This year, the Beardpocalypse will be halved.

In between two rocks, I paused my squirming for a second. I had thought I heard someone saying “Helloooooo”, but it had been hard to tell due to the scraping sounds and my muttered curses. For a good thirty seconds, I hung between the two massive rocks and listened, but all I could hear was the blood pounding in my head, and my forearms screaming at me to move or fall. Once I had edged through the gap, I shook out my shoulders, and checked my gear that had rasped between the boulders. After looking at everything quickly, I confirmed what I already knew: everything I carried was a garden variety inanimate item that could not talk. That meant that I had either heard a rock, shrub, or hidden animal talking to me, or that I was hearing things again. “Freakin’ Mt. Lawson”, I muttered, as I stomped up to a nearby outcropping and looked around, while I sipped some water and stroked my beard idly. It was as I had suspected – no one else was around as far as I could see. I stepped back onto the thin trail that led through leaves and branches and began to climb again, when I heard it again: “Hellloooooooooo?!?!”

I stopped. That I had heard clearly. Or at least I had thought I had heard it clearly. I paused, sipped some water for good measure, in case I was actually dehydrated and clomped back down toward the rocks I had just climbed through. Then, I heard the voice again, except this time, it asked something strange: “You there – are you a mountain lion?!?” The absurdity of the question prevented me from immediately answering. I had visions of Mountain Lions dressed up in hiking garb, like Little Red Riding Hood’s Grandmother, saying things like, “No dearie, I’m just another hiker, do you have any human jerky?” before pouncing, or better yet, responding in Mountain Lion: “Growl Growl Snarl Snaarl Growl Snarl”. (Translation: “No, my good fellow, clearly I’m a lion, and I can’t see why you’d insult my feline grace in such a matter. You humans, such cards!”). I wondered how someone could confuse me, homo sapiens, with a puma concolor. I even was tempted to make lion sounds. Instead, I played it safe – and said – somewhat lamely as I bent down to peer through the crack, “No…I’m a human”.

 Do mountain lions help people in need?

“Oh!” the voice came back, relieved, “I thought you might have been because all I could see was your hair and beard, so I…” I stopped listening and stood up abruptly and took a step back. So that was how it was: since I had a beard, clearly, I was a mountain lion. That was great. Just great. That was freakin’ fantastic. Day Eighteen of the Beardpocalypse had picked up right where Day Seventeen had left off. I tried to remember why I hadn’t shaved before I had come on the hike, and then I remembered. I hadn’t shaved because I was having a lazy Saturday. I sighed, and then stooped back down to proffer directions to the clearly lost – and confused hikers below me.

Once I had given the directions, I stomped through the brush in a very two-legged manner, panting and sweating the whole way towards the summit. As a matter of fact, I made extra noise not only to dissuade anyone else from thinking I was a lion, but to scare any potential lions from making a similar identification mistake. After searching around the summit block for several minutes (http://lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/7/13/mt-lawson-july-3-2010-there-is-no-ladder.html), I decided to free hand the final bit, which was fine, except that mid-way up, my face began to itch. It started innocently enough in one spot, near my left ear, and then began to cascade down my jaw, burning as it went over to the right side. I tried ignoring it, but that made the sensation creep deeper into my skin. I gnashed my teeth, and wiggled my nose to no avail. What I needed to do was just give it a quick scratch with my hand, just a quick scratch, thirty seconds, and everything would be fine.

This was the worst idea ever. While the summit block wasn’t the most extreme thing I had climbed, it was still a vertical wall, and there was quite a drop that would certainly maim. I resisted the impulse with all of my attention, which made it itch more. “Great,” I thought, “my beard is trying to kill me”. Once I had started thinking about it, it was all I could focus on, other than the climbing. By the time I reached the top, my right eye was twitching from the stress like I was demonically possessed. As soon as it was safe, I scratched frantically at it with both hands, and ignored the climbing chalk that was probably streaking my face. At this point, style points didn’t matter, because after all, I had already been identified as a mountain lion. 

After thoroughly performing my ladder check, I began to head back down. Not surprisingly, on the decent, my beard didn’t itch one bit. I didn’t care. It had been hot. It had been itchy. And, apparently, it had made me look like a mountain lion, among other things. I had fulfilled my beard vow and then some, and if I didn’t like it, it was time to shave it off. As I reached the cave where I had been mistaken for another animal, I saw the same guy again off in the distance. After a long – and puzzling conversation, I found out that neither he, nor his girlfriend had made it over to the actual trail despite my directions. Correspondingly, I decided to wait for a moment or two to shout directions through the bushes so that they could actually make it to the trail and back down. It wasn’t the most helpful thing I had ever done, but since I hadn’t brought my chainsaw to cut a new trail, it was all that I could do.

