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Posted 06.24.06 Pennance - An Essay - The News Marin The News Marin By Jonah Owen Lamb At 10,000 feet I threw up. Mostly water shot from my nose and mouth. I knelt on all fours; dry heaving, until nothing more came. Then I crawled back to my tent. I felt better but not good. We had a whole dayÕs hike ahead of us Š and a four-thousand-foot rise Š and my head started pulsing at the tree line. Just as the trees disappeared from the mountainside, my heart vibrated in my chest in quick spasms and my breath trickled from my lungs. If I couldnÕt hack the mountain here, how could I make the peak? Lying in my tent, nursing my headache, I thought it best not to attempt the summit the following day. Puking halfway up a mountain was not my version of fun. I fell asleep full of doubt. The previous day, Jeff and I had driven south along the eastern Sierras on Highway 395 to meet Jinny and Jessica. The four of us planned to summit Mt. Whitney in three days and get back with a minimum of cuts and bruises. Jeff, my driving companion, had black wavy un-kept hair and dark eyes that seemed afraid of prolonged contact. He wore a white baseball cape with a twisted bill. His clothes werenÕt new and seemed to bespeak a choice, a sacrifice he had made. He came from Atlanta yet I would never guess that he was a southerner. He ventured out west, it seemed, looking for something. He was the kind of guy who lived by a code; use little and waist less, the kind of code that is difficult on a road trip to no-whereÕs ville. So many people want to hike the mountain that the Park Service only gives out a limited number of permits a year, keeping the traffic controllable. Jessica had acquired the coveted permits and we got to tag along. YouÕd think the giving of this permit warrants some test of skill or physical ability, it doesnÕt; first come, first served. But it wasnÕt going to be any harrowing adventure or first ascent either; it was a well-hewed path. Nonetheless, it was, to us and everyone else who climbed it, a pilgrimage of sorts. Perhaps it was some twisted and misguided attempt to find some spiritual connection. There are few truly holy places in the U.S., at least from the Western perspective, unless I count the natural world. The awe, which the Grand Canyon and Niagara Falls inspire, is a stark and personal experience. It is just me and whatever god I pray to, alone with creation. Yet these places are really secular reminders of what was, what came before, shrines to the stubborn and incessant drive to overcome, paid for by a penance of sweat and pain. I pay in this way to remind myself that my forbearers conquered this land. It is the real sacrificial lamb; I just act out both parts. In this painful journey a transformation occurs and in my head I become less the pilgrim, the worshipper, and more the transcender of godÕs might. At least thatÕs the idea. Although the Eastern Sierras march along for long distances north and south of Lake Tahoe, their highest peaks shove up over the dry Owens Valley of Eastern California. After a succession of high green valleys we drop into the comparatively dry Owens and the town of Bishop. The little valley stretches along south into other towns Š Independence, Lone Pine and Big Pine; all shoot straight north-to-south along their main streets. They are like contradictions to the immense and unpopulated desert that they occupy. Each settlement sprouts up green with trees and lawns and quickly dries out as we drive through. The valley smells of sweet sage. The dry air shoots into the windows, stinging my nose and throat. A long line of rocky, treeless mountains stands tall to the west, with fields of black lava rock covered in thin grasses at their feet. Cumulous clouds float on the edges of peaks, swirling in place like sped-up video footage, casting shadows on their lower reaches. Little dried waterways careen straight down from the pinnacles and disappear into the dry bottomland. The water in this valley passes south and collects itself with stands of cottonwoods and green bush in a scraggly line to the east at the valleyÕs floor. At the foot of the mountains, wherever possible, irrigated land rushes across the flatland in lush swaths amid the olive and light brown chaparral of the dry lands. To the east, the Inyo Mountains are lower and less menacing than the Sierras, which stand stalwart across the valley and demand that you be awed by their magnitude. In comparison, the Inyo are stark and foretell what lies beyond them: Death Valley. Although at the valley floor, on Route 395, we are already at an average of four thousand feet, a ten-thousand-foot rise is plenty to keep our attention Š and thatÕs what the Sierras do. To the south, like an afterthought, white haze meets the mountains at the valleyÕs end, past now-dry Owens Lake. After passing though Lone Pine we turn west towards the mountains. A short bumpy ride through the Alabama hills takes us up to the foot of the mountains on a dusty road were we camp. The girls show up late at night and bed down in the dark. We are all