Whitney or Bust

“Whitney or Bust””   Watercolor & Graphite © 2025   Linnie Aikens Lindsay

This story could be labeled Part 2 in the dumb stuff young people do (or at least, I did), who think we are invincible or somehow know all the answers in our early 20’s.

It only took a year of eating crow from my last Sierra backpacking trip to dislodge the bones and feathers from my throat and try again.  This time, I wasn’t stupid enough to go alone, albeit, it wasn’t with friends either, who might remember my insanity of the year before. A year is a long time to forget when you’re 22.  I’d signed up for one of those trips of 5 people and a guide to climb Mt. Whitney, my dad’s own mountain siren. He’d talked of it so often when I was a teenager that it had gained an almost mythical aura.  I hadn’t known then that my parents had in fact eventually been lured by the siren’s song and climbed this during my college years, perhaps even the same year, ironically.  I was 65 before my mother told me this.

            Mt. Whitney was the stuff of legends in my mind, the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States, and well-known for its climbing difficulty factor. For outdoorsmen, Mt. Whitney was usually on their bucket list.  I didn’t have a bucket list at 22, but it was a nemesis all the same, and my little dog mentality made avoiding this challenge impossible.

            To prepare, I hiked a lot with a pack, worked out with weights at the gym, used the treadmill at a steep climb, read Backpacker’s Magazine to learn wilderness tips (we didn’t have have the world wide web to do research then!), timing myself as I practiced putting up my tent in rocky and high wind situations, talked to others who’d done the trip. I’d always been a planner and prepper (in the non-doomsday sense of the word).  As much as it pained me to say at the time, I had decided to go the easier, safer route up the west side rather the east side—the mountaineers’ route. I’d booked a guided hike and applied for a permit to take the west trail, the first year Mt. Whitney permits were required and not just recommended.  I would go as light as possible to better stablize myself and my center of gravity, while still packing the necessary survival and safety items. I packed my newly acquired hunting knife even though it might be unneeded with the protection of others.  I wasn’t taking any chances this time.  I still didn’t tell my folks. 

            The trickiest thing was trying to figure out how to get there from Santa Barbara, as I still didn’t drive, much less have a car, and I hadn’t told my family or friends.  Still a little too much humiliation from my last trip, I guess. I put up a request on the message board at my college, seeking a ride to Lone Pine by anyone going that way, and my phone number, if not my name.  In the end, I found a ride by a guy who was also working at the college during the summers, who said he’d be visiting his family in Mammoth mid-July.  Where there’s a will, there’s always a way, I’d often ascribed to.  He assured me that he’d be more than happy to pick me back up at the end of the week as he headed back to work, for the price of helping with gas money.  I’d already finished college, all but for a few units, and worked full-time in Financial Aid, so the timing was perfect.  He seemed more than a little awed by my bravery in doing this trip as a girl alone, so I think he wanted to hear the story on the long drive back. At least that’s the story I told myself.

            In Lone Pine, I stayed one night at the motel assigned, met the guide in a group meeting, where he reviewed the trip with us, the dangers, safety expectations, each of our own personal histories in terms of experience and health, etc.  As four of the people were couples in their late 20’s and 30’s, he’d partnered me up with the single guy, a 40-something pasty looking man who was recently divorced and working on a midlife identity crises.  He was on a quest to remake himself I suspected, by the cloaked comments he’d revealed. I was pretty good at reading between the lines. Needless to say, and with the natural arrogance of a young 20-something, I was skeptical.   Working as partners, we were all to look out for one another and work together to solve challenges along the way. 40-Something seemed pretty dang old to me, and I wasn’t looking forward to being a nursemaid to a city slicker suit. He was probably an accountant or something, the most bland profession I could think of in my self-righteousness.  So arrogant I was then!  You’d think I would have learned my lesson the year before. The next day, we were all driven up by van and deposited at the trailhead at the Whitney Portal, some 13 miles out of town. I surveyed 40-something, in his obviously new gear and inwardly rolled my eyes, hoping he wouldn’t drag me off a cliff or something if he slipped.

            That first day was actually no problem; 3 ½ miles down to the old Lower Boy Scout Lake.  I did question the reasoning of spending the morning going DOWN when we had such a big hike to go UP the hiking icon that was Mt. Whitney.  I was told that we were taking the time to begin to acclimate ourselves to the altitude. Knocking off one day, would also lighten our packs a bit in preparation for the more strenuous climb ahead.  Poor 40-Something was really going to need it, I remember thinking in what I thought a sympathetic sentiment. Still, the lovely pine cover and available water was welcome and gave me a sense of confidence in this trip. There was a larger group of Eagle Scouts there, which added to that feeling.  I was as strong as any Eagle Scout I knew, my childhood experience with the Eagle Scouts in my folk’s church high school group, coloring my perspective.  One of them had almost caught his long hair on fire when trying to light his little teepee of kindling on one of many occasions we’d gone camping with the group. My dad had laughed about that more than once, AFTER he’d charged over and tackled the guy to avoid disaster.  My dad wasn’t known for subtlety. 