Eventually, they crashed through the last foot or so of branches above me, and fell onto the trail, looking sore, bedraggled, and utterly cranky with each other. After finding out that they were indeed, fine, and not in any sort of imminent danger, I took pity on them, and led them down the “tricky” portion of the trail to where the road ended, whereupon the girl said to me, “Thank you so much, mystery bearded mountain man”. Since it was the best compliment I had received in a while with the beard, I blinked, laughed, and wished them luck as I headed back to my car.

The next day, as we jogged down a misty and cloudy beach, the Slovak listened to my tale of woe, and in response said, “So that’s why you still have the beard?” I waited thirty seconds to gather enough air to answer, since he was setting a bruising barefoot pace, and gasped out that I was shaving it off that day. “Dude.” He said, pausing to pant as well, “You. Should. Do something epic with that. Like Fu Manchu style for the party.” I laughed – briefly – since I didn’t have much air to spare. Later, when we were at our post-run food-fest, I looked at him and said, “Why not, I’ll do it”, which led him to stare at me with a confused look until I explained that I was finishing a conversation we had started about an hour before. Several hours later, I found myself with my trusty razor in hand, staring at my unfamiliar bearded face in the mirror, wondering how to approach carving it into something unusual. Since it was usually several quick strokes of removing everything, I wasn’t sure I had the finesse technique to dance around corners without drawing blood or sabotaging any styles that I might come up with. I spent a moment wondering whether my hairstylist had been serious about carving stars into my beard, but in the end decided that it was ridiculous to call and ask her to do so on the Fourth of July.

This year's hot style: the LA Half-Beard Prince look

After considering all of my options for a massive thirty seconds, I decided that I was going to shave half of my face, while leaving the other half intact. Such a project seemed to be within my feeble skill set, so I took a good look, and relaxed, knowing that if anything went wrong, I was at least going to be completely clean shaven. In a matter of minutes, I had reached my goal – and insofar as it could look good, it looked good. The lines were even and clean, and it was almost exactly half and half. At this point, I noticed that I was running late, so I dressed, and hopped into my car, and headed off to the grocery store to pick up the items that I had promised to bring. The store was packed with people grabbing their last minute Fourth of July meats and drinks, and everyone was too distracted to notice me for the most part. Sure, there were a few strange looks, but for the most part, people one saw one side of my face – the bearded side – or the non-bearded side, so I appeared completely normal. Placing random strangers aside, I had forgotten about the half-beard while I looked at my grocery list, answered texts, and thought about other things. So, when the checker asked me what was going on, I stupidly stared blankly at her for a second. A second or two later, I remembered – “OH, the BEARD!” I said inanely, “It’s for the party I’m going to”. Then, I proceeded to blather on for a number of minutes telling her some of my tribulations of the last three weeks, until I realized that I sounded either like an idiot or drunk. At this point, I was glad that I wasn’t buying any liquor, and hastily wrapped the story up, grabbed my bags, and headed out.

Once I was at the party, everyone found the half-beard amusing – except for one person. She kept staring at me: “Dude!” she kept saying, “Dude, you’re freaking me out! You need to shave that off!” to which I – and everyone else laughed at her in our silly Fourth of July party inebriated way. Aside from her atypical reaction, everyone else loved it – and kept saying things like, “You need to wear that to work!”, or “The beard’s growing in really….what the…..wait….” All in all, it was good times: such good times, that I along with many others, elected to spent the night, once the sweet sounds of Bulletproof by LaRoux had finally been turned off. In the morning, I opened my eyes, looked around, and shook my head at the shenanigans of the night before, and decided that I needed coffee. I headed down the street to the nearest coffeehouse and lined up with everyone else, too tired to notice any random stares.

When half my order had been completed, and was sitting in cups in front of me, the barista looked at me and said, “I dig it. I’ve been trying to get my boyfriend to grow one of those for a long time, but for some reason he won’t.” I stared at her, and I for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what she was talking about for about a half minute. Then, like a hammer smashing into my head, I got it. “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh, the half beard! Right...” At this point, the look she gave me was half scathing, and half condescending. I picked up my coffee carrier, mumbled my thanks, and elected not to tell her any rambling stories. Back at the ranch, once everyone had had their coffee, and watched their fill of “Mega Octopus Versus Mega Mega Shark”, they wanted breakfast, which was also something I wanted. Finally, after an hour of staggering around, lazing around, and doing nothing, the group was ready to leave. When I got back to my car, I noticed the fuel light was on for the tenth time, and decided that I’d better do something about that, so on the way to breakfast, I stopped for gas.