introduced in the morning. Jenny knows Jeff from college and moved out west for the same reasons, up to Portland. She has that naivetˇ that goes along with the youthful desire for adventure and experimentation. She tries to do this kind of thing every year she says. She is tall with slumped shoulders, has long black hair and a ready smile. Her gear is new and she uses ski poles for balance when hiking. Jinny, from Portland, has a freewheeling sense about her. Her brown hair and round face are cheerful and enthusiastic. She has that open-for-anything new age hopefulness about her. She has an old fashion outer frame pack and being from the west like me she seems to fancy herself as a bit of an outdoorsman. Both girls work in an office together. After breakfast we rumble up the dirt road with tails of dust behind us. The road above goes up four thousand feet to Whitney Portal, where it stops. The way leading up the steep hillsides makes for a quick change in surroundings. The hills fill with woods and the air cools off. At the foot of the trail a gift shop feeds hamburgers to the freshly descended. Backpacks are strewn across tables and on the ground, while tired groups congregate, at rest. At the trailÕs head a wooden archway warns against bears and serious injury. Placards with photos and critical information greet the unprepared and the stupid. From the Portal we make our way up through green, steep hills, excited to get started. ItÕs hot and dry and clear. Gradually, we crisscross our way up into a thinning valley, with walls of granite so high we bend our headsÕ back onto our shoulders to see their tops. ItÕs a pleasant hike, with the sun on us and the sweat coming down our foreheads. We are a group of smiling faces, Jinny and Jessica tell us to move ahead periodically as they stair down at the dry valley, grinning with sweaty faces. Warm air from below sweeps up into the hills. In the moments of calm, dry pine needles and sap scent the air. The trail passes over a river that tumbles down through the brown incline and whose rushing waters are ceaseless in their movement towards the valley. The hillside is dry but alive and populated by tall pine and low bushy brush. Other hikers pass from above and below cordially saying hello as they pass, each with opposing expressions. As we hump our way up we move from steep incline to flat, lush meadows and lakes that seem soft and out of place amid the mammoth rock. We stop and help the girls across a deep stream and fill our bottles with cold water on its far bank and chat about the scenery. Jeff says how beautiful it all is and the girls agree. Jenny says, ŅItÕs pretty easy going so far.Ó And I have to agree. I am not yet feeling any burn but all I have to do is look up and I know whatÕs in store. I try to tell myself that achieving this goal is a simple enough reason to torture myself for three days, isnÕt it? ItÕs about me and my limits, my goals, set apart from the rest of life. By climbing this mountain I am boosting my belief in myself and what I can do and what I believe I can achieve. In ways that are not so easily calculated, I am setting the bar a little higher than before; I am elevating myself. At least this is what I tell myself now. Although we are moving along at a good pace, Jeff and I are in the lead, Jinny and Jenny a good ways back, every rise and push is thankfully rewarded by flat stretches that allow us to rest and refill our water bottles. When we pass the first camp, dotted with tents and other hikers, and trudge up to the tree line, we are still far short of our destination. Now the dayÕs hike is wearing us down; the excited expressions of the morning have changed to downcast and tired faces. ŅShould we just stop and camp here?Ó Jinny and I ask. Jeff shrugs. Jessica, the most winded, says, ŅI can make it to the next camp site, I can.Ó The altitude shortens our breath. We all shake our heads in agreement and start up the steep rock face before us. Things quickly change after the first turn in the trail. I push, step-by-step, breath-by-breath, but my heart speeds up, and I canÕt do a thing about it. I take small breaks and sit down. I am short of breath. Jeff waits and the girls behind catch up with us. Jeff and I decide its best to camp just ahead. After vainly telling ourselves that we could make it to the next camp before sundown, we decide to make for a midpoint and camp on a rock outcrop over Mirror Lake. On top of our rock camp Jinny and Jessica prepare dinner on their little stoves flickering in the wind. Jeff brings out the whisky and we lay back on the granite, stretching our sore muscles and beam in a congratulatory spirit at making it thus far. The night arches across the close valley above displaying crisp stars. But soon my head is pounding as if a large man is squeezing it. I donÕt have an appetite. The others eat heartily and laugh in the dusk. I lie down in my tent and miss the brilliant stars. I could care less. My world has become the pain in my head. I throw up under the mountain. I fall asleep thinking that at least I got that done with, before tomorrow. But