MOUNT WHITNEY

I can still remember the summit plateau. There were 10 of us up there that day, all sharing the crisp air and snowy landscape. Our group was the only one without a guide—we had done it and done it without the training wheels at that. Every direction we looked, 14,000-foot peaks glistened in the early dawn light. We stood more on adrenaline than the ground below us, existing somewhere in the elated space between a lived-out dream and a sobering reality. Our hearts were full, but our bodies were empty. Altitude sickness was in full swing, the sun was rising, and the snowpack was beginning to destabilize. Our window for a safe exit was closing, and at that moment, I didn’t have the energy left to stand for a summit photo, much less begin a harrowing descent back down the final 400, over Iceberg Lake, through the North Fork, and back to the Portal.

What on earth am I talking about? I’m talking about Snow Summits. I’m talking about America’s highest Fourteener, in the winter. Whitney received 300% of the normal snowfall in 2023. The snow drifts measured 60 feet deep by the time it was all accumulated. As I write today, the snow is still nowhere near melted and it’s early June. Some people are speculating that it might not all melt before October’s first snow comes.

Mount Whitney is 14,505 feet of pure accomplishment to summit in normal conditions—no snow. In a 300% snowfall year, it is nothing short of the kind of challenge that keeps you up for weeks and months in advance of its arrival. Adding to that challenge for myself was the fact that this was attempt number four on a snow summit for me.

For the past four years, I’d tried three previous times and lost in one way or another each time. First in the Adirondacks, then twice more in the Sierras. Simply put, mountaineering is difficult. Unforeseen details rear their ugly heads at every corner, making their best God-given efforts at shutting you down! To meet each one head-on, grab it by the horns, and win is to thread the needle.

On April 29, 2023, between the hours of 7:30 am and 8:00 am, each member of our team threaded that needle.

This is the story of how we got there.

For me, the trip leader, it began as far back as 2019—four years prior. I’d been backpacking and camping on and off for about five years, and I was looking to change it up. So, one day, I told my best friend Josh I wanted to snow camp. What started as day-dreaming about our local spot on the Appilachian Trail, Black Balsom Knob, turned into full-on plans to drive to the Adirondack high Peak Region of Upstate New York in early January. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before Josh and I found ourselves hiking up a mountain, surrounded by our own breath.

Of course, this was its own mini-epic. The cliff notes go something like a bunch of research, calls with old Outdoor Leadership buddies, gear loans, and a ton of enthusiasm met with very real inexperience and lack of preparedness. Eventually, we found ourselves learning our first major snow lesson: feet. What turned us around that trip was the early stages of frostbite.

While everything overnight went well, I accidentally knocked snow in Josh’s boots when we woke up. Turns out, temperatures in the single digits make this matter a lot. Once we were hiking for an hour, the snow we hadn’t been able to shake out of his boots soaked through Josh’s cotton socks and started thawing at his feet. This was years before I worked at REI, so no, I did not know about Merino wool, GorTex boots, or insulated four-season boots. To be honest, I still feel like we did pretty well with what we had. I did knew the key to success was staying dry, not necessarily warm. I knew what kind of sleeping bags we needed and to bring snow shoes and proper foot traction. Lots of things went right, but I was still miles away from an expert and even further from a successful summit.

The big wins that day were camping in single digits, keeping warm, and making the right calls about risk assessment despite being only an hour or two from the summit. To get there was a true testament to Josh and I’s friendship and experience in decision-making outdoors. Nonetheless, we did not make the summit.

It would be two years before I got a second go.

That go came on Valentine’s Day, 2020.

It was Kaiser Peak. This time, I was more vigilant in my planning. Every member of the team had 3 pairs of extra socks. We had hand warmers for our toes if all went awry, too. The problem this time wasn’t feet, though. This time, logistics and lack of confidence in my own guide ability got me. See, at this point in my life, I did not have a long list of friends aching to haul up a snow summit in the dead of winter, much less one in the Sierra Nevada. So, I took what I could get. For Kaiser, it was my beloved brother and friend Spencer, neither of whom had ever even backpacked, much less snow-backpacked or snow summited.

They trusted me, though, and their enthusiasm was through the roof. Soon enough, we found ourselves in the High-Sierra Ranger District office, pouring over a map with Ranger Tim. That time, we made camp successfully and hiked until the afternoon the next day. Unfortunately, we didn’t have the time to come anywhere close to the summit. Adding to our loss, I’d caved to Davy and Spencer’s suggestions to leave the snowshoes at camp. This time, we learned two lessons: Post Holing and Diet.

While the thing that actually turned us around was time constraints and post-holing as soon as we got higher than 10,000 feet, the more dominant of the issues we dealt with on that trip was diet. Chiefly, a member of our team got diarrhea in the middle of the night AND the one item of gear I’d forgotten was indeed toilet paper. To my credit, I was solely responsible for the entire team’s gear and had to fly all of it across the country in order to make this trip happen. That was a big burden, so even with two months of pouring over the gear list in advance, it’s understandable that something did get missed. Understandable, however, does not mean excusable. Further, it almost could not have been a worse thing to forget. I’ve never felt the weight of a seemingly comical oversight like toilet paper more. Never forget the TP.

