Day 21

Tuesday, August 5.  Trail Camp.  17.4 miles.  12,000 ft.

Today was the culmination of our trip and it could not have been better had I scripted it.  It would be a long day, so Drew and I started early.  We were up, packed, and on the trail at 6:30 walking through a beautiful morning.

The terrain we have crossed since leaving Tyndall Creek yesterday is extraordinary.  The sandy but firm ground supports open stands of foxtail pine.  These rare trees are simply enchanting.  Living here in particularly hostile surroundings - high, windswept, exposed places - their limbs are contorted in the most amazing and artistic ways.  Their massive trunks stand erect giving way very little to the intense winds that rake these bare slopes.  The foxtail's reddish brown bark is often ripped away on the windward side revealing the tree's  gnarled and twisted grain - evidence of the constant struggle against the wind.  Needles are born at the end of branches (resembling a fox's tail) that twist in every different direction.  The overall effect is magical.  My favorite tree, by far.  There is a wonderful open feeling walking through their widely spaced stands, while up above, the occasional dead foxtail snag stands like an eerie lonely monarch.

We walked fresh and strong through the morning.  At Timberline Lake, we left the trees and entered the world of granite.  We ascended easily along the base of Whitney's rounded back side that rose steeply on our left, constantly looking ahead for the spot where the trail would veer left toward the serious switchback climbing to the summit.

After a rest and a snack at Guitar Lake, up we went.  The fitness gained over the past three weeks and 200 miles served us well.  We easily climbed the 2,000 feet to Trail Crest (13,480 ft.), the pass to the other side and the junction to the Whitney summit.  Dropping our packs there, we stuffed a few items in a fanny pack and were off.  We rambled up the 2 1/2 miles to the summit, on our way peering between Whitney's spires down the Sierra's steep eastern escarpment to Lone Pine and the Owens Valley 10,000 feet below.

Up the broad rounded back of Mt. Whitney until it finally gave way to the sweeping summit plateau.  There, beyond the summit hut, the mountain dropped away offering an unsurpassed view.  Finally, a  perfectly clear and windless day.  In every direction, the view was clear and limitless.  Though we could see an immense distance northward, we could not see nearly the entirety of the distance we had walked.

I never experience deep emotional responses in my personal life.  No tears...ever.  Yet, surprisingly and inexplicably, as we neared the crest, I could not suppress the tears.  On my approach to the summit, I had not been sentimentally reflecting on the trip, just mindlessly plodding as I had been for weeks, when uninvited and unexpected, they came.  The fact that Drew, my son, and I had done this special thing, and that this was the pinnacle moment, overcame me without any of those conscious thoughts.  Though I tried, it took awhile to control.  I can't remember a better feeling.

Drew was openly excited and proud for what he had done - walked for three weeks and 210 miles over incredibly difficult terrain, at high altitude, through lousy weather, with a heavy pack on his back.  An now, at 14,494 feet, every point in the contiguous 48 United States was below the soles of his boots.

We lingered perhaps an hour at the summit taking pictures and enjoying the view.  The top of Mt. Whitney can be quite busy, but thankfully we enjoyed relative peace there.  Excited and energized, we bounded down the 5 miles to Trail Camp, reeling in plodding unburdened peak-baggers along the way.

Trail Camp.  Sheeesh.

For three weeks now, we have enjoyed peace one can rarely experience in everyday life.  The wind, rushing water, occasional thunder, and each other's voices are nearly all we have heard.  Granite, pines, lakes, rivers, and a changing sky are nearly all we have seen.  To us, arriving at Trail Camp where we will spend the night is like being dropped in the middle of a three-ring circus.  We have barely spoken since we arrived.  We just sit in amazed silence, turning our heads this way, then that, to catch the next attraction.

We are surrounded by bright and shiny people decked out in crisp logo-laden clothing fussing endlessly with their equipment as though playing "house."  Drew and I are a mess.  We are unshaven and filthy.  Our hair hasn't been combed in three weeks and it shows.  We are wearing dirty sweat-stained generic clothes.  We stand out like serial killers at a party for REI manikins.

Trail Camp is a rocky, windy, dismal place.  Each individual campsite is a small discreet spot that has been cleared of rocks that were then used to build a protective wind barricade.  How many are there?  30?  50?  We have claimed one for ourselves.  It is the only site without a tent - just two sleeping bags rolled out on our ground cloth.

It is nothing to be proud of, but neither of us can disguise our disgust with this scene.  After all, these people deserve credit for choosing to come here rather than the mall.  But we can't help watching the show, occasionally exchanging can-you-believe-it glances.  Earlier, a fully erected freestanding tent blew by, rolling like a wind-driven beach ball.  Giddily triumphant hikers return from Whitney as though from the summit of Everest carrying no load and wielding brand new trekking poles in a useless fashion.

Shame on us.  Such judgment is harsh and unfair.  But sitting here, seeing this, it is hard not to measure the efforts of these weekend peak-baggers against our trip.  In some small way and for a short while, we were more than just visitors.  We began to feel and move to the rhythms of this place.  The weather made sure of that.  For three weeks, many things we control down below were out of our hands here.  We are glad to be nearly through.  We are looking forward to a shower, a porcelain toilet seat, a great meal.  But we both know that because of this experience, a little part of us is transformed. 

We're off to Bill and Irene's tent.  We are sharing some extra food and they are once again sharing their stove. 

Comments

[hikergirl]

I really liked reading this blog in preparation for my own attempt of the JMT next year, and was about comment that I thought this was the best JMT blog on the internet... until I read what you wrote about the folks at Trail Camp, which turned my stomach.

[Dee]

Nice story, great pics. Brings back memories of my JMT hike...:)

[pp]

Weak comments about the folks at Trail Camp... weak...

[Vanessa]

Hey!
I'm reading your diary! I'm enjoying it. You should probably stop insulting REI manikins because apparently they have a fan base.
You are a great writer and you use decent sized words. Looks good!

[alibaba taobao]

oh, I really like the style of your writing!