360 degrees of heaven

CHASING THE MUSE

A shimmering sea of stars balances weightlessly upon my chest,

dancing in a void of indigo and ink. At 12,200 feet, nothing

separates me from their brilliance. The starlight and my body become

one. I drag my fingertips across the night sky, tracing their

transit, mapping the heavens as I would the earth. I could not have

imagined the sky would be this incredible.

Icy winds buffet Trail Camp, where Emma, Mike, Steve and I have

camped. This rugged and exposed basin is the last outpost before the

eastern summit of Mt. Whitney. Tiny colored tents dot the landscape,

each kissed by a waning moon, and buffeted by snoring inhabitants.

Atonal gray granite hearkens to lunarscapes captured by satellite or

astronauts. There are no trees to altar the silhouettes of jagged

peaks rising vertically in the night sky. If not for the biting cold,

I would wander for hours, drinking in the red shine of a pulsating

Mars and faint lines of the Andromeda Galaxy.

Reluctantly, I return to the warmth of the tent and struggle with

sleep before the morning climb. The air is thin, and at moments, I

force myself to suck enough oxygen to fill my lungs. Steve tosses and

turns under the effects of the elevation.

Morning light reaches out across the stone valley, caresses the

tops of the tents, and sleepily we rise. Emma and Mike are up first.

I hear the swoosh of their stove being lighted and am encouraged to

drag my own body in search of coffee. Steve follows and the four of

us stand, bleary eyed, gazing upward at the rock-faced summit.

“Why climb it?” curious friends asked. “Because I can,” is my only

answer.

The Mt. Whitney Trail via the Portal is one of the heaviest

traveled in the National Park System. Only 60 permits are granted for

any given day, thus regulating the impact on the trail and the

resource.

The final ascent is steep and arduous across boulder-strewn fields

with total exposure. During thunderstorms, the climb is not only

discouraged, but can be deadly. Lightning strikes are common, and

there is no shelter. Without trees, humans become the tallest and

most logical contact with the ground. We are graced by bright sun and

clear weather.

We climb steadily, with measured steps. Emma leads, and I know

from the determination on her face that we will all stand on top. We

have passed many climbers, some of whom we will not see at the

summit. A suck of “gu” here, a drag of water. The comfort of a

handful of colorful gummy bears.

As we cross over the saddle, we are momentarily speechless. The

vast backcountry range of the Sierras spreads before us. The John

Muir Trail, the Pacific Crest Trail, and hundreds of miles dance

across the horizon.

We’ve been above tree line for more than 20 hours. The air is thin

and crisp; a color of blue unknown at sea level. Not much oxygen at

14,000 feet and the lungs drag deeply to grab sustenance. We stop to

offer water to a dry hiker and a snack to a hungry one. After four

hours, we get our first glimpse of the hikers hut. I break from our

group, unable to contain my thrill for our accomplishment.

From the top of the mountain, the world spreads in every

direction. 360 degrees of heaven. To the west, the coast range is

visible in a subtle haze. To the east, the Panamints, Death Valley

and Nevada’s dry desert are delineated. I spin in a circular fashion,

sweeping my hand across a thousand ridges. For a moment, I am “Yertle

the Turtless, Queen of it All.”

Emma and Steve join me with mouths open in wide exaltation.

Cameras snap, hikers whoop and holler. Then, silence. We press inward

with reverence for the journey and the immensity of the reward.

We have traveled from the Pacific to ascend 14,496 feet above our

home at sea level. We join perhaps tens of thousands of other

climbers who have stood here since the peak was first summited by

three friends in August, 1873. We have trained hard. We have worked

hard, and the view alone, has been worth the climb.

From the summit, I cast free several feathers I have carried from

the coastline. Each one bears a wish for a family member or a friend.

As I watch the feathers spin and twirl on the winded eddies, embraced

by a seemingly limitless landscape, I am reminded that the first step

of every journey is a dream.

* CATHARINE COOPER is in love with wild places. She can be reached

at [email protected] or (949) 497-5081.