In the summer, you’d just find leaves. In the winter, everything is either covered in snow or barren. Adding to the problem, your body loses SIGNIFICANT heat when it is holding back from soiling itself. So, holding it is not an option. One member of our team paid a heavy price for my mistake that day. We made it work, but it was way too close for comfort. I’d cut corners on some of the other gear since I was providing it for three and flying it across the country all on my own dime. Again, understandable, but not excusable. Only one of our sleeping bags was REALLY as warm as it needed to be, so that was the bag the sick member of our team used to make it through that night. It would have been fine had nothing gone wrong, but I now know this is NOT how you plan.

To be honest, neither of them should have trusted me as their guide back then. But, that’s what adventure is all about, right? It isn’t the point right now, but if we ever get the chance, ask me for the full Kaiser Peak story and I’ll tell you all about Ranger Tim, JC’s saloon, and the bar that toasted us when we made it back down that night. From pulling the local fire department out of the ditch with JC’s snowmobile to Ranger Tim keeping the Sierra Ranger District office open late for us and delaying his Valentine’s date, It’s quite the tale.

Nonetheless, we were bested again.

My next attempt came the following year. It was November 2021, and the objective this time was Half Dome. At this point in my story, I’d been working at REI for a year, and I was a seasoned rock climber. I’d talked with probably three dozen customers about their experiences going up Half Dome in the winter, and I felt ready to give it my own attempt. This time, my friend Lyndall’s brother Ian was in town and going to Yosemite.

I had originally only planned on loaning him my own camping equipment for his trip so that he could camp and hike in the park for a week while I worked. Soon enough, however, Ian invited me to join him and do whatever I wanted. So, we agreed to try Half Dome. Ian’s experience snow backpacking was similar to my brother and his friend, but he was equally stoked and I knew I had more experience with what COULD go wrong than ever, so I said yeah, let’s try it.

To be honest, most things on this trip went really well. I had learned by failure MANY of the potential problems that could have come up, and I had a plan for most of them. Even still, my experience was still amateur. What turned us around that day was red tape. The plan was to hike in the night before, set a camp, hit the summit in the morning, and hike out. The problem is we didn’t make it past the trailhead the day before. I knew I didn’t need a permit to hike half dome in the winter, but I forgot I did need a permit to camp in the wilderness, which is where the campground halfway up Half Dome is. The Ranger turned us around at the trailhead and graciously let us camp on the Valley Floor.

Either way, this turned our attempt into a Day hike. For context, Day Hiking Half-Dome in the Summer without Snow is about a 12-hour hike if you’re lucky. We made it to the Sub-Dome and Back with 40lb packs and snow shoes in 14 hours that day. Once again, something to be proud of, but not a successful snow summit. There were lessons I learned on this trip as well about crampons and alpine starts, but if you’re like me, at this point in the post you’re probably ready for the version of this where we make it. So, let’s fast-forward to that.

Mount Whitney, April 2023.

This time it was time, altitude sickness, massive snowpack, and heat. Quite the combination. To be honest, I’m surprised this recipe didn’t also spit us out. But, I think the lessons we learned previously combined with straight-up willpower got us through.

Whitney was attempt number four for me and I think Snow camping trip number six. So, while I’m STILL an amateur, I was ready for a few more curveballs. Adding to the list of reasons we succeeded, I had a climbing mentor who had done Whitney 40 times successfully and an entire team of coworkers at REI, some of which with their own mountaineering and ice climbing experience and whose brains I could pick. Of course, there were still calls to my old outdoor leadership buddies in college as well as the stalking of any relevant information I could find on Mountain Summit Post, All Trails, and the Mt. Whitney Facebook page (So happy to be able to just direct message strangers about their own RECENT summit bids), so overall, this time we had a lot in our corner.

I decided I was done assembling teams in which I was the only one with experience, as well. So, this time my team was my climbing partner, mixed climber, backpacker, and camp counselor, Chetco, and my backpacker, white-water kayaking, ex-guide, SJ, a gal who had also already done Whitney in the summer. I should also say the numerous groups of people giving us input for this trip like my camp lead and backpacking expert, Chris Craig, for example, were also on the team, but you get the idea. We had a village.

We would need it, too.

When we got to the bottom of Whitney, we were facing a record heat wave in the midst of a record snowfall year. Avalanche risk was moderate to low, but snow bridges, snowpack, and simply not getting traction with our crampons and ice axes on the steepest, most exposed parts of the mountain were strong concerns. In addition, we had only a 48-hour summit window because of the limited time off I had with our semi-annual REI Staff meeting coming up that weekend.

With all these factors combined, we decided to hike at night. Yup. We ditched the camp, and decided to go fast and light, bringing only emergency shelter, should it go wrong. The night was the clear choice given the temperature concerns and timeframe. So, we started at 7 pm that night. In less than 24 hours, we would be back.

