We were eleven insignificant specks, trekking up a gravelly path miles above treeline, staring in awe at the magnificent peaks that surrounded us. A thousand stars painted pictures along the skyline, and the glow of our headlamps reached no farther than ten feet in front of us. It was only three-forty-five in the morning, and all we’d had for breakfeast was two breakfast pastries with ingredients that I couldn’t pronouce. But of course, we could have slept in and been struck by lightning on Mt. Murr.
Towering over our heads stood Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the Continental United States, 14,500 feet in elevation, its still form remaining a shadow in the first streaks of dawn. Its pale gray eyes of granite peered over the valleys below, the very eyes of God. Its weather patterns had determined the fate of many a hiker, despite all precautions. No one would have thought that our school would take a troop of eight seventh and eighth graders up Mount Whitney in mid August, when thunderstorms were predicted every afternoon. Even less thought that we would actually summit.
The elevation had slowly sapped our energy, until our steady upward march was powered not by physical capability, but the thought of staring down from that summit and of the triumph that would live within me forever.
Yet the magic of this starlit treck did not escape me, especially as early golden rays of sunlight emerged from behind the small range of mountains separating Death Valley from the Sierra Nevadas: the lowest point in the Continental United States from the highest. Each slab of rock stripped of all grass and vegetation by the biting wind and thin air was a page of words written over millions of years; stories of earthquaquakes and lightning strikes and pale light stretching over the summits. I gazed upon every letter in awe, my eyes widening until I stared through the eyes of an owl.
As we passed the end of the ninety-nine switchback trail, which was actually one hundred and two switchbacks when we counted, hundreds of miles of Sierras became visible, hardly touched by dawn, rows of tarns and snow-covered peaks. I imagined myself strolling down the other side of the 13,500 foot Trail Crest and walking forever through endless forests of pines that smelled like Christmas morning and the winding dirt paths scattered with the footprints of summer stags searching out the best grass.
But that was not the end of our journey. We still had three and a half miles to go, dragged out through scree fields and cracked mountain peaks that stretched their jagged fingers to meet the height of Mount Whitney, just barely falling short. We stumbled over rocks, our headaches lessening as our food digested, but hollowing into a dull throb as we gained elevation. My backpack, once a dead weight that I’d had to set onto a log in order to heft onto my shoulders, had been emptied the previous night, and stuffed with only the bare essentials: extra layers, water, and Snickers bars.
My hiking boots, cutting off below my ankle bones, became a disadvantage as we stumbled over boulders and thrust our hiking poles into the deep, slender cracks between rocks. My ankle fell to the side time and again, beginning to snap with every step I took. But we continued rhythmically, humming tunes that materialized in our heads as our minds drifted to our imminent accomplishment.
We turned a corner, and suddenly I could see the people, gazing over the top of the mountain that had fallen invisible the moment we’d begun the backpacking segment of our trip three days before. Our pace quickened, though not by an appreciable amount, for we’d all heard the slow and steady lecture from our instructors enough to replay it word for word in our heads. We did not acknowledge our excitement until the final ten minutes, when the lightning hut began to rise over the ridge we climbed, and the mountains behind us grew smaller and smaller, until we could squish them between our forefingers and thumbs.
The words carved into each mountain around me were illegible compared to the emotions left by every hiker who witnessed the panoramic view from the summit of Mount Whitney, each feeling and expression hovering in the air, searching for its master. Eventually the emotions were taken in by us and those who followed. We circled the summit in awe, and clambered over the rocks strewn across the peak, listening to the excited chatter of other mountaineers and watching the shadows of clouds pass over the valleys below us, all of us high on adrenaline, glory, and more Snickers bars. But eventually the white fluffly clouds that floated through the sky above us, that seemed the only things above us, darkened and swelled with rain and lightning that leapt from the sky to the ground like an electric pogo stick.
After the most painful and marvelous hours of my life, we were forced by the coming storms to return to our camp at 12,000 feet and revel in our mountaineering achievement huddled up in sleeping bags, while we let the mountains speak.
Towering over our heads stood Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the Continental United States, 14,500 feet in elevation, its still form remaining a shadow in the first streaks of dawn. Its pale gray eyes of granite peered over the valleys below, the very eyes of God. Its weather patterns had determined the fate of many a hiker, despite all precautions. No one would have thought that our school would take a troop of eight seventh and eighth graders up Mount Whitney in mid August, when thunderstorms were predicted every afternoon. Even less thought that we would actually summit.
The elevation had slowly sapped our energy, until our steady upward march was powered not by physical capability, but the thought of staring down from that summit and of the triumph that would live within me forever.
Yet the magic of this starlit treck did not escape me, especially as early golden rays of sunlight emerged from behind the small range of mountains separating Death Valley from the Sierra Nevadas: the lowest point in the Continental United States from the highest. Each slab of rock stripped of all grass and vegetation by the biting wind and thin air was a page of words written over millions of years; stories of earthquaquakes and lightning strikes and pale light stretching over the summits. I gazed upon every letter in awe, my eyes widening until I stared through the eyes of an owl.
As we passed the end of the ninety-nine switchback trail, which was actually one hundred and two switchbacks when we counted, hundreds of miles of Sierras became visible, hardly touched by dawn, rows of tarns and snow-covered peaks. I imagined myself strolling down the other side of the 13,500 foot Trail Crest and walking forever through endless forests of pines that smelled like Christmas morning and the winding dirt paths scattered with the footprints of summer stags searching out the best grass.
But that was not the end of our journey. We still had three and a half miles to go, dragged out through scree fields and cracked mountain peaks that stretched their jagged fingers to meet the height of Mount Whitney, just barely falling short. We stumbled over rocks, our headaches lessening as our food digested, but hollowing into a dull throb as we gained elevation. My backpack, once a dead weight that I’d had to set onto a log in order to heft onto my shoulders, had been emptied the previous night, and stuffed with only the bare essentials: extra layers, water, and Snickers bars.
My hiking boots, cutting off below my ankle bones, became a disadvantage as we stumbled over boulders and thrust our hiking poles into the deep, slender cracks between rocks. My ankle fell to the side time and again, beginning to snap with every step I took. But we continued rhythmically, humming tunes that materialized in our heads as our minds drifted to our imminent accomplishment.
We turned a corner, and suddenly I could see the people, gazing over the top of the mountain that had fallen invisible the moment we’d begun the backpacking segment of our trip three days before. Our pace quickened, though not by an appreciable amount, for we’d all heard the slow and steady lecture from our instructors enough to replay it word for word in our heads. We did not acknowledge our excitement until the final ten minutes, when the lightning hut began to rise over the ridge we climbed, and the mountains behind us grew smaller and smaller, until we could squish them between our forefingers and thumbs.
The words carved into each mountain around me were illegible compared to the emotions left by every hiker who witnessed the panoramic view from the summit of Mount Whitney, each feeling and expression hovering in the air, searching for its master. Eventually the emotions were taken in by us and those who followed. We circled the summit in awe, and clambered over the rocks strewn across the peak, listening to the excited chatter of other mountaineers and watching the shadows of clouds pass over the valleys below us, all of us high on adrenaline, glory, and more Snickers bars. But eventually the white fluffly clouds that floated through the sky above us, that seemed the only things above us, darkened and swelled with rain and lightning that leapt from the sky to the ground like an electric pogo stick.
After the most painful and marvelous hours of my life, we were forced by the coming storms to return to our camp at 12,000 feet and revel in our mountaineering achievement huddled up in sleeping bags, while we let the mountains speak.
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