Trail Log: JMT Days 0-3

Day 0: Mammoth Lakes to Horseshoe Meadows

August 4th, 2019

We wake in Mammoth Lakes, check out of the condo and drive toward the trailhead. Along the way, we stop in Bishop for our Whitney permits and a sandwich, Independence to drop off our last resupply bucket, and Lone Pine to review the north half of our route over a beer and some dinner.

I call my husband for the last time before we set out. This won’t be the longest we have been physically apart since we spent a year of our relationship long distance in college, but it will be the longest we have gone without being able to talk consistently on the phone or play zombie games together on Steam. We express how much we miss each other already, and he admits he is anxious about my impending journey. I promise to check in on my Garmin In Reach every night to help alleviate these anxieties, and I admit anxieties of my own about what’s to come.

We exchange silly photos of our faces before I leave cell range.

We arrive at the Horseshoe Meadows TH and pitch our tent just before sunset. The mosquitoes are moderately awful, so we take a walk around the parking area with our Woodford bourbon then turn in around 9PM. The three men in tents nearby celebrate the start of their journey in style. They have multiple beers, lanterns, a campfire, a full-sized grill and even a ladder with a dart board on it. I fall asleep to the sounds of their partying late into the night.

Tomorrow, we start our JMT thru hike.

Day 1: Horseshoe Meadows to Siberian Pass

August 5th, 2019

10.5 miles

I wake with the sun only faintly glowing. In the quiet camp, I hear the sound of a car locking and a distant hiker walking toward the trailhead.

We eat graham crackers and Hershey bars for breakfast. The mosquitoes remain a persistent nuisance, but they’re far less brutal than the early hatch droves I’ve dealt with in the Cascades. A bit of Deet protects me enough to relax through my morning coffee.

While idly observing the other campsites, I hear coyotes howling and yipping a short distance away. The call of the feral wilderness. I am so ready to answer that call. I just barely contain the urge to shout my own wild howl back across the echoing meadow.

We break camp and hit the trail by 7:30AM, a slow but early enough start. The feeling of being back in this place, back on the trail, propels me gleefully forward through the first miles.

Once we start the Cottonwood Pass ascent, my still acclimatizing lungs ache with the steep, seemingly endless switchbacks. I had almost forgotten this feeling of not being able to draw enough oxygen from the thin air around me. I think ahead with a building nervousness to the impending Whitney summit attempt. Have I trained enough? How can I know I will be strong enough when I can barely make it up this pass a full 2000 ft lower? I try to push these thoughts from my mind and focus on each step forward.

We finally make it to the top of the pass, and I marvel at the vista as I catch my breath. I can see for miles and miles, past where we started this morning. We continue to Chicken Spring Lake and fill up 4 liters (8.8 pounds) each of water for the upcoming waterless desert stretch. Laden down now with extra hydration, we move more slowly as we ascend Siberian Pass.

Every hiker we come upon headed our direction is aiming for Rock Creek, the next water source approximately 9 miles from Chicken Spring Lake. To avoid the crowds, we decide to stealth camp up Siberian Pass a few miles from the creek.

The campsite is peaceful, with nothing but the sounds of birds and the wind stirring the tree branches. We are surprised to see a hidden little water body a short ways from our camp. The water is shallow and teeming with tadpoles and underwater plants.

I enjoy the solitude and refreshment of a splash bath along the edge of the water. I try to do this wherever possible on the trail to keep hygiene up and soak my sore feet after a long day of hiking.

With tents pitched and chores done, we relax the remaining daylight away. Lying on my foam mat beneath the shade of a tree, I watch the clouds dance in their ever-shifting shapes as they meander across the sky, going wherever the wind takes them. Chips and bourbon make me a happy camper. We split a small Alfredo dinner and turn in early at 6PM.

Day 2: Siberian Pass to Crabtree Meadows

August 6th, 2019

10.5 miles

I sleep horribly my first night on the trail, jolting wide awake every 1-2 hours all night long. I attribute it to the thin air at this higher elevation and hope it will improve as I acclimatize more fully.

We realize this morning that we accidentally left our backup fuel canister in the car, so we only have one full canister for the whole week. To conserve fuel, we decide to cold soak our breakfasts and coffee until we can pick up an extra canister. The cold coffee doesn’t bother me at all, and I’m surprised to find that I don’t mind the cold oatmeal as much as I thought I would.

After breaking camp, we descend Siberian Pass to Rock Creek three miles away. The mosquitoes are relentless, especially near any place with “creek” or “meadow” in the name. We keep moving as often and as quickly as possible to outrun them.

The ascent up and over Guyout Pass leaves me very winded, and again my mind drifts back to my self doubt about summiting Whitney. I remind myself that I can do this and that doubt only weighs me down. I visualize a successful Whitney ascent and never again question that (weather permitting) I will make it to the summit.

The trail undulates up and down for a few miles before reaching a small river that we must ford to reach Crabtree Meadows, our base camp for the next two days as we tackle Whitney.

We arrive and find a secluded camp spot by early afternoon. I am still learning the finer points of pitching a single-walled tent, and I’m finding my ZPacks Duplex sits a bit lower to the ground than I anticipated. I play around with the guy lines and get it as secure as possible before moving on to my other camp chores.

