Tiny Hooves Travel At Night

  It's not often that I set my alarm clock for 11:25 PM, but that is what I did on June 14th.  It was 6 in the evening and I was snuggling into my sleeping bag near the ranger station at Crabtree Meadow at the base of Mt. Whitney, the tallest peak in the Lower 48 states.  Myself and five fellow hikers had decided to leave camp at midnight and climb the 14, 505 foot peak to arrive in time to watch the sun rise.  After several hours of sleep it wasn't the alarm but the tell-tale sound of zippers zipping and unzipping that alerted me that my companions were awake and our departure was nigh.  The night was pitch black and the clouds of earlier in the evening had moved on to reveal a sky full of stars and our very own Milky Way.  I hurriedly dressed, got my pack together, and crossed a dewy meadow to meet my cohorts and choke down a quick snack.
  My excitement was palatable as 6 headlamps cut the darkness and we began our night hike by crossing a creek on a stack of piled logs.  Our elevation was 10,371 feet and while we'd been at a high elevation for several days, we decided to set a reasonable pace so that we could stay together as a group in the dark night while we climbed higher.  There is something indescribably exciting about setting out on an adventure in the middle of the night.  With just the beams of light from our headlamps illuminating a small patch of trail in front of our feet, we set out on unfamiliar turf, not seeing a single tree, brook, lake, or rock wall surrounding us....just knowing that we were about to ascend 4,000 feet to see what we could see.
  The group picked up a seventh member as another headlamp was seen bobbing down the trail, trying to catch up with us.  We briskly marched down the trail amiably chattering back and forth about everything from PCT related topics to movies and, of course, food.  Occasionally we'd hear water running or see a pitch black void to our right that indicated we were near water and someone would pull out a map and announce, "We must be at Timberline Lake." or "This is the outlet for Guitar Lake!" Soon, though, we began ascending in earnest and the chatter was reduced to just a few while the rest of us used the conversation to distract ourselves from the increasing lack of oxygen and incline of the trail.  Spirits were high.
  We traveled for hours this way, not seeing any elevation gain, or anything else for that matter,  but feeling it in our lungs and legs.  Periodically we would stop to catch our breaths and everybody would turn off our headlamps and we'd stare up in awe at a California sky unpolluted by city lights and lit only by billions of stars.  Those were possibly the only times when all 7 of us were silent at once, in awe at the skyscape above us.  It was too cold to stay still for long and we'd soon switch the lamps back on, shocking our eyes which had adjusted to the darkness, and continue climbing the massive mountain.  Sometimes the trail was smooth dirt but the higher we got it turned to small, unstable rocks, and then we found ourselves climbing over small boulders.  It was uncanny not being able to see anything around us, most notably any evidence of our progress up the mountain.  Beams of light only lit the trail and demonstrated the black void that awaited us if we took a misstep too close to the edge of the trail.  The darkness dropped away into unimaginable vastness that we didn't want to discover.  The trail hugged the mountainside and was sometimes cut right into it.  More than once we compared it to the route in the mountains that the travelers took in Lord of the Rings though we didn't have the option of the Mines of Moria as a backup to our destination.

This is what all the fuss was about.

