The Highs and Lows of Hiking Mt. Whitney
Warm wind whips across my face as we fly down the desert highway. The sun is setting and we still have a few hours before we reach Lone Pine, the town closest to Mount Whitney. The moment I have been dreaming of is just around the bend. I swallow my nerves as I think about all of the training and preparations I have done. My heart and my mind have been so set on this, I can’t imagine it going any way but mine. Maybe I am living in a delusion, but I feel ready. I am going to climb the tallest peak in the contiguous US, all 22 miles of it, in a single day. This mantra has been repeating in my head for as long as I can remember now. Maybe that’s the trick? Or maybe it’s everything else I’ve done in between. Most likely both, mixed with a bit of luck.
We pull into the Dow Villa Motel after dark, its neon Vegas-like sign beckoning us. Tonight we’ll get some good sleep at 3,727ft of elevation. It’s a far cry from the sea level we came from, but still nothing compared to Mt. Whitney’s 14,505ft. We have three nights before our summit attempt. There’s not much going on in this semi-sleepy town, so we hole up in our room, eat the deli sandwiches we packed, and hit the hay.
In the morning, I pull open the curtains and find myself in a state of awe. Through the window I can see the Sierra Nevadas jutting thousands of feet in the air. It’s a massive granite wall with a wandering ridgeline, up and down, then up again. Somewhere among them is Mt. Whitney, and I can’t believe I’m about to climb it. I marvel at the contrast between the baby blue clear sky and the slate gray batholith dotted with forest green. It looks like a painting hung on the wall.
We step outside to breathe the fresh, cool desert air. The heat hasn’t swallowed the town yet. Our desire for coffee grows strong, and we walk down the strip to Vibras Juice Bar. I order a latte with almond milk and an acai bowl, then sit down on a stool and keep staring at the mountains. A well-weathered man sitting next to me points up and offers which one is Mt. Whitney. He’s a local, drinking a simple black coffee. I smile and think, I’m going to hike that.
With a free day to wander around, we consider checking out the local shops, historic sites, and natural wonders. First, we grab a few necessities at Lone Pine Market. Then, we head to the Ranger Station to ask if there’s any free permits to hike a day early. At this point we just want to get on with it. Alas, nothing is available, so we stick to the original plan. We skip everything else and shoot straight for the Whitney Portal, at least we can see it today.
On the way from town, we pass through the Alabama Hills. All terrain jeeps and converted vans are parked in little nooks and crannies, while tourists and rock climbers scramble through the hardened magma. We follow the narrow road and edge closer to the towering mountains ahead. We hit the tree line, and then the Whitney Portal at 8,374ft. We do a little recon around the area, finding the bear boxes, bathrooms, camping area, and the Whitney Portal Store. Our excitement finally gets the best of us, and we gear up to hike to Lone Pine Lake.
No permits are required to hike the first few miles of the Mount Whitney Trail. Seeing it in daylight, and testing out our lungs, is a good way to get acquainted before we attempt the summit. We pass through the wooden arches that mark the start of the trail and within minutes I’m already breathing hard. Eventually my body adjusts and I get lost in the scenery around me.
We pass by waterfalls, rock hop over little creeks, and wedge our way between the massive walls that surround us. We hear birds calling, see chipmunks scattering, and even a few butterflies flitting above wildflowers. As we near the turn off for Lone Pine Lake, I spot a single Indian Paintbrush, with its fiery orange petals, standing tall between cracks of stone. My grandpa’s favorite flower, and one that’s quickly become mine. At that moment, I decide to dedicate my Mt. Whitney hike to all my loved ones that I’ve lost. My grandpa and grandma, my nana and papaw, my papa and Evelyn, my dad. I truly felt like they were there with me, seeing this beautiful land through my eyes.
We take the short path through the trees and a modest lake flows out before us. A few people are speckled along the water’s edge. A baby laughs and shrieks with joy and I feel the urge to do the same. We sit in a shady spot and look out at the infinite blue sky reflecting in the water. After a bite to eat, we make our way around the bowl to the other side. The lake changes from blue to deep shades of green, now reflecting back the pines we emerged from. It’s calm and quiet, and quite the hideaway. A little reprieve from the expansive desertscape below. We head back to the trailhead feeling accomplished and well adjusted, then cruise to our campsite before evening.
We inch our way up and up the steep road to Horseshoe Meadow. Looking down, you can see the salt of the earth, remnants of the mostly dried up Owens Lake. We arrive to find a large walk-in camping area. At 10,600ft, even higher than the Whitney Portal, this is a great place to acclimate to the altitude in the Sierra Nevadas. We choose an empty site, set up our tent, and make a quick dinner with our Poe & Co Folk Foods camping meals. The sun is setting, and now the sky is pastel purple, pink and orange. There’s nothing left to do but rest, so we snuggle into our respective sleeping bags and I read until I fall asleep.
