Mt Whitney Zone Forums Trip Reports Whitney in August, poignant trip report

This Whitney trip report from August honors the mountains, my late friend, and all of us who go high. Harvey

Mt. Whitney
for Larry in memoriam
Harvey Lankford 2010

Short version (only Part 2)


This was my nineteenth trip to the Sierras, and my third time summiting Mt.Whitney. A few words in Part 1 will allude to the more subjective Part 2, where, as I approach Mt. Whitney, my comments will be more commemorative, relating my experiences to the recent sudden death of my friend Larry. He previously thru-hiked the entire John Muir Trail. Twice. We knew each other from Virginia, but once bumped into each other while on the JMT in 2005. It was totally unplanned even though we each knew the other was out there somewhere in the wilderness. It was a Dr. Livingstone-like moment. When I heard the sad news of his death, I was two days away from flying west for this trip in 2010. I knew then that I would feel Larry's presence with me on the trail. I took his obituary to the summit of Mt. Whitney.

Part 2
8/14/10 - 4am left Mammoth driving to Onion Valley trailhead again, one of the few places where the asphalt virus comes within 15 miles of the JMT. I have learned a lot since 1996 when Seth and I first did this route. Starting early, being trail savvy, going light, and being well-acclimatized dramatically shortened the climb of Kearsarge Pass. Going up in the cool morning was no problem. Descending back down from 12,000 feet to the JMT in 9,000-ft Vidette Meadow canyon was hot, and physically and mentally disappointing. I just wanted to go up! A 26-year old woman who had never backpacked before passed me at day 12 of 14 on her fast solo trip of the whole JMT. By 4 pm I gained back to the scraggly treeline to an area familiar from 1996. I camped here again rather than at the higher rockbound lakelets, leaving 13,000-ft Forester Pass for tomorrow. It is the highest pass on the JMT, and was a make or break point for this trip, although I had no doubts - Larry and I would get there. As if to remind me, I saw a meteor during the night, just like in 1996. A good omen.

8/15/10 - Up at a typical 5:30am, the day passed smoothly. Big Forester Pass seemed smaller than years ago when for the first time we faced the demands of exotic heights unknown to us. Now twelve miles a day up high with a pack was child's play. All that mattered was a few scraps of clothes, a few pounds of food, some well-placed footing, and the next stream to drink from. As I settled into my routine on the trail, it became less like sport, and more like... life itself.

Wright Creek was the next stop by 5pm, complete with standing-still boredom. No haute cuisine here, food was just a few uncooked handfuls of simple human fuel. In the middle of the night, a bear knocked over my metal cup purposefully set on a rock, but he found nothing. The noise barely disturbed my sleep, but summit fever creeping in did.

8/16/10 - The easy, short 6-hr jaunt to Guitar Lake brought me to the western "backside" approach to Whitney. Here at the southern end of the JMT, harsh and desolate 'big mountain feeling' surrounded and lifted me. This is what I came for. Although Seth on our previous trip had encouraged me to shorten it by a day, we know now that even that was conservative. I continued up above the treeline into the higher, partially glacier-carved Arctic Lake valley to camp and plan a cross-country excursion with some spirit of adventure.

8/17/10 - I skirted around the small, rock-bound, snow-banked, pater noster alpine lakes strung like rosary beads through the canyon. On the right, the hulking north side of Whitney blocked out the early morning light. On the left, the steep and angular-sculpted cliffs of Mt. Russell were flushed with the rosy tint of the rising sun as I plodded upwards. Compared to a pass with a trail, the Whitney-Russell col is more sporting, especially once over the notch and onto the much steeper east side where I descended to tag Iceberg Lake. This allowed me to link up with my 2006 Mountaineer's Route, thereby completing a circumnavigation of Whitney. Then I retraced my steps. It went well on this Class 2 scramble back up through tottering rubble on the Iceberg side, and was infinitely more enjoyable while plunge-stepping down the scree on the west. But this was followed by tedious rock-hopping along the lakes. Reid could appreciate the area's comparability to Lamarck Col. I loved the off-trail day, but my knees reminded me that their original equipment warranty was being abused.

Only seven hours had gone by, so camp was struck, moved to higher ground where Guitar Lake looked like its name. There was just the silence of the stone cathedrals all around and an occasional Marine jet on maneuver from Miramar. Absorbing the beauty of this high place and the blue sky above me, I felt gratified at having overcome the difficulties even though they were of small magnitude. This was my launch pad for summit day.

I had thought of Larry so much on the build-up to this event. There had been a number of 'Larry moments' that drove me onwards. You have heard the saying, when the going gets tough the tough get going. Let me tell you another version. I never felt the presence of Larry when it was cool, or when it is easy, or when there were other people around. But when I was tired, or alone, or the way was steep, a feeling came over me. I thought of Larry, or Larry on the trail, or Larry...not here. Sometimes I cried, sometimes I got mad, sometimes both. Several times I whacked my walking stick against a rock, then pushed on, breathing harder, straining my legs faster, going and going and going until the hurting stopped. We know about adrenaline, and it worked. We know about endorphins, and they helped. But there was more, much more. The Spirit of the Hills. Larry and I climbed these mountains together.

8/18/10 -- Now here at the foot of Whitney, the former days of panting, straining, and acclimatizing were well behind me. Summit day was now just meant to be. At 3:30am I could not just lie there any longer in my Big Agnes tent at 12,000 feet. I wanted an early start to be on the top. Mt. Whitney as the highest mountain in the lower 48 States is a popular destination with many ascents daily in the summer. Perhaps 5 people per day come up the technical routes like Roland and I did in 2006. Perhaps 20 come from the longer western approach like Seth and I did in 1996 and I did this year. But a hundred may come up the much shorter eastern Main Trail. Before all those people arrived in droves, I wanted to be on the summit.