 Finally, after hours of hiking and climbing we were rewarded with some evidence of our efforts:  near the top of the mountain there are jutting spires of rock that form "windows" between them.  While we'd been on the west side of the mountain the moon had been in the east and we had finally climbed high enough to get our first peek in that direction and were rewarded with a view of the town lights from Lone Pine far below us and a perfect sliver of yellow moon just yearning for a woman and a pint of beer to be perched in its crook.  It looked amazingly close as did the stars.  Getting some perspective on the progress we'd made pushed us to pick up our pace despite the high elevation and we scrambled over rocks and raced the ending night to the top of the mountain.  Very near the top we began to see red light in the east and the cohesive group scattered like spilled mercury on the floor and we individually scrambled as fast as we could to get to the summit before the sun broke the horizon.  The boys naturally outpaced the girls and we heard hoots and hollers as they each reached the benchmark at the top of the mountain.  We girls flew as fast as the thin air would allow us and shortly after the deep male cries pierced the silence our higher shouts celebrated our summit success.
  All seven compadres at the top of Mt. Whitney and a red/orange glow in the east, we settled ourselves on huge slabs of boulders to watch the show.  There was a slight wind at the top, but it was enough to remind us that we were at 14,505 feet and that it was downright cold out.  We each delved into our backpacks and pulled out puffy, insulating layers as well as wind-blocking layers, hats, neck gaiters, and mittens.  Then we stuffed ourselves into our sleeping bags and sat facing east, ready for nature's hike-in movie theater to put on its show.  We sat looking at each other with big eyes, huge grins, and giggles as we prepared to reap the benefit of our all-night expedition.
     Around 5:30 AM, someone excitedly shouted, "There it is!!" and we all saw it:  a small bump of neon pink breaking the horizon which strangely looked as if it were below us.  We whooped and hollered and welcomed a new day.  Cameras went crazy like the paparazzi at the Academy Awards.  Perma-grin made my teeth cold, but I didn't care.  I sat on a rock outcropping with only my face peeking out of my downy sleeping bag and bulky layers and enjoyed Mother Nature's laser show (no Pink Floyd needed).  As the rosy light turned gold we were able to see for the first time the endless miles of peaks below us as well as crystal clear, blue lakes scattered among the granite landscape.  I felt giddy as my surroundings were illuminated and I could fully appreciate how far my companions and I had hiked in the middle of the night.  It was like I'd been on a treasure hunt and was finally rewarded with the chest of gold medallions rather than just tearing into a present on Christmas morning and having the anticipation over in a matter of seconds. This reward was well earned.
     As the brilliant sunrise colors faded and regular daylight took over, the clan dispersed over the breadth of the summit. Whitney has a rather broad, flat space at her peak and most folks chose to walk around and look at various views from other directions or to hunker somewhere out of the wind.  Three of us just tightened the drawstring on our sleeping bags and laid down for some well-earned rest, not wanting to breach the warmth of our cocoons nor admit that the sunrise was over by moving elsewhere.  Eventually, in ones, twos, and threes, my friends left the summit but I was reluctant to leave.  I sat alone on a perch looking north, eating snacks and trying to absorb the morning and the views and the feeling of amazement as much as possible.  I had the entire summit to myself for quite a while and when the day hikers who had come up from the Whitney Portal to the east arrived I knew my time at the top of the Lower 48 was over and began my descent.
 

The well insulated paparazzi. 

  The hike down made me feel like a million dollars.  It was a brand new hike.  Terrain I'd literally never seen.  The scary, dark drop-offs that looked like they went into an abyss were really just steep mountainsides made of boulders.  The surrounding mountains gave a neighborly feel to the previously isolated peak.  Rather than just a beam of electric light in an endless darkness with no reference points, the sun showed me just how far I'd climbed in the night and the equally awesome and impressive peaks surrounding Whitney. Not only did the daylight provide perspective on Whitney and her surroundings, but the trail as well.  Instead of blindly descending on an invisible route, I was able to see the trail ahead of me, bends and switchbacks, and where I began in the valley below.  It was as if I hiked two totally separate trails: one in the night and one nine hours later.

So this is what we couldn't see....

  Not only was the scenery and sense of perspective different, but the air got thicker and thicker on the way down and at one point I was literally running down the mountain.  It felt incredible! Not carrying a full pack, going downhill in a giddy mood, and getting more oxygen to my lungs and muscles with each step had me smiling from ear to ear and periodically stopping in my tracks to just BE and take in my rocky surroundings.  Who knows if I'll ever be back on Mt. Whitney, but I wanted to remember this moment, this day.  I passed hikers on their way up, moving slow and trying to catch their breath and tried to be encouraging and not seem like I was gloating to be floating down the mountain carefree and happy. 
  The rest of the hike was just as exciting and rewarding: marmots showing off, sparring and rolling down hills, putting on mating displays (he so was trying to get lucky and she was so having none of it...), crystal clear lakes and babbling brooks, and gnarly trees lined my path that I hadn't even know were right next to me in my dark trek up.  My companions and I met back up at camp and laughed and re-lived our already eventful day.
  I guess I could tell you about crossing over Forester Pass, at 13,200 feet it's the tallest point on the Pacific Crest Trail, the very next day and how I wept out of sheer joy and contentment with my life when I got to the bottom, but that's for another post.  Suffice it to say that the Sierras are amazing, a cathedral of nature, a sanctuary, and my home for the next few weeks.  I might just float the next few hundred miles.  While the excitement of just beginning my journey bolstered me through the desert portion of the trail, I feel like I've just begun a totally different hike.  The excitement of the Sierras is a totally different animal and one that feeds me energy and nourishes my spirit in a way that the desert did not.  I'm going to slow down and enjoy the ride.
  800 miles and heading north in the morning.....

