SCREECH! Traffic...sitting, sweating...sigh. Desert ahead...traffic behind...Casey Jones better watch your speed. Ghosts of Jerry Garcia on some long forgotten pilgrimage to Fillmore West. So many have passed through here. Not exactly desert, not exactly prairie, what the heck is it? In school they called it the temperate zone.
People flooding into Palmdale, Lancaster. Road nearly empty now. Where is that radio station? The one station in the boonies. Better not call it that, it's a rural suburb of Trona, keep repeating that. Ok, here it is, nope, gone. Suddenly, a voice telling me how to be saved. Is there really a Hezekiah 3:12? Never heard of that one. Radio in the temperate zone. Change the channel, just static. So goes the hypnotic sound of road, Joshua trees, sage brush, and finally mountains.
Food. There it is, Olancha gas and food. Sub sandwiches, beverages. Ok stock up. Why don't I break down and buy a fishing license? No time, need food. Gotta get on down the line. Lubken Canyon, dig this road. Start in the desert, taste the midwest in the middle, desert at the end. How is this possible? Is this Ohio? Never mind. Turn left, roller coaster up and up. That sandwich smells good. Just a little bite? Why is it quadruple wrapped?
Darkness, horses and cottonwoods. That's what its called isn't it? Cottonwood Lakes? Not too many cottonwoods here, just pines, horses and a sub sandwich.
Pulling into a campsite. Shin? Brandon? Sorry, nobody by that name. Next campsite, who? Nope, not here. Ok, been all the way around now what? Next road, lots of cars and horse trailers but no people. Drive through manure. Glad I didn't step in it. Turn right last chance, end of the line. Starved eyes see campfire. Hello? James? Yes! Ryan? Yes!
Mossy attack. The sandwich and beverages can't wait. A trip to Horseshoe Meadows never tasted so good. Barely breathing but there's that mountain aroma. Around the campfire eating. Why don't you have a seat? Come from a long line of counter eaters. That is eating at the counter, standing. Eat all my dinners standing up. What does your family think about that? Never really thought about it. Don't you think they'd enjoy your company more if you sat down? No, they're all facing my direction anyway. If I sat down we'd all stare at the sink. Not much conversation in there just rotting guacamole, pork fat and peach pits. You from Southern California? Cause we hear they eat that kind a stuff there. Guaca-whatcha-callit, salads with fruit, and meat with the fat cut off. Well, it's not really meat, it's tofu and soy. What?? Never mind. What the hell kind of place is that anyway? It's kind of hard to explain. Yeah, sounds like it.
Not noticing insects sucking the life out of you. You're back, out of sea level and into thin air.
Morning brings red sky warning. Should I go to the bathroom before it...WHOOSH! Too late. A morning monsoon brings a little graupel. Who thinks of these words? Graupel. What ever happened to freezing rain and sleet? Thrown aside for the more Euro graupel. Yes graupel, likely a storm that blew in from Southern California. Better watch out it might start dropping graupel and guacamole. That might attract the bears. The California black bear, lover of all things from chips, dips, cheetos, fritos, graupel and guacamole. "Keep the bears wild" say the signs. Nothing drives a bear wild like dangling a veggie burger in front of 'em. Keep em wild. Then run like hell.
The rain finally gone, so is the graupel although it's hard to tell which was there and when looking at wet ground.
Sun poking through, meandering downhill. Look down there, Alabama Hills they call them. Why Alabama? Goes way back, before King Arthur legend has it. Goes something like this: "Listen Flem, I had enough catfish and possum, let's rustle up some graupel and guacamole. Where we get that Emuel? Californey." And so they came, by horseback, by muleback, by goatback, eating babyback and fatback, reading a paperback. Coming to the Alabama Hills to strike it rich. "Why them hills looks like mollasses Flem. Yep, they look like the greatest battleship President Davis ever built, the Alabama. Um, Flem? What's that little brother? Didn't that yankee boat done blow up the Alabama? You know them hills might look kind of funny all blowed up. The Kearsarge? Yeah, that's the one. Dad gum tub couldn't blow it's nose in its momma's apron strings. It ain't never blowed up the Bama."
So a legend is born. From way up here it looks like the biggest fire ant hill this side of Houston. And just as hellish.
Lone Pine. More oxygen but what's this? Hot, sticky, I can't even spell h-u-m-i-d-i-t-y. Breakfast time, coffee, more breakfast, more coffee. Can't finish. Food for a thousand summits.
