One Step at a Time: Scaling Mt. Whitney

The alarm shattered the silence at midnight, jolting me from a fitful three hours of sleep. With my brother and nephew, we tore down our camp like sleepwalking corpses, the quiet shuffle of sleeping bags and tent poles echoing in the dark. By 1 AM, our trusty Subaru was crammed to the brim with clothes and gear, and we stood at the trailhead, our breath cloudy in the cold air. Mt. Whitney—majestic and unyielding—loomed somewhere in the inky black sky, challenging us to conquer its 14,494-foot peak.

Before setting off, we gathered, and I put a hand on each of their shoulders and said an alliterative prayer for safety, strength, and summit success. We’d need all three in spades for the grueling 21.5-mile journey ahead, with its punishing 6,100-foot elevation gain. I had conquered this mountain 40 years ago and knew what we were in for.

All we knew at 1 AM was that our head lamps were strong and we needed to make a start, one step at a time. “How do you eat an elephant?” and so forth. Hiking in the dark is an existential trip. As we set off into the wilderness, the stars sparkled overhead, turning the sky into a twinkling ocean of light. Our headlamps carved out a narrow path, making us feel like explorers in an unknown land, a lamp for our feet and a light for our long path.

The miles melted away as we reminded each other to hydrate and snack, fueling up for the long day. As we ascended, the chill grew sharper, transforming into a biting freeze. Layers that had been stuffed in our packs found their way onto our bodies, adding fleeting warmth as we climbed. We crossed stream after stream, using half logs or rocks or simply a long step across to keep moving onward.

As dawn broke, painting the sky in hues of pink and orange, the Sierra Nevadas were bathed in a surreal, fiery glow. The scenery transformed, and we saw rugged peaks all around us, the trees left behind due to our altitude. We tackled the infamous 99 switchbacks (because 100 would’ve been overkill), hopped across streams like uncoordinated mountain goats, and navigated narrow paths with drop-offs that made our stomachs do somersaults.

By 9 AM, after hours of relentless effort, we’d reached the summit. A humble stone hut stood defiantly against the elements, as it has since 1909, looking like it had been teleported straight from some European fairy tale. We signed the register, took some pictures, and savored the moment as the wind whipped through our clothes.

Then, just like that, it was time to descend. The views that had been hidden in darkness earlier now spread out before us—waterfalls cascading down the mountainside, streams glinting in the afternoon sun, and towering peaks that took our breath away.

We ate and drank mostly on the run, with some short breaks to shed layers or get out new snacks. My hiking go-to has always been PBJ sandwiches, and I relished these, needing the calories. High-altitude hunger is a strange thing; even a simple fig newton tastes like gourmet fare at 14,000 feet.

Our water ran dry with miles still to go, so we paused by a crystal-clear stream, using a squeeze filter to refill. The water was crisp, cold, and gurgling—a serene moment in a long day. We even had an encounter with a curious marmot who seemed like some kind of high-altitude rodent Clint Eastwood tough-guy, standing up fiercely at the sound of my nephew’s whistle.

Waterfalls, more stream crossings, and breathtaking scenery greeted our descent. Much of this had been invisible during the long night’s walk, but it was magnificent to see in the afternoon. We felt strong and hiked with few stops, our pace increasing as we headed for the trailhead.

Seventeen hours after we started, we stumbled back to our starting point at 6:00 PM, grinning like fools. It wasn’t the fastest time of the day, but our goal was completion, not a sprinter’s fleeting glory. Our reward? A hot shower at the motel and a Szechuan feast in Lone Pine from a restaurant whose sign curiously advertised steaks, ribs, and lamb chops.

So, my dear readers, I challenge you: What’s your BHAG (Big Hairy Audacious Goal)? Do you have one in your life right now? It’s a wonderful way to focus the mind, force discipline, and bond with friends and family. I recommend the concept to you. It doesn’t have to be a mountain or anything physical, just something big and hard to do that will make you feel proud when you accomplish it.

Whatever it is, take the first step, one foot in front of the other. The view from the top—literal or metaphorical—will be worth it. Half Dome, anyone?