            It entered my thoughts that the guide might have had ulterior motives as well as he watched us all set up our tents, make our meals and deal with basic camping skills. I made fairly quick work of setting up my little backpack tent I’d purchase two years prior from a co-worker friend who’d upgraded his, spread out my 1970 REI down mummy bag and already old and yellowing foam insulite pad.  I was feeling pretty pleased with myself when I caught the eye of the guide, expecting a nod of approval, when what I received was a raised eyebrow and nod toward 40-Something that let me know that I was only half done.  We were supposed to be a team and I was expected to help my teammate, who clearly had no clue what he was about, if the heap of tent and tangle of poles were any indication.  I glanced around at the other two couples, who were working together to put up their one tent between them, and I was a bit miffed that I’d have to do double the work alone.  While I maybe was more that a little bit full of myself, I wasn’t outright mean though, and after a sigh, I went over to help him. I quietly taught him how to set up his tent.

40-Something turned out to be a doctor, of all things, who was in fact, quite humiliated at his lack of skill, requiring help of who he called “a young girl.” Despite my ruffling at the young girl comment, my impatience dissolved as I knew what he must be feeling.  I had always been good at nearly everything I attempted, so when I failed at anything, it was a bitter pill to swallow.  40-Something had a name too: Greg. Referring to him by his name in my thoughts went a long way towards curbing my priggish attitude towards him.  I magnaminously thought, “Really, what was one more tent anyway?”

            The next day started out on a high. The warm tones of the forest opened up to a harsher landscape of jagged rock as far as the eye could see.  There was a stark beauty to the Sierras, monocrhromatic in its wide range of greys, with an occasional small wildflower struggling to make its presence known between the infinite landscape of granite. Two hours up the trail, which grew much more rocky and barren, I began to struggle some with my breathing, which started to concern me as I’d thought I was in pretty good shape.  We got into Outpost Camp, which was little more than a few small tent-size openings between large rectangular-shaped granite boulders out in the open, with no shade and exposed to high winds and rain. I knew from childhood experience and those more recent, that weather in the Sierras could change on a dime, and an afternoon thunderstorm could strike out of nowhere. I put up my tent and helped Greg with his, showing him how to use and stake down extra cords, or guylines, so that his tent wouldn’t end up down the canyon in case of high winds, and the rainfly would be pulled taut so it didn’t end up plastered to his tent, soaking it in the event of a thunderstorm.  A wet tent would only be miserable at night and require lots of time to dry before the group could head out the next day.  This time, the guide did quietly thank me when I was out of Greg’s earshot, but I was feeling physically off for it to register until later.  I ate my freeze-dried dinner, barely tasting it, and then buried myself in my mummy bag.

            The next morning, crisp and cold even in July, dawned with the reminder that this would be our most challenging day.  Six miles or so to the summit.  We replenished our water and were reminded that there wouldn’t be any more water once we hit Trail Camp, so we’d have to be smart and use our water wisely.  This meant that about ½ my pack weight be water since  I had 2 days less food.  I still wasn’t feeling 100%, and I hadn’t slept very well, but I was sure I’d bounce back. The guide reminded us about altitude sickness and insisted that we say something if we were experiencing it.  If we had to, we’d turn around and do another night at Outpost Camp or there was one more camp spot a higher up should we need an extra day if anyone felt weak.  The climb was tough, and I was a little dizzy and experiencing difficulty getting air into my lungs.  Either I was too far gone by then to recognize it, or I was too stupid and stubborn to acknowledge the situation, so it wasn’t until “Doc” (Greg), as we’d all taken to calling him, stopped me and forced me to sit down, saying I was experiencing altitude sickness.  He asked me a bunch of questions, determining that I should descend back down the mountain.  The guide dropped back down to us, and after hearing his trail diagnosis, he had Doc check out the others, two of whom were also experiencing lightheadedness and feeling a bit unwell. I thought the guide would be mad, but the didn’t seem put out at all; maybe this was a common occurrence for him.  He made us all turn around and hike back down to Outpost Camp, which was at about 10,400 ft.  There we camped another night to allow more time for acclimating.  One of the couples complained and asked if they’d have to pay extra for the extra day, but I guess, the price included an extra “hidden day” for exactly this reason.  Perhaps more common after all, then.  Doc, who had until this point been the underdog in the group, now shone with purpose and responsibility, earning the honor of his profession once again in this remote field camp. We were all grateful he was with us. Feeling ashamed, I regretted my previous pompous attitude towards him, even if unspoken. Being 20-something, we sometimes think our strength and sense of invincibility is a fact, not a deception of age. I was put in my place, rightly so.