truthfully it scares me, the prospect of tomorrow In the morning, a wide-awake sun barrels out across the rocks. The peaks above present a stark horizon. The line between jagged mountain and blue sky is so crisp, itÕs as if someone took a knife to blue wallpaper, cut a crooked line and tore the bottom half away. I have a dull pain in my head. Sleep and my companionsÕ enthusiasm have dispelled last nightÕs fears. With breakfast in our bellies and our heavy packs safe at camp we start walking. The going is easier without all the weight but harder because of the altitude. The sweat comes down as we swig our water and take in gulps of air. Much of my attention is now focused on the ground under my feet. At this height the trail shows another of its many faces and changes into slabs of stone. The path begins, far below, at the consistency of crushed rock, and changes with ascent. It goes from a dusty khaki path to gray stepped stones to cold tumbling creeks and, in the upper reaches of the mountain, to hand-size rocks and ultimately to slabs. The last lake and watering hole, named Consolation, and its perch flatten out into a bowl surrounded almost completely by cliffs. But its name is a misnomer, as it consoles only those coming down. For us it only reflects what we still have to climb. Whitney looks down, with no clear path to her summit. We have no idea where the trail leads. Only rocks and this small lake and the sky where it touches the mountain are clear. The elusive trail, to our despair, actually wends its way up ninety-nine switchbacks, over a bolder-strewn, avalanche-prone hill that leans almost eighty degrees. As we fill our water bottles from the lake and toss iodine in afterwards we start talking with a couple of guys from Eugene who recognize my name from the University of Oregon student Insurgent, a paper I wrote for. ŅWe just hiked across the sierras and over Whitney,Ó they say. ŅSo whatÕs it like once you get up that ridge?Ó Jeff and I ask, pointing above. ŅAll you have to remember is that once you get to the ridge you can make it, your almost there so donÕt stop, itÕd be a shame to make it that far and turn around,Ó they tell us. We say our good bys and turn to the task at hand. When the girls catch up with us we rest a bit more and then make for the path at the base of the steepness above. We start up like boats on a sea having lost sight of land hoping that in time it will reappear. Up it goes and so steep that I can only see the switchbacks above or below, but never the top of the ridge that IÕm climbing. I feel small. I step aside, sweaty and tired, the hikers coming down looking gleeful and light. I rest on rocks that look like their only wish is to fall. Halfway upŠ I think, since I canÕt really knowŠ I begin stopping around every turn to catch my breath. I curse this damned mountain and myself. The girls are far below and Jeff has a good head start, and anyway, itÕs no longer about us, I could care less about who IÕm with. I can only think of breathing very deeply and picking up one foot at a time. My headache is back and worse, and the view doesnÕt matter to me anymore. This is not fun. Finally just about when I'm ready to give up and with a gasping pathetic climax I make the ridgeline. And I guess itÕs worth it. Because all I have to say is, WOW! -- WOW! Out there, as far as I can see, are the western Sierras bumping into each other past the thousand-foot drop in front of me. Jeff and I sit and rest, waiting, taking in the scene; a mouse dances around us, looking for crumbs. A couple walks past, up from the back face and we ask, howÕs the hike to the summit? The manÕs breathy and only reply is that, ŅIt sucks!Ó The western face slopes up from a rock bowl filled with water littered with boulders, a discarded dice game. ItÕs surrounded by a group of peaks with names like Hitchcock and Russell. Then it climbs upwards almost at 45 degrees into craggy and crumbling spires and then boom, falls two thousand feet in an instant. The rock along the thin trail is a sandy adobe in the afternoon light. The going is easy at first and almost fun and the vista away across the western reaches of the Sierras keeps our eyes fixed to the west. When I see the summit of Whitney, things change. The fun ends. My last triumph, the ridgeline, is whittled away. My head pumps; the mountains, when I stop to look at them, start to pulse backwards. But the trail is all I really have the energy to look at. Deep breath, cough, rest. By fourteen thousand feet, even a quick turn around a bend in the trail pops my ears. Within one hundred yards of the peak my feet have become idiots. They are like two drunken children after sips of wine. My head spins and pumps with my heart. I take breaths so deep I feel like I'm hyperventilating. But I donÕt want to throw up again and I can feel it coming, pushing up my esophagus, gurgling in my stomach. I cough to reduce my heart rate and swallow to keep the vomit down. I think of my family and home and that IÕd rather be there. I tell myself that I canÕt make it. I should give up. People die of altitude sickness. But