Three days. Two nights. Nearly 19 miles. 6,500 vertical feet. And a reminder that reaching the summit is only half the job.
Back in June, I shared a short post about a trip a group of us had just completed on Mount Whitney. At the time, I said the experience deserved more than a quick update.
It does. And here it is.
A few months earlier, eight of us decided to take on the Mountaineer’s Route on Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the lower 48. This wasn’t the traditional maintained trail to the summit. The Mountaineer’s Route is a technical climb involving snow and ice travel, crampons, ice axes, ropes, exposed terrain, and Class 3 and 4 mixed climbing.
For beginning to intermediate mountaineers, it’s considered an alpine classic.
It’s also a real challenge.
We planned three days and two nights with three guides from SWS Mountain Guides. Our group included my son August, our good friends, Ian & Blake Britton, Justin Kuehn, Zach Pricer, my daughter’s boyfriend Ethan, and his dad, John Boutwell, who joined us from North Carolina.
We showed up prepared. Or at least as prepared as you can be before a mountain starts teaching you what you don’t know.
Day One: The Climb Begins
We started at Whitney Portal, elevation roughly 8,300 feet, carrying packs that averaged somewhere around 50 to 55 pounds.
Whitney Portal is the trailhead for the traditional Mount Whitney Trail as well as several other routes, including ours. There’s an important distinction between a trail and a route. Trails are maintained. Routes are more of a “go that way” proposition. Snow, rain, and runoff continually reshape the terrain, so the best way through can change from year to year.
On our first day, we climbed roughly 3.1 miles and gained more than 3,000 feet of elevation on our way to Upper Boy Scout Lake.
Our first real mountaineering test came at the Ebersbacher Ledges, a Class 3 and 4 traverse with a few hundred feet of exposure. Helmets went on. Harnesses went on. Ropes came out.
And there wasn’t even snow yet.
The hike into camp was a grinder, and it was hot. Staying hydrated was a constant concern. So was getting enough calories.
For three days, you basically have permission to eat like an eight-year-old. Sugar. Carbs. High-calorie food. Whatever keeps the machine moving.
Eventually we reached Upper Boy Scout Lake and set camp next to a mountain stream flowing out of the small lake. It was insanely beautiful. Trout were visible in seemingly every pocket of water.
There were only a handful of other people camped nearby.
By late afternoon, everything gets quiet.
Part of that is etiquette. Mostly, everyone is exhausted and knows what comes next.
For summit day, the alarm goes off around 2 a.m.
Why 2 A.M.?
There are some very good reasons you start climbing a mountain in the middle of the night.
First, daylight is life.
Every problem gets harder once the sun goes down. A wrong turn, an injury, a rescue or an unexpected delay becomes considerably more complicated in darkness and dropping temperatures.
Weather is another concern. As the valleys warm during the day and moisture rises, thunderstorms can form. Standing on the highest mountain in the lower 48 is not where you want to be when that happens. Even without lightning, the winds from a Sierra storm can shut down a climb quickly.
So we would wake at 2, eat breakfast, and be moving by 3.
Our guides were very straightforward about what lay ahead. No fluff. No bravado. Everyone needed to make an honest assessment of how they were feeling physically and mentally and decide whether continuing was the right call.
Of the eight of us who started the trip, six headed out for the summit attempt. Two stayed at camp.
And there was absolutely no shame in that. Knowing when to continue and when not to is part of being in the mountains.
The Mountain Starts Making Decisions
We moved out under headlamps in the darkness. The moon and stars lit the enormous granite walls around us like an arena.
From that point forward, everything was snow.
We had camped almost exactly at the snow line, and now the nature of the climb changed completely.
Above Iceberg Lake, which was still almost entirely frozen, we began moving in rope teams. Because of our numbers, we paired up in twos.
That changes things too.
Mountaineering is a team sport. If your rope partner cannot continue, both of you turn around.
That may be one of the biggest lessons the mountains teach you: humility.
Hubris kills.
You need patience with your partner. You need a positive mental attitude. You need the physical preparation you did before the trip, and you need food and water.
You also need to listen.
Being roped together on an exposed ledge while a guide teaches you a new skill creates a strange mix of emotions. You’re curious. You’re learning. You’re scared. You’re uncertain.
Then you do the thing you weren’t sure you could do.
And suddenly there’s elation.
Each section of the route presented a different challenge, and each one built on the last. As we gained elevation, we also gained a little quiet confidence.
Take Me Higher
After the notch, we encountered an exposed traverse across snow, rock, and ice. There were horizontal and vertical moves above an ice chute that dropped roughly 800 vertical feet below us.
Eventually we reached a flatter section at around 14,000 feet.
At that elevation, things get strange.
For me, every additional 500 feet seemed to change my headspace. The cumulative fatigue builds while the available oxygen keeps dropping. Your mind wanders. You start thinking about bizarre things.
Meanwhile, the guides keep checking in.
They ask mundane questions. They watch how you respond. They’re making sure you’re still mentally and physically fit to continue.
Then we reached the crux of the climb.
It ended up being my favorite part of the entire trip.
It was also well beyond anything I had ever done before.
Two more members of our group turned around here.
