How To Fall Off A Mountain

Rich Benbrook

Using the Maps

Mount Whitney

Monarch Lake

Vidette Meadow

Cottonwood Lakes

Onion Valley to
Whitney Portal

Symmes Creek to
Mineral King

Mount Tyndall

Whitney Group

Mount Shasta

Mount Williamson

Palisades

Middle Palisade
Revisited

Thunder Mountain

Middle Palisade
Try Again

Middle Palisade
Take Three

Mount Sill

Thunderbolt Peak
Climbing Up

Thunderbolt Peak
Climbing Down

Thunderbolt Peak
Rescue

Aerial Photos

National Park Service Search and Rescue

Links

Mount Whitney

maps:

I cannot recall ever experiencing a fear of height, and some of my fondest childhood memories involve climbing trees. Always reaching for the highest limbs, I spent hours on those lofty perches. As I climbed higher, unknown secrets of landmarks both familiar and unexplored became visible. On the windiest days I enjoyed the thrill of riding branches as they danced to and fro, and never once thought about falling.

I first remember being drawn to the mountains during a family vacation in 1969, just prior to my 8th birthday. We visited Sequoia and King's Canyon National Parks, in the heart of California's Sierra Nevada mountain range. One of our campsites was in Cedar Grove, at the end of the road along the King's River. From here the wilderness began, accessible only by trail. California had experienced an exceptionally wet winter, so the high peaks were still covered deep in snow and the streams and rivers were running over capacity. The backcountry seemed mysterious and unreachable, yet even at that early age I felt an irresistible urge to travel there.

Vacations were an annual family ritual. Every summer, we'd load up the truck and drive to a remote campground in the forest. During these vacations, I gradually began exploring further into the wilderness, but my journeys were always restricted by the necessity of returning to camp before nightfall. The decision of when to turn back was agonizing. I always wanted to keep going, to push further and further toward the highest peaks I could see.

This problem reached a climax during the early 1980's. A couple friends and I set out to climb Mount Whitney in a single day. Camping at the trailhead, we awoke to an alarm clock long before dawn and started hiking with flashlights. Only after the sun rose were we able to experience the beauty of the rocks, trees and waterfalls surrounding us. We passed backpackers, some still in their tents and sleeping bags, some awake and cooking breakfast, and others already on the trail struggling under heavy loads. We felt smug in knowing we were doing it right, traveling light and fast as we carried only what we needed for one day.

As we climbed, the trees became smaller and fewer, their development stunted by harsh high-altitude growing conditions. Soon trees gave way to small shrubs. Eventually those too disappeared, and we entered a barren, rocky landscape. The only plants were colorful lichen painting the rocks, delicate purple Sky Pilot, and surprising bright yellow blossoms of hearty Alpine Gold popping up like dandelions wherever a small patch of sand collected. A few birds flew by, and marmots, an animal not unlike an overgrown gopher, survived by begging and stealing from tourists. Overall, it was not an environment gentle to living things, but it was strangely beautiful and it felt right to be there.

We ascended an area known as the "hundred switchbacks". I didn't count them all, but I have no doubt the torturous trail lived up to the claim. A few patches of snow and ice still remained, slowing our progress as we carefully made our way through the obstacles. Construction was underway as well, causing a short delay as we waited for a section of the trail to be repaired and improved. The land here is so rugged the trail is literally carved into the stone, one step at a time, like a giant staircase. Most of the hard trail work has to be done by hand, and it must be back-breaking work, yet all the trail workers I've seen are cheerful and pleasant.

Crossing trail crest at 13,800 feet above sea level, we descended slightly before beginning the final two miles of our climb. The thin air was taking its toll. My lungs screamed for more air, and all I wanted to do was stop and take a nap. I felt like my brain had shrunk, and was rattling around in my skull creating the worst headache I'd ever known. When we finally arrived at the summit in mid-afternoon, this 21-mile round trip no longer seemed like such a brilliant idea. We were already well behind schedule, so we looked over the edge, turned around, and began an agonizing hike back to the car.

As bad as my headache had been on the ascent, it didn't even begin to compare to the pain I experienced going down. Each pounding step seemed to compact what was left of my brain deeper into my forehead. We finally arrived at the car long after dark, utterly exhausted.