High Altitude Interiors: One Woman's Approach to Hiking California's Fourteeners

By Michal Reed

High Altitude Interiors is a personal account of one womans goal to climb all of Californias mountains over fourteen thousand feet before she turned fifty. It conveys the physical and emotional risks of an older woman committing to such a project; the development of skills and confidence; the intimacy of sharing such adventures with others, as well as exploring vast amounts of time alone; the physical and emotional barriers that must be recognized and overcome or accepted; and lots of quirky self-deprecation. Each of the disappointments, setbacks, and failures are used as opportunities for new explorations. Though set within the specific context of mountaineering, Reeds process of setting goals as guidelines to encourage exploration and growth can also be applied to other areas as well. Working through fear, the value of goals (and abandoning them), planning, fitness, limitations and creating reasonable expectations, are all illustrated in ways that are easy to assimilate.

This book has several different strands: the articulation and execution of goals; physical descriptions of the climbs; the evolution of the skills and confidence of the narrator; the relationship of the narrator to self and others; and the social reading of age and gender. Readers may not feel inspired to literally repeat the authors exploration of climbing the 14ers, but they may translate the process into a particular goal of their own. Experienced hikers might appreciate the insights expressed that they have felt, but not put into words. Hikers interested in the Sierras might find the specifics of the descriptions useful in planning their own trips. Readers who have anticipated mountaineering as a prohibitively daunting endeavor, might feel inspired to try a small trip of their own after reading these accounts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Aug 27, 2008
• ISBN: 9781468502299

Michal Reed

Michal Reed has backpacked for over thirty years, beginning alone at seventeen, and then continuing with her ex-husband and her two sons.  She learned to climb in her mid-thirties, though with young children she couldn’t spend a lot of time developing her skills.  She has an MFA in art and critical writing from California Institute of the Arts, has published art criticism and personal essays, and has shown her artist’s books internationally.  Michal lives in Springville, CA where she turned her family home in to a Bed and Breakfast.  Artists, writers, and people wanting a retreat form the city compliment her experience of teaching at the local high school.  

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This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

© 2008 Michal Reed. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/20/2008

ISBN: 978-1-4343-8836-0 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-0229-9 (ebk)

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

Contents

Introduction

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Works Cited

Note: My original goal consisted of climbing the fifteen mountains over fourteen thousand feet,  listed in the Porcella and Burns book, Climbing California’s Fourteeners.  Other lists consider Starlight and Polemonium to be sub-peaks of North Palisade.  Though I climbed all fifteen, in ranking the peaks in my narrative, I only rank the thirteen peaks that are considered individual, major peaks.

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Introduction

Why do people climb mountains? I don’t think there is a universal answer. I mountaineer because on a long hike, without multi-tasking and care-taking and trying to get a million assignments done, ideas surface that would otherwise be buried in the business of daily life. Hiking gives me time to indulge in the delight of mulling over my thoughts. When I walk with another, communication becomes elliptical rather than linear. We have the luxury of exchanging ideas, of quietly thinking on our own about what we have both said, then returning to the conversation so that we can build and move forward again. Without diversions, this development of ideas and interpersonal feelings is allowed to deepen. That’s one part of it.

When the climb becomes more difficult, forcing me to focus directly on my hands and feet, I experience a meditative pleasure that comes from being in the moment. When the panic or focus is relaxed, the peace and clarity that remain are gratifying to experience on my own and intimate to share with another. I enjoy exploring the introspective balance between the external and the internal experience. The specific details of the terrain are less important than the effect those details provoke. And, of course, there is always the perk of burning all of those calories.

My mountaineering experiences have not been sensational like those recounted by Jon Krakauer or Joe Simpson. Nor am I attempting any first ascents. By world standards, the mountains and the routes I take are neither challenging to get to nor technically difficult. Even my high altitude is only half of Everest. But when I was in Patagonia a few years ago, hiking around Torres del Paine and Fitz Roy, I realized that although the landscape was spectacular, and the glaciers and icebergs significantly different than the terrain of my Sierras, still, much of the hiking itself was not so unique. Much of what I enjoy about hiking is movement within so much open space; in many ways the desert is just as satisfying.

After Patagonia, I hiked through the Jungfrau region of Switzerland which was remarkably grand and complex. Then I explored the magical expanses of moss to glacier in Iceland. But still I thought, why put up with the cold weather (as a Californian I am so spoiled), with the long flights, with the expense? Why not spend time focusing on that which I have right at home?