            The extra day proved invaluable in helping us better acclimate and getting us back on our collective feet.  Making the decision to descend for awhile could have been the difference between life and death, I’d later learn.  Doc earned high status in the group after that. That guide knew what he was about in including Doc on our team, even with his lack of backpacking experience.  The rest of us were eager to help him after that.  We were becoming a team—a temporary family of sorts.  We called ourselves “Clan Whitney.” Even the guide enjoyed our buoyant sense of camaraderie.

            Hiking to Trail Camp at 12,000 ft. we stopped to have snacks and check in on how everyone was feeling before heading for our next stop at Trail Crest at somewhere above 13,000 ft. , which would be the half-way point to the summit for that day.  Luckily, everyone had overcome altitude sickness and felt ready to tackle the beast.  That is, until we saw what looked like over a 100 switchbacks up the mountain. Straight up. It turned out to be only 97, but who’s quibbling? My song became “99 switchbacks from hell on the trail”.  I hate switchbacks.  I know, I know, they’re supposed to make the ascent easier, but to me they always foretold trail misery, and here more so than any other climb. The combined affect of unrelenting jagged grey rock, the strong sun glinting on the flecks in the granite nearly blinding you like tiny shards of glass in your brain, and the altitude weighing on you like and ever-increasing weighted vest, made the climb feel like torture.  Any chatter between the hikers slowly faded off to panting and then silence as we all focused on one foot in front of the other, not daring to glance ahead lest be overwhelmed by the daunting trail ahead.  I know I decided I’d rather be happily surprised when it ended rather than adding excessive torture to myself by constantly trying to gauge how close we were to the end. That was as futile as a line waiting for a Disneyland ride.  We paused for water rations and a snack.  We ate in a silent stupor, groaning to a “man” when it was time to resume.  I couldn’t even look around me to enjoy the view out over the desert, so singleminded in my focus to persevere. What the f* had I been thinking to attempt this, and willingly too?! I must’ve been out of my gourd. 

            When we hit the ridge, we collapsed for a bit, each of us silently whispering prayers of thanks and gratefulness for making it. We consoled ourselves with the cheery thought that going down would be so much easier! Hallelujiah!  The air on the ridge was even thinner at 14,000 ft., but I had been determined to summit the behemouth, if for no other reason than to justify my insanity for putting myself through all of this. Strangely enough, it was Doc who had found his ninth life and rallied us all.  Walking the ridge was tough and further than I’d expected to reach the summit of Whitney peak, but once we saw the stone house, I sank to my knees in gratefulness. We were disappointed that you couldn’t actually rest in the shade inside because it was considered a Smithsonian Institution Shelter, built in 1909, for a brief respite from severe weather in an emergency. I was a little deflated at that, but another protein bar, some more water, and rest rejuvinated us, and I found myself able to look around me and marvel at the view.  At first sight, it is breathtaking in its immensity, with visibility all the way across Owens Valley, and Sequoia National Park.  The town of Lone Pine, where we started and would end up that night, was but a small speck far below us. I would later liken it to childbirth, the torturous journey all but forgotten in the wonder of the prize at the end.  The majestic view, sense of accomplishment, overcoming of fears and physical challenge, and the high altitude coalesced into an overwhelming feeling of euphoria in every one of us.  We did it!  I did it!

            Never again.  I was one of those people who had to do some things just to prove something to myself.  This was one of them.  I fought the beast and survived, won the prize, proven I could do it.  But I didn’t do it alone; not really, I’d done it with help from others and was rightfully knocked off my high horse with the hard lessons learned about working together and appreciating others for their own gifts. I learned to listen to my body and not be so proud to heed what it was saying. Pride cometh before the fall, and all that.  It wasn’t a lesson I would forget any time soon. Then again, I'd said that the previous year, and yet here I was...

            Many, many years later, I would marry a very experienced rock climber, who had done the significantly more strenuous and technical eastern face climb, and multiple times the mountaineering route, the latter of which was longer and more difficult to the route I had taken.  My little experience seriously paled by comparison, but I am still proud of myself for having tested myself and had the opportunity to see the world from the peak of the tallest mountain in the contiguous United States.  My kind husband backed me up, saying how proud of me he was that I’d done it so young and before the trail had been more developed and more traveled.  He’s been a man in his prime in his 30’s before he’d made his climbs, he assured me, so my ascent had been no small feat, further fortifying my sense of accomplishment.  I figure now, 45 years later, I have license to wax romantically about the  grand trip and beautiful views with fond nostalgia!

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Note: All artwork, stories and observations posted within should be credited to the author, Linnie Aikens Lindsay (unless cited in the post). Permission is required for any use of my words or artwork. Taken from my work, "My Life As Wallpaper Art".