In the summer, Whitney is about a 14-16 hour day hike. We were able to do it in the snow on a much shorter, more direct route in 18 hours.

The hike started straightforwardly. The road to the trailhead was closed from avalanche debris, so we hiked the first four miles on the pavement until we got to the trailhead. From the trailhead, we knew it would only be about 6-7 miles to the Summit going straight up. Elevation gain would be about 1,000 feet/hour for the first few hours.

With our headlamps on and our spares in our bags, we hiked pretty straight through until about 11,000 feet. At this point, it was early, early morning and SJ and Chetco wanted to sleep. So, they dozed under the emergency bivvy and I worked on trying to poop in a wag bag. I also rearranged gear and worked on re-mounting the GoPro that had come off. In about an hour, it was time to press on. Around 2:00 am, our team as well as a guided team camped by our stopping point began pressing towards the summit. We made Iceberg Lake by 3:00 am. From 3 am - 5 am, we made fairly steady progress from 12,000 feet to about 13,500 feet up the chute.

When we got to the final 1,000 feet, things got dicey for me. As a consistent rock climber, a young man in my 20s, and a generally fit person, I did minimal training for this climb despite it being America’s highest in the 48. 13,800 feet is where I began to pay the price for this. I had altitude sickness, bad. So did SJ and Chetco, but not as badly as I did. It was here, 1/2 a mile from the summit, I found myself contemplating loss number four.

To be honest, had we not had so much time, I gladly would have taken the L. Summit Fever is real, especially in moments like that one, and risk assessment is the number one priority in conditions like these. However, we had a lot of time. It was 5:00 am, the sun was not up yet, and we were 1/2 a mile away. By the groups’ calculations, we had six hours to do the last 800 feet in elevation gain and get off the final 400 on the way down.

So, we moved forward—slowly. I took about 10 steps at a time sometimes. Eventually, Chetco ascended to the notch to rest and SJ and I did 13,500-14,100 in 80-foot sections, resting on the heads of our ice axes to catch our breath every 10 minutes. I cannot understate how difficult moving up a forty-degree incline in those kinds of conditions with that much snow and that little air is when you don’t feel well.

Somehow, we made it to the Notch where Chetco was at about 7:00 am. The guided group was roping up and ascending the 400-foot forty-five-degree incline with a cliff below it to the summit. Chetco, SJ, and I rested for twenty minutes and assessed.

All flags were yellow, but the risk was acceptable for us. We had the time. Chetco was having issues with his crampons, so he went for the mixed climb. SJ and I took to the snowy sloop of the 400. Each of us taking our own pace, we used our radios to keep tabs. At about 14,200 feet, I threw up. Knowing how much water I had in my system and our ability to refill water by melting snow and filtering, I kept pressing. Slowly and carefully, I made it up. At approximately 7:45 am, I’d traveled the other 300 feet to the summit.

I had to take breaks as I walked across the Summit plateau, but I made it to SJ and Chetco.

At that altitude, sometimes you get the runs. I had them. So, I used another wag bag, threw up again, and hydrated up. We posed for a photo and assessed that we needed to descend as soon as we felt strong enough to in order to make our altitude sickness better. Getting to the top is the focus, but the descent is the highest risk window. That’s when mistakes happen. As experienced outdoor guides in other contexts, all of us knew this was especially true now.

So, by 8:30 am, we were heading down the 400. Turned into the face of the mountain, we kicked steps backward in the snow with our crampons and anchored ourselves with our ice axes as a backup for stopping ourselves if our feet broke. Since it was before that slope even went into the sun, our feet never broke. By 10 am, we were back down at about 12,000 feet. The altitude sickness was gone, but fatigue was hitting hard for Chetco.

Chetco elected that getting a nap was key to him getting safely the rest of the way down. So, SJ and I dug in and Chetco slept. By 11:00 am, the sun was blinding. Thankfully, we each had glacier glasses on, so this was fine, but the little exposed skin we had was getting burned to a crisp despite our sunscreen. Also, I’d forgotten sunscreen for my lips. So, I passed the time by melting snow to re-fill our waters and rehydrate as SJ and Chetco slept.

I should add that watching the ski-mountaineers skiing down the slopes was quite entertaining here! Insane.

By about noon, we were ready to roll. From 12,000 feet, it was pretty straightforward until about 9,000 feet. We glissaded much of the way down. Once we got to the lower elevations, it was early afternoon and post-holing was becoming a concern, but we were able to press through this. At about 9,000 feet, we met the biggest risk we encountered on the entire trip: Snow Bridges.

In another month, SAR would be getting calls for these, but in April, most were still intact. Twice, we almost broke through, but both times we were able to self-rescue. With these behind us, we made it to the trailhead, took off our crampons, and hiked the four miles down the road to our car.

I can’t express the excitement we each had that night at dinner in Lone Pine. We were full and empty, all together. A dozen people had helped us each get where we were, and we each knew what had been achieved. If you’re thinking about your own snow summit, I hope this post excites you. I hope it informs you of the risks, and I hope it helps you accomplish your dreams, no matter how many years it has been.