Though I live on the west side of the Sierras, all of California’s fourteeners are within a few hours drive. These local, personal mountains are perfectly suited to me. As any individual challenge should be, my mountains are difficult enough to push personal boundaries, but not so difficult as to be out of the range of possibility—whether through skills or strength or logistics. One person’s Everest is another’s Denali, is another’s Whitney, is another’s walk to the neighborhood park.

Most mountaineering accounts record the external world: ecology, topography, history. I describe fifteen different mountains and more than as many trips, but because the majority of the mountains are in the same range and very close to each other, there is not much variance in their history or ecosystems. I do not hike to make history or survive insurmountable odds. My journeys concern explorations that venture beyond the externals of the mountain. Externals do matter, even if the goal is radically interior, but it is the intersection of the external environment with the emotional one that provides me with the most compelling terrain.

Porcella and Burns’ second edition of the guidebook, Climbing California’s Fourteeners, speaks of Norman Clyde’s accounts, saying, You will never find a quote or passage of Clyde’s that alludes to any type of fear, loneliness, or self-doubt during his vagabond climbing life. Rather he was solid and purposeful.

Maybe historically mountaineering has equated solid with the absence of emotional questioning, but I didn’t want to go into these experiences with a solidness that was based upon emotional absence. I liked the apprehension of the new and the excitement of integrating whatever I might feel into my ever-changing experience of self. Fear doesn’t have to be an emotion that prohibits movement and growth—it often, in fact, stimulates them. On my trips I didn’t want to see fear, and self-doubt, and loneliness as emotions to be avoided. I believed they might be the very holds that would allow me to locate solid footing through my emotional landscapes.

If Clyde didn’t write about fear, did that mean he never experienced it? Perhaps instead it only reflected the emotionally careful ideology of the time. Although I found Clyde’s explorations admirable and enviable, and his physical descriptions precise, the external, physical accounts were not enough for me. I wanted a guided account of a mountaineer’s interior landscapes. And so I wrote one. For readers who are also curious about the effects of the exterior upon the interior, I offer this map.

Chapter One

WHITE 

Third highest mountain in CA; 14,246 feet; class one

August 2001

I’ ve always felt compelled to obtain the view of the highest rise around me. I climbed White Mountain the year before I decided I was going to climb all fifteen of the mountains in California that are over fourteen thousand feet. For twenty years I had explored the backcountry with my former husband and our children. We would camp in some lovely isolated spot, near a stream or a pond, and after about thirty minutes of lying on my back in the late summer wildflowers, after recovering from a full day of gaining elevation with my back pack, I’d shield my eyes from the last of the day’s sun and look around at the surrounding peaks. I’d sit up and search out the highest point and scrutinize the terrain, looking for a possible way up. Before dinner I would have formed a plan, presented it to the family, and sure enough, the next morning we would be climbing, climbing, climbing, just a little more, just a little more, so that I could see what was on the other side.

Often this point would prove to be a false peak and I would have to convince the kids that since we had gone this far, why not continue a little more? There was still plenty of light, plenty of food and water. We would arrive at the top, look all around, and then we would plop down. We would eat our snack as we quietly listened to the breeze, felt the thin light on our cheeks, and took in the vast expanse of the fabric of the planet. When the kids were young, they would lay their heads in my lap, peacefully munching on their fruit and cheese, their little bodies enjoying the combination of movement and rest, associating it all with safety and love.

Two summers before White, when my older son, Alex, was sixteen, he and I had taken our girlfriends on their first backpacking trips. After years of family trips, he had become a hiking monster. He led us on a very long day hike, after which both of our friends were completely worn out. At the end of the day everyone looked at me wearily as mom, including my friend Julia, and while they laid flat on their thermarests I filtered water and made dinner. As grueling as the experience had been, Julia survived and assured me that she wanted to try another trip.

The next summer, the year before we planned to hike White, I took Julia up Goddard with me. Having explored the Blackcaps with my family a year or two before, seeing Goddard so isolated and imposing in the distance, I had been curious about what it would feel like to be there, to be on top of clearly the highest mountain around. I wanted to experience such an unobstructed view. I knew it was high, around 13,500 feet, but the specific elevation didn’t matter; it was the view that compelled me.

As we climbed the two thousand feet past Martha Lake where the trail ended, I didn’t yet have an altimeter watch. Without it, although I studied the topographical maps ceaselessly, I could not determine which peak I was on and which one I was looking at. I couldn’t tell if I was in the steep gully that turned onto a dead end of cliffs, or in the one that would level out at a plateau near the top. Not having enough of the navigational skills needed to assume a reasonable sense of safety, I was often terrified not only for my own physical safety, but for Julia’s as well.

