Mount Whitney, Take Two

It was 2001, and I was working for a dot-com startup in Silicon Valley. Looking for a team-building activity, I asked my engineering team if anyone wanted to climb Mount Whitney. To my surprise, ten engineers—plus my boss—eagerly agreed.

We drove to Lone Pine, and by around 10:00 AM, we were strapped into heavy packs loaded with tents, sleeping bags, stoves, and food. Trailheads behind us, we began the trek up toward our high camp at 12,000 feet.

A couple of hours into the hike, my boss pulled alongside me. He remarked that his backpack felt unusually heavy and noticed mine looked surprisingly light, suggesting we swap. I was clueless as to how mine could be any lighter, but I relented. We kept marching, but the altitude past 10,000 feet began to take its toll. By the time I reached camp, I was utterly exhausted and nursing a throbbing headache.

After cooking dinner, we agreed on a 3:00 AM wake-up call to push for the 14,505-foot summit. My boss and I shared a two-person tent. Between his loud snoring and his feet repeatedly kicking my shins, I barely slept. When we set off in the dark the next morning, my head felt like my brain was sloshing around inside my skull. Just fifteen minutes into the final assault, my resolve shattered. With my tail between my legs, I turned back and headed down.

The following year, a friend who had recently moved to the U.S. asked if I’d ever climbed Mount Whitney. He was desperate to go and offered to handle the permit logistics if I accompanied him.

On a Friday evening straight after work, we hit the road for Lone Pine. He drove, and as I am prone to do, I fell fast asleep by 8:00 PM. Around 11:00 PM, I woke up to a stationary car and realized a park ranger had pulled him over for speeding in Yosemite Valley. By 12:30 AM, we finally checked into our hotel in Lone Pine and set an alarm for 3:00 AM.

By 4:00 AM, we arrived at the trailhead parking area. Setting off by headlamp into the pitch black, my friend remarkably spotted two hikers from Los Angeles who had agreed, sight unseen, to hand over two extra permits. I was thoroughly impressed—not only had he secured permits last-minute, but he had successfully coordinated the handoff with complete strangers from 500 miles away.

We began the relentless climb, maintaining a steady pace. By 11:00 AM, as we hit the grueling, steep switchbacks near the top, I noticed my friend was essentially sleepwalking. He had worked a full day, driven through the night without rest, and was running on pure adrenaline. I kept up a non-stop conversation to keep him awake and moving toward the summit. At noon, we finally stepped onto the peak and ducked inside the solitary stone hut—the summit lightning shelter.

The moment we crossed the threshold, my friend collapsed onto the floor and started snoring. An hour later, I shook him awake, worried about the dark storm clouds gathering outside.

We began our descent, and right on cue, the skies opened up. Thunder rattled the canyon, lightning flashed, and torrents of water surged down the slopes, completely erasing all traces of the trail.

"Run!" I shouted to my friend. I took off, bounding down the mountain without stopping until I reached the safety of the portal three hours later.

I took refuge by the warm fireplace inside the visitor center shop. An hour later, my friend burst through the door. We were both drenched to the bone, though I had managed to escape the worst of it.

Despite the rain, I felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment. In less than 24 hours, we had driven from the Bay Area, secured permits on the fly, summited the highest peak in the contiguous United States, and safely navigated our way off the mountain through a massive Sierra thunderstorm.