While gallons of refined dead dinosaurs were being pumped into my car, I zoned out, because I was tired, hung-over, and tired. I snapped out of it when someone approached me from the pump opposite mine. “Hey man”, he said, “Can I get my picture with you?” This was the last sentence I expected to hear mid-morning on a cloudy July Fifth, and, since I was tired, my brain locked up again. Eventually, I got the wheels turning again, and said, “What? Why? I’m not famous or anything.” He looked at me, laughed, and replied, “Famous?!? Who said you were famous? I just dig the beard, man! That’s epic! So – how about that picture?” Once I had stopped laughing at myself, I posed with him for a picture, and then burned rubber from that gas station, because the whole incident had kind of creeped me out. After breakfast, a couple of other incidents happened, including one where I had a random run in with a friend of mine who had shaved his head into a Mohawk (That incident can be best summarized in this exchange; “What happened to your face!/What happened to your hair!”), but eventually, I made it home, and shaved off the rest of my beard before taking a nap. Several days later, I had some time to reflect on the beardpocalypse, and the half-beardpocalypse, and I decided that I had learned quite a bit.

In particular, I learned that if you grow a whole beard, people may think you are a mountain lion, which is better than being told that you don’t fit in with a beard. Being told you are a mountain lion is also better than dealing with skeptical clerks who won’t sell you liquor because you don’t have a beard in your ID. Also, having a beard may annoy your boss, which is both a good and a bad thing. However, overall, having a beard is bad, because hot girls mistake you for the brother you don’t have, and when rock climbing, your beard may try to kill you. Also, there are lots of beard racists in this world. The most important lesson that I learned overall though was that having a half-beard is pure awesome. People want your picture. People want to talk to you, and girls will fall asleep in your lap. There is no downside whatsoever. So, if you are considering a beard – or other facial hair, I, the LA am here to tell you: the half-beard is the way to go. Really. And if it doesn’t work out for you, you didn’t hear it here, and you won’t be able to find me, because I am now clean shaven, so I blend in like a chameleon. And for all of you with beards out there, I say, keep fighting the good, hot, itchy fight, because I cannot. With that, those were my experiences from Beardpocalypse 2010.

Project Grizzly a/k/a Beardpocalypse 2010

It was another mundane Wednesday morning at Starbucks. At least, that was what I thought as I waited patiently in the same line filled with the mostly same people, waiting to get my coffee before heading to work. That was when I felt the tap on my shoulder from the middle-aged woman behind me. I turned around, and groggily asked what I could do for her. “Oh” she said hesitating for a moment, “I thought I could help you, since you looked lost.” I wanted to laugh at her; and tell her that it was impossible to be lost at any Starbucks on Planet Earth, as each one always had a straight line that went from front door to coffee, but that seemed rude, so I said nothing. While I searched for my early morning words, she helpfully told me that I looked like I was from out of town. This comment puzzled me even further. Despite my confusion, I managed to get out that I was not lost, and that I was not from out of town. This caused her to narrow her eyes at me, and look at me searchingly with a “I-know-you’re-lying-gaze”. She then told me that she knew my car had out of state plates, because she had seen it. I denied this assertion, since it was patently false, and also, somewhat creepy. She then commented on my appearance, and noted that I was potentially paler than the average Southern Californian.

Looking "bad" on Day Seven.

At this point, the line had moved two inches, and I was annoyed. Not awake. Annoyed. I categorically told her that I was not lost, that I came to this Starbucks once, if not twice a week, that I lived in the area, that I worked in the area, and I just wanted my coffee, and a side order of enlightenment. I wanted to know why she was badgering me out of all the customers in the line. After I had finished my exhausted – but firm list of residency qualifications, her gaze had shifted from “I-know-you’re-lying” to flat out awkward. It was only then that she cleared her throat and said somewhat defiantly, “Well, it’s your beard. Most men around here would know not to grow something like that, because, well, it just doesn’t look good.” At that moment, 8:41 a.m. on a Wednesday, I had no words to speak whatsoever. Then, they came. I wanted quip to her, “Ah, I get it. You’re a beard racist.” I wanted to let loose a diatribe about how her wrinkles were showing, or snidely remark that she should be embarrassed to go out in public dressed in last season’s trendy clothes, or just be flat out mean. Instead, I took a deep breath, and took the high road. “Thank you for letting me know”, I forced out through my clenched unsmiling smile, and stepped forward to order my coffee. At the end of the transaction, the barista gave me a wink and said, “Nice beard”. That was Day Eight of Project Grizzly, and my beard wasn’t even that long. 

I couldn’t tell you, exactly how Project Grizzly a/k/a. “the Beardpocalypse” had come about. Perhaps it was because I had subconscious, burning beard envy, because the One OG had been sporting a quality “Gordon’s Fisherman” beard for a while; or that Lumonox had rambled about with a good “Charlie Whitehurst” with his flowing locks to accompany him afterwards. Maybe it was because I wanted to live up to my radio name of “Grizzly”; or maybe it was to win a bet with my group of Whitney climbers; or maybe it was to draw attention away from the effects of global warming on the deforested areas of my scalp. Or maybe, just maybe, it was for the ladies, because one night, at the local, one of them had said to me, “I’ve never seen you with a beard; have you ever had a beard?”. The answer to that question was a firm yes, but I didn’t have pictures of it, because the last time I had had a beard was when I had come out of the wilderness after nearly three weeks, looking, and smelling like Sasquatch, and the last thing I wanted was photographic proof of that stench.  Based on all, some, or none of those reasons, I set out to grow a beard. Also, I didn’t really want to have a reason, because having a reason implies that I didn’t really have anything going on except being focused on my facial hair, which is a total lie. I had some things going on over those weeks. Really. I swear.