However, although we had many false starts and retreats, Julia trusted me. She found the exposure and scrambling at the summit harrowing, but she was as moved as I was by the vast panorama. The most extensive 360 degree view I had ever experienced, with exposed peaks and valleys and lakes, was blocked by nothing; the distant details simply disappeared into atmospheric haze. Somehow, this visual stimulation triggered or created a physiological experience of freedom. Julia was more quietly moved. As I chattered away my analysis, she serenely looked on with tears in her eyes.

The trip moved me to want to repeat the experience of route finding, of exploration, of obtaining the absolute best view around. When I found the slim first edition of Porcella and Burns’ book, California Fourteeners, I picked it up thinking I might be able to find another hike or two like Goddard. I hoped that the book might direct me to parts of the Sierras I hadn’t yet visited that would also have the spectacular views that I so love.

White Mountain was listed as the third highest peak in California, and the easiest of the fourteeners. Again, I invited Julia, assuring her that we could absorb beautiful views without having to carry packs, without having to plan for the complexities of multi-day travel. At the town of Big Pine, on the way to White, we ate at Rossi’s, filling ourselves not only with the delicious family prepared food, but also with photographs of the local history. Although tourism is a large part of the economic base of the Owens valley today, we were reminded that not so long ago the valley was home to gold miners, cattle ranchers, railroad builders, and farmers – all before the area became the standard set of Hollywood westerns.

In the darkness, we drove up the winding road to the gated trailhead. Visually, like a cartoon animation everything was reduced to simplified shapes. The moon was an orange cut out that zipped through the sky as the corrugated washboard of the road turned north, then east, then west, then north again. We laughed about the cutting horse experience of the movements of the road and the surreal light. Alone at the gate, at twelve thousand feet, we unwound ourselves. The night was fresh and cold outside the cozy truck where we slept. Flat and warm, excited about trading the traditional set of luxuries for the beauty of this location, we felt giggly and close.

At six I woke to the sound of another vehicle joining us. It’s not that I am antisocial so much as when others are around I feel an awareness of and oppression by social conventions. I have to wander way off to pee, and I have to be discrete when changing my clothes. Even if I decide to disregard the rules and just turn my back while putting on my sports bra, it still takes conscious thought and effort. And after the night to ourselves we just didn’t want to deal with others. We decided to simply get going. The guidebook suggested leaving early to avoid the sun and heat—but as it sometimes happens in August in the Sierras, it had snowed the day before. Still, with the guidebook in mind, with the brilliant blue sky and piercing sun warming us, Julia decided to zip off her pant legs; she would regret leaving them in the truck.

The summit was seven miles away, but the route was mostly a road that followed the ridge line. We laughed—how hard could the hike be? No need for topographical maps or route finding. The road, graded for vehicles, wouldn’t even be very steep; this would be like a walk in an urban park. Old and arrogant in our own way, we hadn’t yet learned to respect the effects of high altitude. Even after walking up the wide road to the research station, where we learned about the studies of the effects of the altitude on generations of sheep and dogs, we still didn’t think much about the effects the altitude might have upon us. We had spent a night at twelve thousand feet, and we were walking on a road that was so wide and smoothly graded that had we had the key to the gate, we could easily have driven. The ease was almost disappointing. Although I would undoubtedly be treated with a spectacular view, this did not feel like a wilderness experience.

But above the research station, as the road narrowed, our attention shifted to the stark beauty of the terrain. A fresh layer of snow created brilliant highlights on the desolate, dampened brown slopes of the surrounding hills and mountains. The contrast of the white and deep brown increased the drama of the coyotes hunting in the distance, and the marmots scurrying in the rocks beside us. As I continued up the edge of the ridge I began moving more slowly than Julia, getting my first sense of how debilitating high altitude hiking could be. At Goddard we had had three nights to acclimatize, and the summit had been one thousand feet lower than White. I had been concerned about safety, but my body hadn’t failed me.

Beyond the long, straight approach to the mountain itself, after we had started moving up the side of the peak, two young men caught up and passed us. Julia, with her long legs and obsession with gym workouts, stretched out to keep up with them. Like my children, she uses the pacing of my shorter legs to help conserve her energy for the long days, but every so often she just needs to stretch out. I tried for a moment to keep up with her, but then realizing how suicidal that was, I plopped down in the dirt of the road, exhausted.

