Although week seven now feels tainted with darkness by the death of Maddie, we had no idea anything had happened to her in the midst of that week. I’ve tried my best to write the wrap-up the way we actually experienced it - not how we feel about it now. Our previous post discusses our experience with Maddie and her tragic death on Forester Pass.
Ho. Ly. Shit. Week seven was an ass-kicker. We took a detour off the PCT to climb Mt. Whitney; at 14,505 feet it’s highest point in the Lower 48. Week seven also included the highest point on the PCT - Forester Pass, which tops out at a whopping 13,153 feet. It was our first week trekking through the Sierras, plus we hiked the two highest points we’ll encounter on our PCT journey. I swear the elevation was trying to kill us, but we somehow persisted and at the end of the week found refuge in Independence/Lone Pine where we were met with the best company. The week started out with a big climb, through lush meadows and pine forests, which delivered us into the Sierra Nevada mountains. It was tough, but we were powered by excitement for what we imagined was to come. The next couple days we just kept climbing. With each step up, the landscape became more and more beautiful. Both the beauty and the elevation took our breath away. By day three I could only make it about 10 steps at a time before having to stop to catch my breath. And we didn’t even think about trying to take a drink of water or eat a snack while hiking. It was practically a death sentence to attempt a swallow while hiking uphill at that elevation. I think I know what end-stage COPD feels like, and I would wish it only on Putin. A few hours into day three we saw someone hiking towards us without a pack, without water, and only carrying a small black trash bag. It was odd he had nothing with him, as we were way too far out for a day hike. We got closer and could tell something was up. He was obviously shaken up - the poor guy looked like he’d just seen a ghost. He softly asked if we knew how many miles from Chicken Spring Lake we were. We checked - 4.5. He then began to explain how he was camped five miles from the lake and needed help finding his tent. He’d gotten lost nearly six hours earlier when he left his tent to answer nature’s call. That’s what he was carrying in the black bag. The only thing he had with him was his own shit. After wandering through the dark forest for several hours, and thinking for sure he was a goner, he eventually found a trail. Not the PCT, but at least he was back on some sort of trail. He ran into some weekend hikers who showed him on their map how to get back to the PCT. Once back on the right trail, he found us. We offered him food and water and helped him find his tent. He was too tired to make it to Crabtree Meadows, at the base of Mount Whitney, where his trail family was expecting him, but that’s where Chris and I were headed so we’d let them know he was okay when we arrived. After a long tough day of hiking we finally made it. But when we popped up over the creek bank we felt defeated to see the massive amount of tents. It was the beginning of Memorial Day weekend; tons of tourists were mixed in with the PCT hikers, all of us camping there before attempting Mount Whitney the next morning. We didn’t have the energy to go tent to tent looking for the trail friends of the lost hiker. We felt like we’d never find them. We found a spot to put our stuff down, and to our relief, and more-so theirs, his friends were camped nearly right next to us. They were worried sick about their friend. He hadn’t been missing too long when they left camp earlier that morning, so they figured he was just still taking care of business. But when he hadn’t arrived to Crabtree Meadows six hours after the rest of the group, they became terribly concerned. They were close to heading back to the trail to look for him when we arrived to deliver the message that he was okay. Their relief was abundant. We arose from our slumber at 2:30am to climb Mount Whitney. I’m not going to lie, it was a shit climb. The air was frigid, the wind was blowing, and the ascent seemed to go on forever. About halfway up, the altitude really started to get to me. I felt like a bag of donkey dicks, and I was too fatigued to move fast enough to keep myself warm. My face froze. For real, just like Audrey on National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation. But we eventually made it, and it was almost worth the hell to get up there. We missed the sunrise, but the early morning sky was still magnificent. We could see for what seemed like forever in every direction. Makes sense since there’s no higher point in the Lower 48. A few of our trailmates were up there too. They’d summited much earlier than us but decided to hang out awhile and take it all in. They had brought their sleeping bags up with them. These aren’t really the guys you’d define as cute, but it was adorable to see them all tucked in and snuggled close to each other in attempt to stay warm. We chatted with them a bit, snapped a few photos of our experience, and found enough service to book a motel room for the following night. Back down we went. The hike back to Crabtree Meadows was much more enjoyable than the hike up. Except for the one little part where I almost died. I’m still not sure whether it was the hypoxia or just poor judgment, but I swore I saw the trail below me and thought I had somehow gotten off course. I began climbing down toward the “trail”. Immediately Chris informed there was no trail down there and what I was doing was absurd. But I persisted, continuing to scale down the side of the mountain. Chris was livid now. I got to where I swore the trail was, and to my horror, Chris was right. I was unable to climb back up the way I’d come down - it was too steep and the rocks were too loose. And I couldn’t continue downward to look for a better route back to the trail - going down would’ve meant plunging to my death, as the cliff dropped straight down for hundreds of feet in that particular area. My whole body started to shake as I realized the predicament I’d gotten myself into. Thankfully, Chris was still up above me on the trail despite yelling “You're gonna get yourself killed and I won’t stick around to watch it happen! Have fun! Im going!”