Across the street hostel hellos then portal bellows (Yeti-howl). Camp time. Fun time. Day hike? Maybe later. No rush, we're on mountain time. Trout, burgers, card games, more mossies. So begins another Whitney weekend.
The full moon is brighter than the sun until Candlelight (Peak) exitinguishes it. The brightness fades. Suddenly climbing, fishing with electric lures, paying bills, mowing the lawn in technocolor, stepping in dog poop. Bam! What is that? Through the darkness a figure walks away from the trash can. Wow, must have dozed off. Days of dreams take place in a fraction of time. If only life were so efficient.
3:45. Brandon, Carole, Mouse, Ryan, and James move up the road in the darkness. Suddenly head lamps everywhere. Hey! Ho! There's Shin, Mark, Mike, Doug and others. Will Richard catch us? Not if we can help it, ha ha. High mountain spirits. Not quite spring not quite summer.
Up the trail, getting into a groove, STOP. Contact lens lost. Can't see have to go back. Scouring the dirt. Oh no, this is bad.
South? Or north? South it is. Cold, wet waterfall. Soaked feet, squish, squish, squish. Up the ledges. Wait! Someone's coming. There they are, wearing glasses this time. The mountain spirit keeping it real. Over the ledges, Carillon creek waterfall pounding loudly.
Where's the No Wood Fires sign? No sign? No problem, just turn left. Two people on a boulder waving across the stream. Cross here just be careful of the log. Just be careful of the log, log, log (echoing). "Words of wisdom Lloyd, words of wisdom." Step, step, step, SPLASH! Adrenaline rush like none other, an early morning, full-body dunk in ice cold Sierra water. Oh no, this is bad.
Scramble, thrash, curse. On the bank, what now? Got extra clothes? Yes, right, got to change f-f-f-fast. Shirt off, stop. Look around, people watching. Into the willows. Scratch, crunch, ouch. Someone said a good pack is worth it. Dry clothes inside. The camera...it works! Cuts, scrapes and soggy clothes hanging off the pack. Ready to roll. Maybe I should have crossed the creek then changed clothes. A different way across is found. This is a great group. Helping each other. Wish I had a contact lens to repay the favor.
In the boulders now. Um, hello? Your arm? Oh yeah, it's ok. Blood comes out of most fabrics.
Group is strung out quite a ways now. Some reaching Upper Boy Scout lake and continuing on. Some refilling water at the slabs. Through crappy snow and rocks to Iceberg Lake. Others have continued into the chute, postholing deep. We talk then decide on the rocks by the left chute. That is a fun challenge. Taking longer than expected we arrive at the top of the left chute and into the remainder of the main chute. A couple hundred feet of deep, lousy snow then onto dirt to the notch.
The notch is calm, just a mild breeze blowing the clouds around a partly cloudy sky. Gazing up at friends in the final 400. Making their way through the rocks right side of the snow field. Another group belaying down the rocks. Quick snack, ditch some weight, and into the final 400.
Up the rocks, scrambling like bighorn. Up Wayne's Chimney and we're there. And so are our friends. Hive fives, fist bumps, photos. Stunning views in great weather. Could sit here all day. Hello to the ranger, more photos, texts, phone calls, where's the satellite?
Back down the rocks, little slower this time. At the notch, down the scree and into the snow. The Great Postholio. Foot stuck in waist deep muck. Dig my way out, try glissading. Like mud then suddenly a slick spot and ZOOM, down we go fast. Whoa now, take it easy. More postholing then more butt sledding. What's that red stain in the glissade path? Rocks got to someone, ouch.
Iceberg Lake...we're literally swimming in the snow. A video is taken, Michael Phelps in the 400 fly. Very funny, get me out of here! Laughs all around.
Heading down quickly, tank up at the slabs. Fatigue, thirst, hunger. Down the boulders to Lower Boy Scout, cross the stream (don't think about it, don't think about it). Steps, pounding, hurting, soreness, thirst, hunger. Getting close to Shan-grill-la, smelling the cheeseburgers.
We make it, order up, sip a cold one and begin reliving the day. The lens losing, cold plunging, rock scrambling, heavy breathing, food munching, photo snapping, high fiving, postholing, snow swimming, back aching assault on the peak. It's assualt on us. Reliving days with good friends, good weather, summit Snickers, and high mountain spirits. Thanks to everyone for a fantastic few days. Can't wait for next time!
Photos:
http://s622.photobucket.com/albums/tt308/WPSMB/Mt%20Whitney%2006-26-10/