Alone, I watched the clouds moving in quickly and I ate a protein bar in the last rays of the sun. My body and spirit seemed to be at odds; I wanted to enjoy this hike, but I wasn’t. By the time I caught up to Julia and we left the road and were scrambling up the rocks toward the summit, my attitude was deteriorating as rapidly as the weather. I was physiologically miserable, having a hard time moving, hating the rough tippy rocks, just wanting to sleep and have my headache go away. But as miserable as I was, beauty always trumps pain, and the splendor of the surrounding storm moved me. To the east, the clouds were releasing moisture on specific stretches of the ridge, leaving other areas dry, creating a continuum of shades and tints of purples and rusts, extending past the mountains and into the Nevada desert. I inhabited a cliché of beauty as exaggerated as a Kincaid painting. The magnificence wrapped around me, squeezed out my critical, analytical brain, and left me with a teary feeling of awe. The aggressive movements of the light, as fast as time–lapse photography, were astounding. The storm cleansed the air of the summer haze. I tried to remember my geography as I wondered could I possibly be seeing into Utah or Arizona? The state lines seemed such arbitrary boundaries compared with the formations of the mountains and valleys. I let go of data collecting and felt the colors. I was not high according to the general connotation of ingested drugs, but my chemistry, due to the exercise and altitude, was definitely altered.

I pushed my body to the top of the peak, and once there I would have loved to have sat and watched the weather. But the temperature had dropped thirty degrees, and it was clear that the storm was now moving toward us. Julia and I hadn’t spoken to each other for awhile but I looked into her eyes, and we smiled, and I knew she was moved by the experience, too. But I also knew that the lightning that was so magical at a distance would not be so wonderful if we were the highest point. In order to be safe, we needed to begin our descent immediately. I certainly didn’t want my life to model some sort of Krakauer or Simpson account.

We moved quickly, and the loss of altitude helped me to regain some of my joy and clarity. As we continued to rapidly descend we were drenched by the rain. The thunder was alarmingly loud. By the time we walked across the exposed plateau, the rain turned to snow. My thin summer pants were soaked, but Julia was in her shorts, and her knees were purple. Although both of us were cold, we knew we were close enough to the car to not be in danger and we laughed at her conservation, of not carrying those few ounces of extra fabric. And we kept moving.

The road seemed to go on and on and on. I was cold and wet, but I experienced little anxiety. I knew that within a few hours I would no longer be vulnerable to the elements, that I would soon enough feel the protective comfort of the car. Each step brought me closer to safety. The cold and wet clothes that would have proved so potentially deadly in the back country were transformed into an insignificant, temporary discomfort. And so I kept moving, propelling myself with the peace that comes within the safety of a day trip.

Still, as we plodded down and down along the road, we found that fourteen miles turned out to be a lot more tiring than either of us had anticipated. We vacillated between pausing to admire the inspiring late afternoon light of the shifting storm and whining about the mundane endlessness of the road. We had been to the top, taken in the incredible view, and now we were cold and tired and finished. When we finally made that last turn and could see the car, we were both pathetically ecstatic.

As spent as I was, it had only been a nine-hour day. I would have many days much longer than that as I pursued the other fourteeners. And mountaineers’ amnesia would quickly set in and erase the physical discomfort of the trip. I would even encourage others to make the hike, focusing upon the beautiful views.

Chapter Two

LANGLEY

Ninth highest mountain in CA; 14,022 feet; class two

August 2001

After White, Julia and I had planned to drive to the trailhead at Cottonwood Lakes to keep the adjustment to the altitude in our bodies, but the Sierras were lost to a combination of clouds and fog. We decided to spend the night in a motel in Lone Pine and wait to see what might happen with the weather. Reflexively, sleeping in a bed between peaks seemed decadent, but when I realized that we had the option, I considered—why not take advantage of it? Sleeping in the wilderness is wonderful; any discomfort is more than compensated by the privacy and the quiet. But camping in a parking lot, listening to the jarring sound of car doors and people’s chatter, having to wander off to pee in the middle of the night, has little aesthetic virtue.

We took our time getting ready in the morning, still not sure about the weather. By mid-afternoon the storm seemed to be subsiding. When we left the market at Lone Pine the light was bright and the sky clear of clouds. But when we started driving up the gracefully cut switchbacks that lead to the Cottonwood Lakes trailhead, clouds began rising from the Sierras again. They wrapped around us even as the razor ridges unfurled, as the pastel pinks, greens and soft beiges of the desert sand stretched across to the Inyo Range. After our night at the White trailhead where we had been alone, the Cottonwood parking lot was a shock: we wondered if we’d even find a spot for the car. We had made the right choice to stay at the motel.

The trail, or rather the wilderness highway, was wide enough for three people to walk abreast. Hikers tromped past us at regular intervals. When we were ten minutes into the hike, it started to rain. We pulled out our ponchos and garbage bags—to make sure that our gear