At dawn I rise and watch the sky change yet again. Still no clouds in sight. We make breakfast, pack up, and drive back to the Whitney Portal, where single-night camping is permitted. Once there, we stretch out our hammocks and lounge for hours on a shady hill, going back and forth to the bear boxes for a snack or meal. Time couldn’t pass more slowly, and the anticipation is driving us mad. Finally, the day disappears. We try to sleep, but only toss and turn, never losing consciousness.
At 10pm I roll over, eyes wide open, I haven’t slept a wink. “You know, technically… if we start right now, it’ll be 12am by the time we reach the Whitney Zone,” I say to my friend. “What are you thinking?” She replies without hesitation. We look at each other in the dark, and I break the silence. “I’m down if you are.” We jump into action, already in our hiking clothes, and start our final preparations. Within 30 minutes, our feet are on the trail. I’ve done everything possible to get to this point, now the true test begins.
Within the first few miles, we pass exhausted hikers still descending from the day. That’s when reality hit, this could take the full 24 hours. We’re not deterred. We trek on with our headlamps lighting small circles ahead, crossing over familiar ground from our acclimation hike to Lone Pine Lake. The air is pleasant enough to wear only a t-shirt. The moon and stars twinkle overhead. We reach the Whitney Zone at 12:30am, just in time for our permits to kick in. The trail from here is unknown to us, and we’re excited to see what lies beyond.
We ascend the rocky terrain, stopping occasionally to gaze at the night sky, have a sip of water, or a small snack. We don’t miss the sleep, our adrenaline drives us forward and up with powerful strides. With our AllTrails map and GPS location turned on, we use it to navigate any confusing spots. We pass through Outpost Camp and not a soul is stirring. Further ahead, we spot movement down a canyon. Two deer are drinking water from a stream. They’re unbothered by us. We keep moving, winding our way toward the top.
At one point, we reach a clearing with a grand view of the desert, barely making out the town of Lone Pine under the moonlight. It’s certainly a bit easier to hike when a full moon is near. We’re grateful for the extra help, and the stunning views it provides. We perch on the edge of a great flat stone, no doubt a place where many have rested. It’s lovely having this moment just to ourselves.
As we continue, the moon vanishes behind the mountains and a chill sets in, so we add a layer for extra warmth. Whenever we stumble upon a water source, we stop and refill with our filter, my hands braving the icy temps. Otherwise, we keep moving at a sure and steady pace. Time flies by until we meet Trail Camp, a handful of tents are spread amongst the rocks. Our necks crane upward to see specks of light bobbing high above. At 4:00am, in the pitch black night, we reach the base of the switchbacks. The only indication is that trail of headlamps so far above us it’s almost unbelievable.
One turn after another, we trudged on, careful not to stray from the path. As we climb, it gets colder, and we pull on another layer to keep it from seeping into our bones. Dawn hits and we turn towards it, a new stream of headlamps can be seen slowly snaking through the canyon, miles behind us. Then the sun begins to rise and we stand frozen, enchanted by the spectacle. It’s a moment I will never forget. Orange blasts through blue, erasing the stars and painting the morning, illuminating layers of granite around us, and the distant desert floor. Everything is aglow, including our spirits.
Around 6:30am we make it to Trail Crest at 13,646ft. From here, we can see over the ridge to Sequoia & Kings Canyon. It’s otherworldly, to say the least. Mountain tips are bathed in neon pink light, bits of snow sporadically cling to crags, and alpine lakes collect in the valleys below. We take our time admiring it all. I chug some Plink! electrolytes to keep me going.
At this point, the final arduous ascent is imminent. We slowly pick our way across the precarious path. The air is thinner at this elevation and we’re moving at a snail’s pace. This single section feels longer than all the rest. We stop often, lean against boulders, and step aside for anyone crossing our path. The flurry of the day is afoot, and we chat up backpackers coming from the John Muir Trail. Things feel different now, we’re no longer alone.
Finally, the stone Summit Shelter appears before us. My eagerness is driving me quickly toward it, but my friend stays many paces behind. Something’s wrong. We’re steps from the peak, and she grinds to a halt to catch her breath. We sit for a while, and then it clicks. Altitude sickness. We wait and check in with each other. The mountain will be there if and when we’re ready. In time, she feels clear headed enough to continue, and we cautiously make for the finish line. By 9:00am, we reach the peak.