Can you believe it? Five o'clock shadow at three o'clock!

On the first day, I resolved that I would take a picture every day in total obsessive compulsive style, because that would prove that I totally had a lot of other things going on, and that I was not narcissistic whatsoever, because other people would totally want to look at documentary style proof of this project because it was that interesting. Other than shaving that morning, nothing of note happened. Slightly around 3 p.m., my five o’clock shadow appeared, which was not noteworthy at all. By Days Two and Three, the beard had grown out to my normal, comfortable everyday adventure sandpaper stubble length. No one batted an eye or made any comments about this, as they had seen it before. On Day Four, atop Mt. Rodgers, Cash caught me taking a picture of myself and asked what the bloody hell I was doing. When I explained, he roundly mocked me, and told me that he could grow a longer beard than me by the end of the trip, and that we could measure our beards together at the end. This made me slightly uncomfortable, so I sidled away from him, and told him that we would not be measuring anything together whatsoever, and made a mental note to lock my tent that night when I slept.

On Day Five, the beard was itchy. I wanted to shave. Fortunately, while mountaineering, that was not an option. As the sun was setting on Day Six, and I was lurching around the parking lot at the Whitney Portal after summiting, looking for Chef Jaime, I ran into some total strangers, who told me that I was the first mountaineer they had seen with a champion beard, to which I thanked them, and then sat down and wheezed in exhaustion, which probably took away some of my manly points. On Day Eight – well, you know what happened on Day Eight. After that, I went to work, where nearly everyone was enthused to see my beard. The one person who was not so enthused to see my beard: my boss. After pithily looking at me when I came in, and noting “you have a beard” with mild regret, he came in my office on two separate times to note that “you have a beard”, and on the second time he said, “So, how long do you think that’ll last?”. It was at this point that I knew that the Beardpocalypse in full effect and it was good.

Not much happened over the next week – after all, I wasn’t sitting at the mirror staring at myself watching the beard grow. But, as the days went by, I noticed that the beard was wreaking subtle changes on my persona. I found myself sitting in my office, stroking my beard thoughtfully as I talked to clients, which made me feel completely absurd. My response to this was to concentrate on keeping my hands on my desk, which made me lose my train of thought at times regarding what I was supposed to be talking about. But at least I wasn’t stroking my beard. There also was all the beard maintenance time, which was a serious pain. I had thought growing a beard would be easier on my appearance, since I could just roll with it. This was not the case, as the beard required trimming to prevent the dreaded appearance of “neck beard” or “high face” beard which would make me look like a Yeti. After a while I just wanted to shave the whole thing off rather than fool around like some ridiculous manscaper, but I dug deep and exercised some mental toughness, and ultimately perservered.

Then, on Day Thirteen things became interesting again. While jogging at my usual spot at the beach, one of the girls who ran at the same time flagged me down as I passed her car. I tried to act suave, and spontaneously stop sweating and gasping for air, but failed at all three. After the pleasantries about the weather, running, and the day were out of the way, she asked me where my brother was – my brother who was younger, who ran at the same time usually, and wore almost the same clothes and looked almost exactly like me, except that he was clean shaven. I then spent the next ten minutes trying to convince her that I didn’t have a brother, and that there was a 99% chance that she was talking about clean shaven me. Just when I was about to get exasperated about her not being able to differentiate clean shaven me from bearded me, I realized that the last girl I had met while running had thought there were sixty-three states, not fifty. With that in mind, I told her my brother would be back sometime, and that I’d pass along the message to him for when he returned. As I jogged off, I made a mental note to run in a different area when I did shave.

On Day Fifteen, I looked at my old 3G iPhone, and saw that for some inexplicable reason, the OS Four Update had taken out five days of beard pictures. For a split second, I was really bothered by this, because that had totally ruined my documentary. I was mad. I was going to e-mail Steve Jobs, and complain vigorously about this blatant and harsh injustice. Then, I took a deep breath, and realized that the beard had made me go something-something crazy. I didn’t need that many days of beard pictures; indeed, the idea of taking daily pictures seemed totally out of control ridiculous. Even scarier, I realized that that kind of e-mail was probably exactly the type of e-mail Jobs would respond to. I could hear it now: “Dear LA. Have you tried syncing your phone, you bearded maniac? Also, do note that iTunes, the iPhone, and Apple do not discriminate against beards, because I have a beard. I also like to say beard. Don’t you? Beard, beard, beard! Also, do not go Unabomber on our company. Steve Jobs”. I almost shaved right then and there, even though I was at work, and even though I would have had to use plastic forks, hand soap, and used coffee grounds to complete the mission.