Socializing Angels

  I watched with breath held and eyes wide as the manly woman with the pink mohawk, heavy make-up, and tinsel halo wearing an apron with the body of a naked woman on the front approached my mother for a hug, cigarette lit and perched in an expertly held finger vise.  Her lined lips smiled broadly as she enveloped my 70 year-old mom and I watched as the inch long ash of the cigarette precariously clung to the lit stick. The woman then turned to my father who heartily embraced her warm greeting. My memory of her coming toward me with open arms is in slow motion, her clownish face pinched in a grin, smoke circling around me, as she pulled me toward her ample bosom.  I had just hiked 24 miles and I was unprepared for the scene that had unfolded around me.
  Trail angels and trail magic come in all sorts of forms. Sometimes people anonymously leave sodas and beer in a cold stream and others set up camp at a campground for 2 weeks during the summer and cook dinners and breakfast, make town runs, and basically pamper hikers passing through. All offerings are welcome and appreciated.  On this particular day, at this particular place, I was not in the mood for the magic offered at all. The Andersons are infamous trail angels who open their home to hikers, make taco salad every night, pancakes every morning, and offer copious amounts cold beer to anyone thirsty. Their generocity is legendary.  I, however, had had it up to my ears with the social scene on the Pacific Crest Trail. The trail had recently passed through several towns in a row with trail angels offering places to sleep, food, and showers: the trail had become clogged with hikers. Those who know me know me as a social person, but I also spend a lot of time alone. A lot. That is why I am sometimes so social: because most of my time is solitary. I knew that there would be an entire community of people hiking this trail, but I don't think I was truly prepared for the herd that we have become. Because of limited water supplies in the desert, many of us end up camping and congregating in the same vicinity and I was feeling a bit claustrophobic out here in the wilderness of California.  My social self and my private self were at odds and I was feeling a lot like a Scrooge constantly trying to have a quiet lunch to myself or setting up my tent at a group site and not hanging out with the gang. I was finding that though I enjoy the company of the majority of the hikers on the trail, there was certainly a fair amount of loud, obnoxious people who I didn't want to listen to. Or that chat of miles, water, caches, food, and all the other mundane topics that thru-hikers chat about had become mind-numbing.
  And on this day, after hiking 24 miles, after days upon days of a "backed up" trail, and loud, drunk people keeping me up at night I had had enough. My parents had driven down from Salinas for a visit and to do some angeling of their own and I finished my hike feeling great, like I'd just finished a marathon (which I nearly had), and I just wanted to sit with them, eat some food, have a cold drink, and get to bed. Instead, we went to the Andersons to drop some people off and I was inundated with a scene reminiscent of a loud, raucous party from my college days: old couches crowded the driveway, filthy hikers in borrowed Hawaiian shirts clapped in unison as new hikers arrived in a frat-like induction, piles of trash bags threatened to topple over in one corner of the lawn, hikers sat at a table painting rocks, music was throbbing from speakers, the port-a-potties were chock-a-block full, and beer was passed around freely. I was back in 1991 on Del Playa at UCSB shyly attending my first college party. Except this time I wanted none of it. Not only was I not in the mood for this chaos, but I certainly did not want to hang out with my parents in attendance. After making some cursory hellos to fellow hikers, I packed my bags into our 1978 VW Westfalia and peeled out to the nearest campsite where we shared a simple dinner, chatted with a couple of other nearby hikers, and got a good nights' sleep. Call me a Scrooge, but Bah Humbug partying is not what this experience is about for me. And after being around people all the time, the last thing I wanted was to be kept awake by them partying....I can get that experience at any festival I go to.
 Since then the crowds have spread out.  Many people stayed with the Andersons for 2 or more nights and the "herd"' has spread thin. I anticipate this will happen even more in the Sierras where we hikers are not so dependent on scant water sources and will have more ample campsites to choose from. I have reached the 703 mile mark of my journey and am reporting to you from a sweltering trailer in Kennedy Meadows, the gateway to the Sierra Nevadas.  I've officially completed the desert portion of the hike and am moving into what is arguably more desirable terrain. No more hauling 5 liters of water and scrounging for shade. No more night hiking. I anticipate being cold and sleeping in a little until the sun rises a little to warm the air. I relish the thought of being surrounded by some of the most majestic mountains in the Lower 48. Bring it.
  This week I will climb Mt. Whitney (14,500 ft) which is a short jaunt off the Pacific Crest Trail. I will also cross over Forester Pass (13,000+ ft.) which is the highest point on the PCT. Some exciting milestones to look forward to! But mostly I'm excited about slowing down my mileage (I've been averaging 20 miles a day), taking long breaks alongside a stream or lake, and seeking a spot of sun to sit in rather than a spot of shade...sounds lovely.
  For now, I will sit and enjoy the company of the community I have become a part of. The majority of folks are people I like and can relate to, but sometimes it's the inconsiderate loud folk that drive me to my solitary space away from everyone. I'm growing more accustomed to the amount of people around me at all times, making deeper friendships, and looking forward to more convenient places to get away and be by myself in an idyllic setting. As social as I can be, I still value my time alone as much as ever.
 Tomorrow I continue north!! The mountains await with their tidings.....