain there for so long. Many mountains it’s a hard, intense push straight up. Not so, with Whitney. You have miles to labor at high elevation, going horizontally over the sharp peaks. It’s like walking along the top of a giant saw.
And then we made it. I felt great, and pulled a little ahead of Gunne. Considering I am 17 years younger, I should have been a LOT ahead of him, but such is the stuff of Gunne. There is a small stone hut up there and these large slabs of granite ideal for laying on and basking the sun. The view? Well, it was magnificent. The mountain is actually 14,497 feet high, so if you stand up you top 14,500. That’s a lot easier to say, at least. There were about 8 or 10 people there relaxing. People were taking photos, patting each other on the back, and swapping stories of other climbs they have known.

And what was I doing? Why, smoking a cigar, of course. And to think airplanes pressurize the cabins at a pitiful 8,000 feet! Ha! They don’t call me LungBruns for nothing.

“Keep that thing downwind from me,” I heard someone call, “I already can’t get enough air to breath up here!”

The weather was unbelievably fine: hardly a breeze and sunny and clear. Gunne was actually only a minute or so behind me, and we relaxed and munched on sandwiches and drank Gatorade for a bit. We had both been popping aspirin along the way, which surely must account for our lack of problems. Though a slight headache was starting on us both.

And then it was time to head back. We had 12 more miles to go (19km), after all, and a five-hour drive to boot! On the way down we passed many, many people struggling on their way up. You immediately could tell who would make it and who wouldn’t. A funny thing happened on the way back: we were of course going downhill most of the way, right? Well, near the 99 switchbacks there is about a quarter-mile ascent. I swear we took only three steps up and were so tired we could hardly move. It’s ironic, we both had to stop and catch our breath on the way back… after about two miles BACK from the top!

We did not run down as fast as we had anticipated, but we made good time. My headache blossomed only after we dropped down to about 12,000 feet and would not go away. Hours later we reentered the pine forest and appreciated the magnificent views for the first time. We had passed all the really pretty stuff in the dark. Our feet got tired near the end, but we both felt great. Of course, then there was the five hour drive home. I think the hardest part of all was stepping out of the car after those long, cramped hours… our legs had stiffened up tremendously. Gunne was a Hell of a trooper: he drove the whole way home. I, of course, entertained him with my countless stories and histories that could hardly fail to interest anyone. Poor, poor Gunne. Can you believe we were home by 9:30 PM?

All in all, I was expecting the hardest physical challenge of my life. It turned out to be so easy that I had to actually force myself to shut up most of the day. But I felt so good! And we all know how hard it is to quiet me down. I woke up early the next morning and lifted weights.

Gunne commented several times on how this was harder than climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro in Africa, because that climb is split over several days (it’s just shy of 6,000 meters). Hell, where’s my passport?