itÕs right there, up a little rise and it will be over. So I trudge forward, head down, sucking in air like some dying fish flapping on the sand. This is not the embracing of nature that I envisioned. I feel my viscera for sure, but I donÕt feel any connection to some spiritual natural essence, I am not still enough to actually pay attention. There is no inner quiet amid the pulsing, throbbing punishment IÕm subjecting myself to. This hike has become a concentration on my limits, in my mind, not my surroundings. Even worse cases pass me by, walking down the hill slower than I walk up. After we cross paths, I pass their puke, green and pathetic like them and me. I keep my head down so I wonÕt know how much further there is to go. I cross a small patch of snow. The hill arches with a gradual slope still blocking the top from my view. Step, step, breathe. People pass me with encouragements; youÕll make it, they say. I nod to them in my stupor. IÕm so close I can see it now yet thatÕs no consolation because IÕm pretty much spent and the pain is still with me. Breathe, cough. As the storm shelter comes into view I put my hands over my head to open up my lungs, like at football practice; they start tingling and then fall asleep in seconds. I pass Jeff and stumble to the metal marker on the eastern face, stand on it with weak quivering legs, look out east across the valley and turn around. Beside Jeff I crumple, out of breath. Jeff is talking to an old man with missing teeth. He wears a torn T-shirt and a broken-down baseball cap. HeÕs in his late seventies and from Lone Pine. ŅPeople pray for my soul down thereÓ, he says. ŅThey think IÕm going to hellÓ, he adds with a laugh. He canÕt hear very well and heÕs climbed this mountain many times. He wears glasses. I walk to the shelter behind us and sign the logbook. I have made my mark, my piece of evidence, my proof. Here is the only concrete change, the only voice, in unspoken words, of this mountainÕs defeat; or just my feeble scribbling, there only to allay my own inadequacy, my defeat at the hands of this mountain. The book also contains the names, too, of the truly defeated, sacrificed to powers beyond our control. I was told by a friend who works on the mountain that the last group of people caught in a storm here hid in the shelter; all either died or were hospitalized when the shelter was struck by lightning and failed to work. It is a stone house with metal antenna coming up off its roof into the air, a paltry speck on a field of stones, so small against the mountainÕs mass. We wait for a bit longer munching trail mix. By now it is past three, and they say that you should get off the mountain top by noon, because the clouds start building and push all but the crazed off the mountain, leaving us with little time to revel in our achievement. We find the girls within sight of the top, but even then the clouds menacing above send us down. Jessica curses for not making the summit. She has a defeated look on her face; Jinny is haggard and ready to go back. We walk down quickly, tripping and tired under the rain clouds. Pushed from the mountain by thunder and lightning. With the rain on our heals we wind our way back from where we came. The climb is wearing on us, Jinny is feeling dizzy and has a headache and is falling behind our clumsy legs as they trip over stray rocks. When we finally make camp even Jeff, the first to the top, is feeling a bit odd. But nonetheless it is done. Tired but triumphant, but mostly tired, I head for sleep in the green tent Jeff brought along and find a pleasant surprise. Jeff, wanting to leave no trace behind on the mountain, dutifully shit in the white plastic bags they provide at the base of the mountain. He carried the bag of shit with him up and down the mountain. By the third day something had gone awry and anybody walking behind him knew it. Despite the fact that his shit bag was reeking like some kind of sick joke he left his pack in the tent all the same, so that when I climb in for my last night on the mountain, it smells horrible with his shit clinging to everything in the tent including my sleeping bag, a reminder of the corporal not the spiritual world, a reminder that this mountain has reinforced in me. When we drove down from the Portal Š after another night and a half-dayÕs hike from the tree line Š into the hazy Owens Valley, we stopped for a moment at a vista. Still smelling of bug spray, sweat and camp food, I looked down at the Owens Valley, dry and dusty Š our creation. The waterless lakebed below, spiting up salty earth, was sacrificed for L.A. and its green lawns. The mountain behind us is a shrine to that achievement, but a shrine you canÕt dwell on too long for fear of the lightning and thunder that comes daily; despite us. And although we might have conquered, dug up and held back the world that was not me. As we drove down to the valley I looked at the sky, bright, washed white at the edges, ever out of reach, repeating in its silence; even all of you, collectively, cannot control the clouds. |
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