Hello moto, beards that are in this picture may or may not have been in other pictures!

Then, on Day Sixteen, I went back to my local to meet my friends. The girl who bartended took one look at me, and said, “You look like an idiot”, which was how small talk sometimes went with her, so even though I had a beard, I thought that not much had changed. On Day Seventeen, I was picking up champaign for my friend’s birthday at the grocery story, when I was asked for identification from the checker. I handed over my driver’s license. He looked at the license. He looked at me. He looked at my beard. He looked back at the license. Then, he looked back at me and said, “You don’t have a beard in this picture”. I commended him on his powers of observation, and tried to laugh it off, and asked for my license back. He held on to it, and kept staring at me, and repeating, “You don’t have a beard in this picture”. At a certain point,  I wanted to rage on him and say, “Look here, you don’t have to be goddam Sherlock Holmes to realize that people can grow beards that do not retroactively travel through time and appear in their photos on their driver’s licenses”, but again, I took the high road, and said something lame like, “Yeah, well, I have a beard now”, which, after five more minutes of staring, seemed to do the trick, because he let me complete my purchase. I should have called him a beard racist too. While driving back from the party, I realized that I was ready to be done with the beard. All that I had promised was that I would grow a beard. I hadn’t promised to maintain, cherish, love it, and keep it for the rest of my days. I was going to shave it off first thing on Day Eighteen. At least that was what I thought, but that’s the thing about the Beardpocalypse – it doesn’t end that easily.

The Best of the 2010 Whitney Excursion - the FOOD!

You know you're on an expedition when the stove says so.

Every expedition has at least one moment that stands out from the faded memories of the actual adventure with color enhanced clarity. It’s that point where a day later, you laugh, go “I can’t believe that happened/you did that/we survived/oh my god you wouldn’t believe”, and then when you think about the trip twenty years later, the same memory creeps into your mind. It’s that story you try to relate to your friends with the disclaimer of, “you had to have been there, but, let me tell you…”, and then when they don’t laugh at your story, you pause, and go lamely, “well, you had to have been there”. Then, even worse, when your friends make the mistake about asking about the main, exciting part of the trip – for example, where you summitted the peak in gale force winds in snow both ways and found the lost Ark of the Covenant; you brighten and, before telling the story about how you made the summit and lost your nose in the process, you say, “but first, let me tell you a side story about the frozen macaroni squirrel incident”, which causes them to roll their eyes, groan, and regret talking to you in the first place. At the same time though, the thing that no one realizes about these stories is that without the frozen macaroni squirrel incidents, climbs are by and large similar. After all, mountains are the same in many ways – they are made of rocks and they are tall. Some have snow. Some do not. Some have climbers on them, some do not. But what differs on each climb is the experience and the stories that follow from the experiences – whether people want to hear them or not.

There were so many things that happened on this last trip to Whitney that made the experience an epic adventure. In general, one would think that since it was my seventh time on the summit, I’d have some insightful observations about the peak, or the conditions, but I’ve covered that already. All that I’m left with is that Whitney is a big mountain. Really really big. Biggest in the lower forty-eight states, I’ve been told, and if Wikipedia says it, it must be true. Also, having been up it a fair few times, I can attest that it is large. There are so many little things from the planning, and the drama that entailed, and the bookkeeping that followed it. Roughly, I can count over 234 separate e-mails between myself, group members, and prospective group members about the trip.  In this respect, Whitney seemed less like an adventure, and more like bookkeeping. Or, I could talk about the training hikes, and using lots of mountaineering technique, while being told by group members, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but it just seems like we could go this way, with no problems, and not get lost whatsoever, but I don’t know what I’m talking about.” (Readers: note that “that way” was a random undefined direction. Also note that if someone tells you that you should go in a random undefined direction, contrary to what anyone tells you, you will get lost – at least for the short term. Long term, you might find your way back – eventually.)

Practically, I could also talk about the terror of watching people traverse in strange ways, or wondering at times where people were and what they were doing, or how they got lost when all they were supposed to be doing was following a silver car. Or I could cite to the numerous moments of comic relief, where people insisted on saying, “that’s what she said”, at every opportunity even though it wasn’t funny, and had never really been funny in the first place, and even though they weren’t drunk. But – and I say this with great difficulty (insert: “that’s what she said here” line to get a sampling of how it works), what really sticks out in my mind is the food.

That's right: food. I'm still eating cookies for breakfast, though!

That’s right, I said food. And not because it was bad. Too often on mountaineering, climbing, or any sort of expedition, the food is god-awful. It’s one of those things that ends up going by the wayside, in a, “I have too many things to do type of way, so I’ll just grab some nutrition bars”. Then, on mile thirty of the trip, you say to yourself, “for the love of all that is holy in the universe, why did I pack so many goddam nutrition bars!??!”. Placing aside Powerbars, Clif Bars, Luna Bars, Bar Bars, and whatever else comes in bar form, the other options aren’t usually good either. Although there’s been massive developments in freeze dried food technology in the last fifteen years (don’t ask me to name them), freeze dried food still tastes like, well, freeze dried food. Which is not good. It’ll keep you alive, but then again, so will paint chips, I hear – at least for the short term.