Four of us continued.
The Final 400
Crampons on.
Ice axe out.
Roped up.
In front of us was roughly 400 feet of near-vertical snow and ice.
This was it.
The technique sounds simple when you describe it from the comfort of home. Kick your cramponed boot into the wall. Plant it. Use the ice axe in one hand to steady yourself. Use your free hand against the wall when needed.
Then climb.
The first group does the hardest work because they establish the boot pack for everyone behind them. As climbers move upward, the kicked-in steps gradually create something resembling a vertical staircase.
And if ice or rock breaks loose?
You yell.
“ICE!”
“ROCK!”
That gives the climbers below at least some warning about what is headed their way.
It also makes you really appreciate your helmet.
Step by step, we climbed.
And then, almost abruptly, it opens up to a limitless horizon at the absolute tip of the Lower 48.
After all that steep snow and ice, you emerge onto a relatively flat snow-covered stretch leading toward the summit.
Four of the original eight had made it.
But I want to be clear about something: every person who left Whitney Portal accomplished something on this trip.
Everyone reached a personal best.
Everyone had reason to be proud.
The summit was never the only measure of success.
A Coin for Nick
We walked over to the summit shelter and found the metal box containing the summit register.
We signed our names.
Then I was given a few minutes by myself.
I had carried something with me all the way up the mountain: a challenge coin for my friend and former coworker Nick Vella.
Nick was a Huntington Beach Police Department pilot who died in the line of duty in March 2022 when the police helicopter he was in crashed into Newport Harbor.
Nick had been flying that night with my good friend RJ Garwood. Both were pilots and alternated between pilot and observer duties. When the helicopter went down, RJ was able to escape the aircraft and make it to shore. Nick did not.
I carried Nick’s coin with me for the entire climb.
When things got difficult, it gave me perspective.
No matter how tired I was, no matter how uncomfortable I was, no matter how badly I wanted the next section to be over, Nick would have given anything to still be here with his daughter and family.
At the summit, I left his coin in the box.
And candidly, I fell apart for a few minutes.
That was okay too.
The Summit Is Only Halfway
I was paired on the rope with Justin, who is younger than me, a tremendous athlete and in superb shape. He was patient with me throughout the day.
Ethan and his father John were with us as well. Both had recently completed a Half Ironman, and they were strong all day.
We took the obligatory summit photos and spent maybe ten minutes at the top.
Ten minutes.
You spend months preparing. You climb for hours. You finally reach the highest point in the lower 48.
And then you leave.
Because one of the things new mountaineers sometimes fail to appreciate is that the summit is only 50 percent of the work.
You still have to get down.
You still have to get back to camp.
And ultimately, you have to get everyone home safely.
So we started back the way we came.
I was the slowest of our group. Above 13,000 feet, I was really getting my ass kicked.
The strange part was how noticeable the oxygen became on the descent. Every 500 feet or so, I could literally feel my body soaking up the additional O2.
I finally made it back to camp around 5:30 that evening.
Everyone lined up to welcome us back.
We ate a hot meal.
Then we crashed. Hard.
My heart rate stayed above 100 most of the night as my body tried to recover.
The next morning was a very different atmosphere.
We woke up giddy.
We were tired. We were dirty. We were sore.
And we were going downhill.
Back to the Portal
By the time we returned to Whitney Portal, we had covered nearly 19 miles and roughly 6,500 vertical feet over three days.
According to my Garmin Tracker, I had burned more than 12,000 active calories on top of what my body needed to exist for those three days.
So naturally, we went to Alabama Hills Café and ate.
A lot.
When I got home that night, I was somewhere between 12 and 15 pounds lighter than when I left.
But those are just numbers.
What sticks with me more are the other things.
The quiet at Upper Boy Scout Lake.
The trout in the stream.
Headlamps moving through the darkness at 3 a.m.
The sound of crampons biting into snow and ice.
The strange thoughts that enter your head at 14,000 feet.
The patience of a rope partner.
Watching people make the difficult but correct decision to turn around.
Standing on the summit.
Leaving Nick’s coin behind.
And the deep, distant rumble of rockfall echoing through the wilderness at night, reminding us that the landscape around us was still moving and changing while we slept.
The John Muir Wilderness is massive. It is humbling.
It feels like God’s gallery.
For three days, we were absolutely in it.
What Stays With You
We went to Mount Whitney looking for a challenge.
We found one.
But what I brought home wasn’t really about reaching 14,505 feet.
It was a greater respect for preparation. For the people on your rope. For knowing when to push and knowing when to stop. For listening to people who know more than you do. For being willing to be uncomfortable. And for understanding that sometimes success looks different than you thought it would when you started.
Four of us stood on the summit.
Eight of us pushed beyond where we’d been before.
That distinction matters.
The mountains have a way of stripping away a lot of the noise. Eventually it comes down to the next step, the person beside you, and whether you have enough left to keep moving safely.
And if you’re fortunate, you come home a little stronger, a little smarter, and a lot more humble than when you left.
I’m proud that I made the summit. But now, when I think about those three days, that’s not really the part I think about first. I think about the people I shared it with and the people I carried with me.
That’s what will stay with me.
Jason