. From his vantage point he was able to guide me from rock to rock back up to the trail. I made it in one piece and instantly promised to follow him the rest of the descent no matter how wrong I thought he might be. The hike back to Crabtree Meadows was beautiful. We got to see all the things we couldn’t on the way up while hiking in the pitch dark. The landscape was breathtaking - tall snow-capped mountain peaks, alpine lakes, and a colorful morning sky reflecting on all of it. We were exhausted when we arrived back to the campsite, so we crawled back in the tent for a quick nap. As much as our bodies longed to stay there and rest all day, we made them get up and get back on the trail. In hindsight, we should’ve listened to them. By the time we reached our campsite for the night, Chris was so nauseous and fatigued that he couldn’t even eat dinner, and instead went straight to bed. For most people that might not be too concerning, but for him to skip a meal is unheard of. I was so alarmed, I nearly hit our SOS button. Instead, I checked his breathing a few times throughout the night - an incredibly easy task when each breath is a snore. Thankfully, he woke up feeling like a million bucks. We packed up camp and set off for our first pass of the Sierras - Forester Pass. The entire ascent was nothing short of amazing. One of the most beautiful morning skies I’ve ever seen shown down on a landscape too magnificent to describe. We were distracted by the beauty surrounding us, and soon reached the top of the pass. The other side of the pass was somehow even more magnificent. But despite its beauty, it was also terrifying. As we began to descend, the sky turned dark and sleet began to fall hard on us. This change in weather made the descent even more treacherous. Slowly and carefully we traversed the steep snow-covered cliff. Thank god Chris is well versed in mountaineering and navigating the snow. I never would have made it down, at least not in one piece, without him guiding me. With shaky legs and few tears, I followed his lead and we made it safely to flat ground a short time later. I felt like the goddam Queen of the Sierras after conquering that. We hiked down and down for what seemed like forever through a valley breathtakingly beautiful in every singly direction - sharp alpine peaks, raging rivers swollen with crystal blue water and golden trout, vibrant lush green forests, and the first wildflowers of the spring.
As per usual, the relaxing downhill was immediately followed by a brutal climb. Despite our bodies being exhausted from the difficult week, we didn’t mind too much. We just had to get up and over Kearsarge Pass, and then we’d be a short hitch away from Independence where we had a motel room booked for the night. On top of Mount Whitney we booked the last motel room in the whole county. It was Memorial Day weekend, and we were in a popular area for outdoor recreation. We arrived to the trailhead late in the afternoon, nearly crying tears of relief. It took a surprisingly long time to catch a hitch, but eventually three friends from L.A. and their dog picked us up and dropped us at our motel. Our room was decent, but everything else about the town was rather disappointing. Zero restaurants, just a subpar-at-best taco truck, and nowhere to resupply except two small gas stations. We went to sleep early, exhausted from the week and bummed out by all we felt the town was lacking.
We awoke, however, to the most pleasant surprise! My friends Corey and Lissy were camping one town over. They have a Memorial Day weekend tradition of camping with Corey’s family and their friends at Diaz Lake Campground. Their group is huge, literally taking up half of the campground, and they’re all an absolute hoot. Corey and Lissy picked us up from our motel, brought us to a grocery store to resupply, and then to the campground where we were greeted by Walker, Corey and Lissy’s baby aka the sweetest little man ever, plus mimosas and a delicious breakfast spread. We hung out for most of the day eating, drinking, catching up, and attempting to go out on the boat, but old Toots didn’t want to start up. Later in the day another one of my good friends showed up. Stone was visiting from Hawaii to spend time with his girlfriend, Kiara, who is Corey’s cousin. I could hardly believe it. These were three of my best friends from Fort Hood - I’m not sure I could have survived there without them - transported to the middle of California right when I needed them most. They gave us some good laughs and lifted our spirits. Before long, we were in the back of Kiara’s car on our way back to the trailhead. It was hot and sunny in Lone Pine, however, 9,000 feet up at the trailhead it was 50° with overcast skies and ridiculous winds. It felt terribly cold, our packs were insanely heavy, and the climb up Kearsarge Pass looked impossible. As Stone drove away, so did our chance to flee the trail. He’d be headed to the Vegas airport early the next morning, and we could fly anywhere in the world from there. I was overwhelmed by watching our way out disappear and I was struck with a dark feeling of impending doom. I lost it. I cried like a baby as I ate my carrots and hummus with frozen hands. Chris looked at me like I had a dick on my forehead, and I don’t blame him. Then he softened a bit, giving me a few consoling back rubs and a tight hug, before lifting my backpack and helping me into it - his nice way of saying “Get your shit together. We’ve got hiking to do.” We only made it 2.5 miles up the pass before the sun set and the temperature began to drop rapidly. We found a tentsite that appeared to be protected from the wind and quickly began to set up camp for what would be our coldest night on the PCT so far. We soon found out no sites were protected from the wind that night. It blew forcefully in every direction, to include straight down on us. Before long our water was frozen and our batteries were dying fast despite having everything inside the tent with us. It was our worst night yet on the PCT. I could hardly stand the thought of being in these conditions for the next eight days straight. More tears.
Despite walking well over a hundred miles this week, we are only 75 miles closer to Canada, at mile 788. Between adding Mount Whitney and having to hike Kearsarge Pass to get into town, we hiked nearly 40 miles that didn’t count towards PCT miles.
We’ve been stunned by the beauty of this mountain range, and grateful for the challenges the Sierras have presented to us. But we won’t lie, we’re so tired and so ready for that double zero we have waiting for us in eight days. We can’t wait for Mammoth where we plan to spend one of our zero days doing absolutely nothing. But for now, back into the mountains we go - humping north.
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