On this trip, the food was good because we had Chef Jaime and his miraculous grill. Miraculous is not too strong of a word in this respect. The grill took up a fair portion of the back of his truck, and had its own apparatus that you had to assemble to get it together, including its own supporting legs, side infrastructure, and propane tank. Someday, when I am old and wizened, I hope to have something as fancy as Jaime’s traveling grill installed in my house. It was that impressive. But, equipment is nothing without the right personnel to operate it (insert: “that’s what she said” again). Chef Jaime, for many reasons was an invaluable asset of the group, because he knew to bring and make the good food. On Saturday night, he brought fresh homemade salsa for the group for the carne asada, and then made fresh Pico de Gallo on the spot. (Honorable mention here to Rude Boy for trying to cook beans in a can over an open fire with nothing but a wooden spoon, but then rallying to make fresh guacamole that same night.)

Most people would take a break at that point – after all, we were camping and fresh salsa and fresh Pico de Gallo is hard to beat, but the next morning, Chef Jaime was back at it, brewing fresh coffee in his percolator, cooking free and non-free range eggs into omelets, cooking bacon, and grilling some champion non-cajun style flapjacks. As Pratt put it, “this is the one trip I’m going to gain weight on”. More than the fifty pounds we packed on before climbing the mountain, what I’ll remember about that trip to Whitney is that morning before at eight thousand feet, watching the sun rise, feeling full and content, and ready to take on the world, as I read lazily from the Kodiak Cakes Box to the group, while listening to the frequent “that’s what she said” comments. Even though my box reading skills are quite dramatic, none of that would have happened without the great food – so, thanks Chef Jaime, I’ll always remember that – and I’ll be dragging you along on whatever trips I can from now on. (“That’s what she said!”). 

Mt. Whitney, Portal to Summit, June 21, 2010, Part Three

Rush hour on the Mt. Whitney chute, June 21, 2010

This. This.Is.The.Greatest.Day.Ever. Rude Boy said, two feet upslope from me. I took a deep breath, steadied my right hand on my planted ice axe, checked my feet, swept my eyes past his form and paused everything that had been going in my head for the last months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, and seconds. I shut down the machinery of everyday life, the narrative of what I had left behind, and what waited in front of me. I turned down the volume of the survival narrative that lurked beneath every step on the snowy, icy, chute that I was traversing, and looked up. The world was white in front of me, glistening and pure. Up above the snow, the jagged teeth of the skyline of the Sierras waited, eternally calm. Just beyond that the roof of the world rested, a perfect shade of cerulean blue. And, somewhere just beyond that roof lurked the warmth of the blazing sun, bathing my body in rays of light that were not much more than eight minutes old. Rude Boy was right. It was a great day; and I was lucky to be there; and this was one of the reasons I climbed, to experience these perfect slices of time. I took another deep breath, closed my eyes, and felt the planet come to a stop as I focused solely on the moment.

After a minute, the planet re-started, and I joked with Rude Boy about his comments, checked with Cash to make sure he was doing alright, and even made out the form of Pratt charging hard up the slope in our wake. Then, I carefully did what I had been doing for the last half hour – checked my points, and again began to traverse the up the melting ice to Trail Crest. After our quick meal, marmot experience, and conversation with new climbing friends, I had led Rude Boy and Cash up the remainder of the trail from Trail Camp - a distance of about ten feet. From that point on, the switchbacks, the main trail, and the mountainside were all covered with a substantial amount of ice and snow. As the message boards and Rangers had said, there was no trail after Trail Camp. It wasn’t a big deal, however, since we could follow the line of climbers trickling up the ice chute. From the start of the snowfield just outside Trail Camp, the going was passable in boots alone – there was enough of a trail, and it was easy enough to kick in to the snow.

At the start of the chute, the terrain turned steeper, and icier. The snow there had that persistent late spring suncupped/cheese grater look, and was iced over in patches, which were melting out in the mid-morning sun. As my entire group had crampons, we stopped at a convenient boulder, and strapped them on before proceeding any further. From that point on, we joined the line of climbers from Trail Camp attempting the climb. Fortunately, we were in great shape, still had plenty of energy, and warmed up by the six mile hike we had already completed. As such, we found ourselves passed slower and less well equipped groups, some of which turned around, and startled some of the other climbing teams with Rude Boy’s reggae karaoke hour. After a brutal uphill slog in the morning sun, we ended up at Trail Crest. The combination of the steep uphill – if not almost vertical climb through the snow and ice combined with the high altitude and serious sun exposure did leave us a little gassed for a couple minutes, so we stopped to eat an early lunch at Trail Crest.