I find a mostly private spot behind two rocks alongside the river where the water moves a bit more swiftly and the wind keeps the mosquitoes at bay. It feels like magic. I enjoy a full, refreshing river bath. Now that I am clean, I turn my attention to my hiking clothes.

Using a gallon ziplock bag filled with water and a few drops of camp soap, I wash my clothes to get the dust out, then take each item out to rinse it in the river. While rinsing my socks, I get a bit cocky and rinse both socks at once. Before I know it, one sock is swiftly stolen away by the current. I move to grab the straying sock but think better of it. Watching it float quickly away down the river and over a small waterfall, I lament its passing and the impact it may leave downstream beyond my reach.

Luckily, HP brought an extra pair of camp socks. I borrow these for the rest of the week and ask an extra two pairs to be mailed to my next resupply point, along with infinitely more bug repellent. I never like to be in the wilderness without a full, sacred pair of dry camp socks.

We have budgeted two days at Crabtree to fit the best weather window for our Whitney summit. Of those two days, tomorrow looks most promising. There may be afternoon rain, but we plan to summit early and miss any weather that could roll in. We also promise ourselves we will watch the skies closely and turn around at the first sign of impending stormy weather.

We go to bed before the sun and plan to start our summit attempt before sunrise in the morning.

Day 3: Whitney Summit

August 7th, 2019

18 miles

I am wide awake with excitement when my alarm goes off at 4 AM. I am happy to find I feel well rested and ready to tackle the highest peak in the lower 48 states. My first 14er.

We add cold water to our oatmeal, and I happen to catch an ant squirming around in the bite I’m about to take. This turns my appetite a bit, but (after flinging the intruder away) I force down the rest of my much needed fuel. We leave our tents staked flat on the ground after removing our trekking poles for today’s hike.

With my bag packed and camp secured, I stare out at the stars while HP finishes his packing. My jaw falls open as a massive shooting star lights up the sky right over Whitney. I silently wish for a safe summit before turning to start our ascent at 5 AM, our way lit by headlamps until the sun finally rises.

I sing in my head as we hike, embracing the words fully and finding comfort in their simple wisdom.

When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are, anything your heart desires will come to you.

When your heart is in your dream, no request is too extreme, when you wish upon a star as dreamers do.

With the 2-5 PM rain forecast hot in our minds, we keep a quick pace up to Guitar Lake and start the switchbacks up Whitney. I am pleasantly surprised to find that, though I am working hard with each step, I am flying up the trail.

I play a positive affirmation on repeat as I climb ever higher:

I am powerful. I am persistent.

The stream alongside the rising trail sings gentle refrains of encouragement. Small butterflies flit here and there ahead of my path, keeping me company. With each step, I affirm my strength, my resolve, my ability to do anything I set my mind to. I visualize the summit, never doubting that I will reach it despite my previous trepidation about the harrowing ascent.

Our pace does not slow as we climb ever higher, and I am pleased with how well my muscles and lungs cooperate. Before we know it, we have reached the summit. I marvel at the accomplishment and celebrate with a photo and a Snickers bar.

I have cell service, so I leave Ryan a message saying “Hi, I love you” from 14,505 feet up.

After a few more moments of celebration, we notice menacing clouds accumulating in the distance and a temperature difference from one side of the summit to the other. Worried now that we might see more than rain this afternoon, we race down the mountain, warning other hikers as we go. Many are still climbing, and none turn back at our warnings, even with the air now changing and the clouds drawing nearer.

We make it to the last switchback before the first raindrops hit, and we are passing Guitar Lake when we first hear thunder. The storm builds in fury, chasing us down the valley. We are overrun within a few miles of camp, the thunder claps closer together and the lightning all around.

We don our rain gear as the downpour begins in earnest, followed quickly by relentless hail. We walk far apart and quickly make our way back to camp, barely erecting our tents before the storm hits with renewed fury.

HP grabs a stick and feverishly works to build moats around the tents, where small rivers and lakes of rainwater are starting to form. I shiver and pray the lightning strikes anywhere but here.

Rain, hail and thunder rage around us for what feels like an eternity before finally relenting over 45 minutes later.

I am left shivering, soaked to my core, exhausted from fear and from our 18 miles of 8500 ft cumulative elevation change summiting Whitney. A small puddle has formed in the corner of my tent, and I realize I should have pitched it higher to hold the bathtub floor up against pooling rain water. I swear to carry this lesson forward, since this may not be the only storm we experience over our next month in the Sierras.

This has been my first big squall in the wilderness, and I am shaking in awe and reverent fear long after my body is again dry and warm. Sitting in my tent with my sleeping bag drawn up tight, I wish fervently that I was back at home with my husband, my two dogs and my kitty cat. I imagine our little family snuggled on the couch, flipping endlessly through Netflix shows before finally settling on a show to binge together. I feel a pang in my gut and question for the first time what the hell I’m doing here.

“Why?” I silently ask myself. “Why are you out here, freezing and frightened when you could be home with your family, safe and sound?”

I find I lack the emotional energy to even begin processing this question, so I tuck it away for later.

Within a few hours, the sun and blue skies return as though they’d never gone away. We dry out our gear, eat a quiet dinner and go to bed with the sun still lighting the sky.