Random Reflections at 14,505 Feet
This is the fifth and final installment in a five-part series on my experience hiking Mt. Whitney this summer.
As with the last time I hiked Whitney, some thoughts occurred to me. I make no claim for their necessity beyond the fact that they seemed REALLY important in my head at the time. Enjoy.
Beginning a hike at 2:50 in the morning, while necessary in this case, is lame. And awesome. You try getting above the tree line before the sun is up without feeling fairly accomplished while simultaneously ready to take a nap.
That moment where you realize you're still wearing your headlamp and could turn it off, but it seems like too much effort.
Photo by Gus Svendsen.
Also, night hiking is way less poetic than “Nightswimming.”
Staying in the music vein, the three songs running through my head for almost the entire hike (save above 14,000 feet where the music in my head was my pulse and the sound of my suffocation): Mumford's “Holland Road,” Queen's “Too Much Love Will Kill You,” and Switchfoot's “Restless.”
In theory, 54-degrees is not that cold. In practice, choosing to lower oneself into moving water that temperature would seem contraindicative despite its restorative benefits.
Switchbacks are the devil. There are 97 of them in one two-mile stretch of the hike. Things I prefer to switchbacks: Switchfoot, switch hitters, children referring to sandwiches as "s'wichs," switching lanes or light bulbs, switches to the backside, switches with poor wiring that electrocute me, switchblades cutting me, the 1991 Ellen Barkin/Jimmy Smiths movie Switch, though just barely.
Children are so adorable, until they bound past you in shorts and running shoes and beat you to the summit without breathing hard. To the little nine-year-old gazelle girl from Reno this may or may not refer to - just stop it.
While I approve of the new, sleeker packaging design of the solid waste Wag Bags, I still did everything in my power not to use mine. I wish I hadn't seen so many left behind on the trail by other hikers (you know who you are).
This is their condition upon our return. Mission accomplished!
Marmots are still creepers. Serious, animal kingdom stalkers of the awkward moment.
This awkwardness may be the biggest reason why we dubbed our hiking trio thusly.
Old silver minivans are invisible. I have proof. Due to mechanical issues, I drove from Lone Pine to San Diego with no working gauges or turn signals (or air conditioning, but that was less of a safety hazard than just stupid driving through 100+ degree heat). I could have been going 100 miles an hour as easily as 55. Got nothing but a smile and a wave from the CHP officer I blew past.
And finally, it took 8.5 hours to reach the summit and another 6.5 to get back down. The highlight? This burger.
There are no words...
Photo by Gus Svendsen