Trail Crest, Sequoia National Park, Mt. Whitney Trail, June 21, 2010

While we waited, Pratt powered his way up the remaining distance, and joined us and another climbing team on the ridgeline. To the South, we could see the remnants of the actual trail peeking out of the snow, before snaking down to our rocky position. Down to the West, Sequoia National Park and Crabtree remained caught in the icy grip of winter – even though it was the first day of summer. After our brief break, we elected to gear down – and took off our crampons before proceeding along the ridgeline. The trail from Trail Crest was mostly clear of snow, and the few patches that remained along the route were easily traversable in boots.

As we approached the last final push up the backside of the summit, there was a snowfield that had not melted out, and had a single track of bootprints  leading up through its roughly knee high height. I briefly debated having the group put their crampons back on for this section, but after finding out that the snow was soft, and a minimal fall existed on the downhill side, we elected to traverse across by kicking in and utilizing our ice axes alone, which seemed to be the preferred method in any case. After that last snowfield, it was a straight – albeit uphill shot to the cabin, where Rude Boy, Pratt, and I joined the other climbers in celebrating. After a little bit, Cash joined us, and we took the requisite pictures and marked our names in the log. Although it was my seventh time on the summit, out of the ten times I had been, I still felt the euphoria of the others as we basked on the rocks.

Summit, Mt. Whitney, June 21, 2010

Sadly, my euphoria was short lived, as I could see a fair amount of clouds building over the mountains to the West. I waited about five minutes, and then gathered my team to turn them back down as a precautionary measure. As we came back down the backside, the skies turned from perfect blue to a dark grey, and the temperature dropped dramatically. Even worse, we ran into Tan a quarter mile out from the summit, and I had to turn him back around, based on the conditions, as I did not want him to get stuck at 14,500 feet in a storm.

By the time we reached the top of the chute, the sky was quite dark and foreboding, which made the descent a little more harrowing than it needed to be. At that point in the day, also, the chute had become quite slushy due to the warm conditions; which made either traversing or glissading equally tricky. Most of my team took the well plowed out and equally slick glissade, “ice luge” of death tunnel, which worked out, while I traversed my way down after taking a small wound on the ice in the early stages of glissading. Despite some close calls, everyone made it down, and by the time we reached Trail Camp, it had begun to snow lumpy icy chunks on us, which continued on until we dropped below 9500 feet. We made it back to the parking lot just before six thirty, and even though the group was tired, exhausted, and smelled, we had broad grins from the adventure that we had just experienced.

Mt. Whitney, Portal to Summit, June 21, 2010, Part Two

Slow down. I chided Rude Boy as he shot up the first section of the main Mt. Whitney Trail. We had just left the Portal fifteen minutes before, and he was rumbling along at a champion four to five mile per hour pace. Initially, I had told the group that I would let one of the slower members lead the initial miles, but after thinking about the conditions, namely the snow at higher elevations, I had decided to either start the hike in the lead, or let one of the faster members lead out, in order to get through the easier sections of the trail. While I wanted a brisk pace, I didn’t want anyone to tire themselves out early in the day, which is why I kept telling Rude Boy to slow down. We had already outpaced two thirds of the group; I could see them strung out on the initial switchbacks above the Portal, their headlamps shining like low flying stars.

The initial section of the main Whitney Trail was dry, and aside from the two stream crossings, which were running a little high, we had no difficulties as we ascended. At approximately two miles in, we began to pass other single day climbers who had left before us, and at three miles, just outside of Outpost Camp, the first rays of the summer solstice had crested the mountains to the East (Check out the photo here: http://www.lastadventurer.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/6/24/mt-whitney-portal-to-summit-june-21-2010-part-one.html). Just prior to the three mile marker (delineated by faded blue paint on a weathered rock), we had passed several large snow drifts, although none of them blocked the trail. At Outpost Camp, we stopped for a short breather, and allowed the rest of the group to catch up as we watched the multi-day climbers begin to stir. At this point, my group of six had fallen naturally into two groups of three. After applying sunscreen, and gulping some water and food, I had Rude Boy lead us out again.

From Outpost Camp, the switchbacks were clear and free of snow to Mirror Lake, which glistened in the early morning sun. Directly above Mirror Lake, patchy snow began to appear on the trail in drifts and icy clumps. I didn’t feel like complaining, as the trail had been easy to follow and find for that first four miles, up to approximately 9600-9700 feet. Just past Trailside Meadows, the trail completely vanished in a large drift of snow. I wasn’t overly concerned – I could see the well worn footsteps of many climbers through the snow, and could see a couple of groups just a bit above us approaching the rise before trail camp. Off to the South, I could also see a well worn path going up the snowfield to the drainage at Consultation Lake.