So the first hour was by headlamp. Looking back far below in the dark, I saw the first three pinpoint dots following me. An anemic dawn spilled from the heights, eventually unveiling John Muir's magnificent High Sierras -- The Range of Light. I was in a trance. There was absolutely no sense of work or strain or time or counting of breaths per step or stopping. One aspect of this sport is the mental space that one occupies when you know there is only forward. The summit itself was like a force of energy with me flowing upward towards it. This was easy - I was in the zone.

Trail Crest junction loomed ahead. There is a natural place on the cliff to cache one's pack and then scamper the remaining way to the 14,500 ft summit. I left my MountainSmith, just taking a small daypack with water, food, and Sat phone. Most importantly, I carried materials for my sermon on the mount to say goodbye to Larry.

The final miles were a walk in the sky. Following the trail on the exposed high ridge to the summit, I was there by 7:43 am. An earlier group had summited, now leaving me alone with the thin air and the backbone of the Sierras curled all around. I had my wish, and quickly photographed the paper and picture at the tops' geological survey marker. Next, I stacked three rocks to make a memorial cairn and placed Larry's obituary and picture. The wind stopped. I was able to light a match and burn the offering. The Lord's Prayer croaked out so flustered that I had to repeat it. There was just me, the mountain, and Larry's spirit. Looking around, I could see forever.

Suddenly, an F-18 fighter jet split the heavens, screaming directly over the summit. Some of you may be familiar with the military performing the "missing man formation." That could not happen with the single jet that I heard and felt, but it had the same spine-tingling effect. I called Clemmie who recognized that something other than static altered my satellite phone voice and my Words from on High.

Other people were now arriving on the huge tabular summit. Wanting more solitude, I wandered off to the north edge for an hour. From this vantage point, it was neither pleasant nor unpleasant, calm nor terrifying, but rather just an inexplicably deep awareness of ... being. I looked down to the west and saw what was now behind me. I looked to the north and straight down and wondered how I ever came up that way in 2006. I looked to the east and saw what lay before me on the descent. All of this mattered less than what lay within. Then came the inevitable rhetorical question to myself, "I wonder if I will ever be here again?" I had hiked and backpacked 140 miles for this day. Although I had climbed Whitney with Seth and with Roland, I still had not climbed it alone. Larry was with me. The summit registry entry was signed as follows, "8/18/10. Harvey Lankford. 1996 with Seth Lankford via JMT, 2006 with Roland Smith via MR, 2010 with Larry Murtaugh in memoriam."

Now it was time to go down from this windy presence of eternity. The intensity and single-mindedness on the summit had started to ebb away. I retraced the spur trail back to the junction, but my memory left a few blank spaces. The effect of my dramatic surroundings was still distant in my head until I stopped to retrieve my pack. Now geared up, I made a conscious effort for a last mental image at Trail Crest's magnificent view west to Mt. Hitchcock and east to the Owens Valley far below. Then down, down, down. The infamous ninety-nine switchbacks eased my way. I was curiously content and broke up the mindless long descent by stopping to camp at twelve thousand feet rather than continuing on. In 2006 on the steeper route, we hurt for a week when we came down all in one day. I worried about it this time, but in retrospect, I don't think I would have felt any pain after my other pain had been lifted.

8/19/10- Last day. The prospect of returning is never as exciting as the start of an adventure, but gradually my thoughts were of home. I left the land of rock and stone.
The first signposts of green in the high canyon were the Whitebark pines with their limbs stunted by cold and storm. Next came the firs, the hemlocks, and the vanilla-scented Jeffrey pines. It seemed so familiar here that it was like turning down my own hometown street. I even recognized the spot where Reid and Seth and I camped at in 1993 on our first foray. Descending at last to the trailhead at Whitney Portal, rest came easier in the thick air at eight thousand feet.

My last view of the toothy east face of Mt. Whitney was from the Alabama Hills near Lone Pine, CA. It was amazing to think that I had been 10,000 feet higher the day before. I felt blessed with fortune beyond measure and was already starting to re-live my time among the hills. Having tasted the rewards of mountaineering, the desire to go again was unmistakable.
* * *
It has been my privilege over the years to stand on over 250 peaks, high ridges, and high passes from the hills of Virginia to over 20,000 ft in the Andes and Himalayas. I can tell you that for me and most mountaineering authors that there surprisingly is no great sense of elation on the summit. From a practical standpoint, this is simply because the job is only half done. Then, there is Mountaineer's Illness, meaning that one horizon reached leads to another, one more adventure already in mind. But most importantly, it is not the peak itself but it is the journey that matters, and who you are with. It was my honor to make this journey with Larry. Not just for him, but with him. May Larry rest in peace.

Harvey,

Thanks for sharing a very personal journey. I was very moved by your (and Larrys') story.

Harvey, there are TRs and there are TRs. This one is definitely in that "special" category. This was undoubtedly tough to compose, but I suspect it helped you find some closure and peace with events. It certainly made me think. Thanks for sharing it with us.

Thank you Harvey. What a fitting farewell to Larry.

May he rest in peace.

Thank you for sharing such a wonderful TR and a real tribute to your friend. Great writing. I loved the story woven into the adventure.

Thanks for sharing Harvey.
An excellent tribute.

CaT

Excellent report; thank you. Just one very minor correction: the jets you saw were either coming from NAS Lemoore, in the Central Valley, or were from China Lake NWC, near Ridgecrest. Miramar jets aren't often seen this far north. If the Marine ets fly low enough, they can be identified by the letters "VMFA" on the side of the aircraft. Occasionally, one sees test aircraft from Edwards AFB.

An even closer (lower altitude) look at the jets can be had in Saline Valley, north of Death Valley.