The summit feels a little chaotic. Swarms of hikers are at the trail register, around the shelter, and in line to take photos with the metal sign. We sit at the edge to soak in the view, with movement and conversation all around us. It’s a stark contrast from the solitude of the night. We take pictures, eat a bit, and sign the trail register. But we’re not done yet. We still have a long day of retracing our steps ahead. We give a last glance and retreat down the mountain.
The way back is rough. The altitude sickness worsens before it gets better. We move mostly in silence, stopping in shady corners to catch a break from the glaring sun. Everything we couldn’t see on the way up is now visible, but we’re not really interested. Our only desire is to be done. Fatigue sets in and we feel desperate to stop moving. But the longer we take, the longer we walk. We focus on putting one foot in front of the other.
At 5:30pm, our feet hit the Whitney Portal. In 19 hours, we complete the hike. We’re so worn down, not even the sigh of relief is satisfying. We pack up the car and I drive us to Lone Pine, while my friend tries to calm the sick feeling in her stomach. All I can think about is getting us to our hotel, ordering take out, and hoping my friend feels better. Then we can really celebrate.
We check back in to the Dow Villa Motel. I walk to Merry Go Round and order Chinese food to-go. My friend rests and I eat in silence, willing her ailment to ease. In a few hours, she’s up and eating too, finally feeling somewhat normal. We text our friends and family to let them know we’re safe. After showering away the dirt and grime, we stay the rest of the evening curled up in our beds, eventually we fall asleep.
At daybreak, I walk back to Vibras for a latte and acai bowl. Last time I was here, I was staring up at Mt. Whitney, dreaming of reaching the top. This time, I’m staring up at her in utter disbelief that I actually did. I enjoy my breakfast at the bar, then head back to the room. In time, my friend gets out of bed feeling much refreshed from the day before. We wander around town for a while, consider waiting for some shops to open, but ultimately decide to go home. On the car ride back, we can’t believe it’s over. We’re sore, but we’re happy. Had things gone a little differently, we could have easily failed. Altitude sickness is no joke. And the weather forecast is now displaying winter storm warnings. We made it by the skin of our teeth.
We all have our reasons for wanting to conquer a mountain. For me, it was to prove to myself that I could. I love the peace that nature brings, and I love the feeling of accomplishing something great, so I found a way to combine the two. I was hoping that boost of confidence would get me through a rough patch in my life. Coming back from Whitney however, felt more like crashing. I thought I’d be filled with inspiration, but actually I felt void of it. Sure, I celebrated a little after completing my hike. But I also felt a bit empty. It turns out, the journey really is more important than the destination.
I’d spent all summer hiking over 250 miles of Oregon to prepare, devouring Higher Taste sandwiches along the way. Those moments of growth felt more tangible than actually finishing the climb. Through that process, I made friends I didn’t know I needed, saw places I didn’t know existed, and felt something in myself that I hadn’t felt before.
I say all this not to end on a negative note, but just to show the reality of the human experience. We are more complex than simply achieving something and feeling eternal happiness. It doesn’t work like that. If you walk through life with this understanding, you can accept things for what they are, instead of being disappointed when they’re not what you think they should be. Still, strive for greatness, and you may succeed. But don’t let moments of strength, or weakness, be the only things that define you.
After months of reflection, and honestly still disbelief, I’m finally coming around to what I’ve done. I’m no one special. Really. I’m just a girl who read a book once that inspired her to see a magnificent place. That book is Salt to Summit: A Vagabond Journey from Death Valley to Mount Whitney by Daniel Arnold. I picked it up in a used book store while browsing the travel section. Little did I know it would take me on this grand adventure. Now, I finally know what my next move will be. This spring, I’ll be visiting Death Valley. Just a few hours from Mt. Whitney, it contains the lowest point in the US. Badwater Basin sits at 282ft below sea level. We are much like the earth, we have high highs, and low lows. Be willing to embrace them both, and the in between.
If you’re interested in hiking Mt. Whitney, be sure to check out my blog, Preparing to Hike Mt. Whitney next!
As a content creator and storyteller, my work is possible in two ways. Either by supporting myself through my freelance marketing business, or by partnering with brands that align with my content. I am so grateful to the sponsors that partnered with me on this trip. Please support them!
Plink!’s electrolyte tablets are fruity, fizzy and delightful. I loved having them on the trail with me. Staying hydrated is so important!
Higher Taste makes the best grab-and-go vegan sandwiches and burritos. They truly were my go-to trail meal while training all summer.
Poe & Co. Folk Foods’ yummy chef-made vegan camping and backpacking meals were a hit. It was so easy to prepare these while camping on our trip! They fueled us for the big hike.
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