There were a number of hikers and climbers clustered around this first, actual impediment, some wearing sneakers, and some that were geared out like my group. As I watched them put on crampons, I wondered how soft the snow actually was on the slope. I unclipped my ice axe, and took a cautious step or two. It wasn’t packed solid, nor iced over. It was perfectly easy to kick steps in to, so I led my group out. It was probably overkill, having my ice axe out, as a potential fall would only have been about thirty feet on a slope that was not that steep. However, I didn’t see the need to be careless, and it was good for my group to get a little extra practical ice axe warm-up usage. As we kicked in up the slope, the remainder of the hikers and climbers clumped in and followed our steps.

From the saddle approaching Trail Camp, the snow thinned out, and we could see a number of dry spots in between the rocks, where the overnight climbers had pitched camp and were beginning to stir. We walked through Trail Camp, and reached the outer (Western) most boundary, which was covered again in snow. From there we could see a daisy chain of climbers heading up the snowfield facing the mountain, and into the chute. At that point, the main trail was almost totally covered, if not completely covered with snow and or ice. I could see that from that point on, the climb was going to be difficult, so I told Rude Boy and Cash to take an extended break to drink some water, eat some food, and prepare for the section of the climb that would determine whether we would summit or turn around empty handed.  

Mt. Whitney, Portal to Summit, June 21, 2010, Part One

Checking down group gear at the Portal, June 20, 2010

I could hear low, repeated murmurs just a few feet away from my body. And, as I rolled over, I could see odd shadowy forms passing over the fabric of my bivy sack again and again. I waited for a second to see if they were just lost, like the midnight arrivals at Campsite Six, or if something was actually going on that I needed to address. After listening to several more minutes of shuffling and muttering, I realized that if it wasn’t my group, I should at the very least, find out what was going on. Before I unzipped my bivy sack, I looked at my watch. 3:23 a.m. At least it’s close to when everyone has to be up, I thought grumpily. A second later, I had my body outside, and shivered in the cool morning air of the Sierras. As I pulled on my boots, I saw one of my group walking by; and demanded to know what he was doing. “I’m getting ready early”, he replied, to my astonishment. At that point, I realized that I had somehow lucked into a great group of guys to follow me up Whitney again, and that I’d better get up so that I could lead them properly.

The only problem about leading people properly is that at 3:23 a.m., is that one’s brain doesn’t work immediately. For a period of time, it seemed surreal to me that we were even on Whitney, because it had just seemed like a number of days since the last training hikes on San Jacinto and Iron Mountain, and a number of minutes since we had been at Mahogany Flat and Rodger’s Peak acclimatizing. For that matter, it seemed a lot like a dream that I was back to lead yet another group, or that I was back on the mountain for the tenth time. But as I watched my group scurry around the campsite, breaking down tents and checking down their gear, my adrenaline kicked in and woke me up. It was a cold summer solistice, and no one wanted to stand around long under the trees at the Portal. Unlike the groups that had come down the mountain the day before from seven o’clock on, my group was prepared for the morning chill in long pants and jackets. For the five weeks prior to the climb, I had been monitoring the conditions on Whitney, by speaking to friends of mine in the climbing community, and checking the internet for trail reports and mountain conditions. In this respect, the largest asset I had was the forums at the Whitney Portal Store (http://www.whitneyportalstore.com/forum/ubbthreads.php/ubb/cfrm), which had always provided me with reliable information in the past.

Based on the information I had reviewed, I had repeatedly told my group that the climb was going to be grueling as there was still a substantial amount of snow and ice along the route, and that they were going to need ice axes and crampons. I had spent a great deal of time talking to them about the proper use of such equipment, and had even been able to give some people practical lessons on San Jacinto several weeks earlier. (http://last-adventurer.squarespace.com/last-adventurers-fieldnotes/2010/6/6/san-jacinto-tram-to-summit-may-31-2010.html). Additionally, I had talked to them about the dangers of hypothermia, heatstroke, exhaustion, sunstroke, altitude sickness, and had gone over routes, gear, and conditioning. Fortunately, they had soaked up my advice like sponges, which left me optimistic about our chances to summit. However, the best news I received about our summit bid had been the day before, when I had picked up our permits at the Eastern Sierra Interagency Visitor Center. The forecast called for little to no wind, sun, and highs in the low forties at the summit. It looked like we would have a great day for climbing.Sunrise, Summer Solstice, Mt. Whitney Main Trail, June 21, 2010

The night before, I had called one last meeting by the fire, and gone over some minor basics, before concluding by telling each of them that they had the potential to reach the summit if they had the mental fortitude to withstand the rigors of the climb. It wasn’t something I was just telling them; it was something I believed; placing aside the unpredictable and unquantifiable risks that could crop up on the climb. As I watched them making their final preparations, I felt even better about our chances, until people began to dawdle over breakfast. At that point it was time to lead, so, I exercised some gruff early morning persuasion, and soon had everyone standing at the foot of the trail at 4:20 a.m., in a slightly tired nervous state, hoping to reach the summit. I didn’t waste any words, but merely said, “let’s go”, and with that, we set out.