June 22
Awoke today on a ridge spotted with islands of snow, nests of boulders, and columns of distorted foxtails. Far too cold to get out of the sleeping bag, just below freezing, so we waited for the sun to break over the peaks and hit us with a shaft of warmth. Packing up my gear was complicated by the frigid stiffness in my hands, the inability of my fingers to operate in the cold. The elevation is mixing up the insides of our bodies headaches, diarrhea, fatigue making it harder to keep moving.
A wicked preview of what lies ahead in our future. I was shocked when we arrived at the torrents of Rock Creek, the white lashing arms of water split by hidden boulders, the blunt sound of all that moving water. We just stood there and looked at it in disbelief. On the other side of the river, the trail continued onward and disappeared up a slope of trees. All we knew was that we had to get to the other side. Another hiker, who was camped nearby, appeared behind us and informed us that we could find a log upstream. A moment of relief, for sure. Relief, however, framed by the unspoken knowledge that soon enough there would be many more rivers without any logs to cross on. After balancing across the log, a precarious situation in itself, we struggled vertically up the walls of Guyot Pass, which sat just below 10,000, still too low to be snowbound. While climbing, I tried to imagine what the incline would look like if it were covered with snow and I shuddered.
Camped now over 10,000, right below the summit of Mt. Whitney. I plan to stay put here tomorrow, while the others go up to the summit. I look forward to a slow day, resting and exploring the meadows, wandering freely amongst the rivers and ridges, absorbing the immensity of the Sierra. I know that my ankle can use some time off and I may be able straighten out my head before we cross Forrester Pass the very next day.
Awoke today on a ridge spotted with islands of snow, nests of boulders, and columns of distorted foxtails. Far too cold to get out of the sleeping bag, just below freezing, so we waited for the sun to break over the peaks and hit us with a shaft of warmth. Packing up my gear was complicated by the frigid stiffness in my hands, the inability of my fingers to operate in the cold. The elevation is mixing up the insides of our bodies headaches, diarrhea, fatigue making it harder to keep moving.
A wicked preview of what lies ahead in our future. I was shocked when we arrived at the torrents of Rock Creek, the white lashing arms of water split by hidden boulders, the blunt sound of all that moving water. We just stood there and looked at it in disbelief. On the other side of the river, the trail continued onward and disappeared up a slope of trees. All we knew was that we had to get to the other side. Another hiker, who was camped nearby, appeared behind us and informed us that we could find a log upstream. A moment of relief, for sure. Relief, however, framed by the unspoken knowledge that soon enough there would be many more rivers without any logs to cross on. After balancing across the log, a precarious situation in itself, we struggled vertically up the walls of Guyot Pass, which sat just below 10,000, still too low to be snowbound. While climbing, I tried to imagine what the incline would look like if it were covered with snow and I shuddered.
Camped now over 10,000, right below the summit of Mt. Whitney. I plan to stay put here tomorrow, while the others go up to the summit. I look forward to a slow day, resting and exploring the meadows, wandering freely amongst the rivers and ridges, absorbing the immensity of the Sierra. I know that my ankle can use some time off and I may be able straighten out my head before we cross Forrester Pass the very next day.
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