There aren’t many good trip reports this time of year, so I thought this would be a good time to report what I saw in the summer of 2003.
I was camped at Iceberg Lake with a couple of friends when a rather attractive gal came hiking up from the south. She was wearing skimpy shorts, a top that wouldn’t provide much warmth or sun protection, and a wide-brimmed, impractical-looking straw hat. She was carrying a tiny daypack. She was alone, she didn’t seem to be planning to go for the summit or head back down, darkness was maybe two hours away, and she obviously wasn’t prepared to spend the night.
We all scratched our heads, wondering what was up. A few minutes later, another gal showed up, similarly dressed and equally unprepared for spending the night above 12,500’. A few minutes after that, a third gal showed up. We were all puzzled because they didn’t head up, they didn’t head back down, and they didn’t seem interested in setting up a camp.
Eventually, a guy showed up, carrying a large and obviously heavy pack. They selected a campsite, and everything began to make sense… until we saw what they did and didn’t bring. They had a small two-person tent and two mattresses. I think there were only two sleeping bags. They quickly opened one of the flasks of alcohol the guy had lugged up from the portal.
They began walking around asking to borrow stuff like a filter and a stove, since they initially couldn’t find the stuff they thought was in the guy’s pack. They were really friendly, socializing, asking about the Mountaineers’ Route, and offering to share their booze with other climbers camped at the lake. It turned out that the first two gals were on their way to Burning Man, and climbing Whitney was a spur of the moment decision they made in Lone Pine. The straw hat and a couple of jackets had come from a Lone Pine thrift store.
They filtered some water, heated some food, drank, and made a lot of noise. The partying and giggling continued after all four of them climbed into the two-person tent for the night.
By now, you’re probably thinking about how this story ends. Did the altitude and drinking precipitate a puke-fest? Did they wake up the next morning too hung over to attempt the summit? Did they go for the summit and fail? Did they spend way too many hours staggering up and back down?
None of the above. They were the first ones up the next morning. They climbed up the Mountaineers’ Route and back down in three hours. They packed up their stuff and headed down, with the first two gals going to Burning Man for another week of partying, and the other two headed back to Los Angeles.
