13,065 ft. High in the Snake Range -
It took four years for the moment of triumph to come. An incidental exercise in delayed gratification I like to think. I did not mean for such a gap to occur, nor a milestone prolonged. As it tends to, life pushes certain occasions to the periphery until we are ready to rise to them. On June 11th, 2021 came my moment to seize. On the surface, it was daunting. The second highest point in the state of Nevada, a mere hundred or so feet short of the crown, Mt. Wheeler stands at a heroic height of thirteen thousand sixty five feet. The summits available to a resident of southern California hardly approach such heights, with San Gorgonio the crown jewel at eleven thousand five hundred and three feet.
This moment became a collective of many others. A constellation of sorts made up of victories in the midst of ever increasing stakes. Challenges of course taken on willingly by yours truly. I find a unique form of personal inspiration in the mountains. The drive to simply go further makes itself known with a consistency I find remarkable upon self reflecting. It isn’t that I become more than I am. Rather, I truly come alive in examples of those times during which we all feel as though what we can do knows no limitations. That the roof of the world as a quite literal ceiling can be attained or even surpassed. Though impressive all on its own, Wheeler Peak, as it will henceforth also be referred to as, is no Everest. It exists at the crest of the Snake Range in North-Central Nevada, within the incomparable heaven on Earth that is Great Basin National Park.
Obscure location aside, why this area is not universally renowned is beyond my understanding. Alas, more detail in that regard is beyond the desired scope of this story. I shall redirect my attention, and yours, back to the mountain. First and foremost, surveying the challenge completely: An elevation of 13,065’, an 8 mile long out and back trail over terrain that becomes steadily, and surely, rugged and steep over its course, not to mention weather that ranges from calm/sunny/warm to icy/windy/freezing with a bonus chance of thunderstorms in the summer or a snowstorm nearly any month of the year.
Wheeler Peak (far right) looming over a rock glacier (directly below) and alpine forest.
With that being said, for a 13er: mountaineering speak for peaks at the 13,000 foot mark, Wheeler Peak is one of the most accessible mountain tops I’ve come across. With a trailhead readily accessible and a one-way distance of about four miles, it almost begs any hiker of reasonable fitness to try their hand. Nevertheless, this opportunity is never to be taken lightly. Failure to seriously consider the implications of poor planning or consequences of inept judgment is liable to leave one in a state of legitimate regret.
Cover up to protect from the harsh UV rays piercing through the thin air at a high altitude. Acclimate for a day or even two, maybe three to get the body up to par with a state of decreased oxygen availability. The Wheeler Peak campground, the highest altitude I’ve ever camped at, is within the desirable vertical range at nine thousand eight hundred eighty six feet above sea level. In this alpine wilderness there are no bears of any kind. However, it is always useful, and sometimes necessary, to consider the possibility of an encounter with wildlife that goes wrong. I was fortunate to not have this problem on either of my attempts. Finally, loose rock becomes a much maligned feature in the higher reaches of the trail. A steady pair of boots in addition to the right degree of patience is required for this part of the challenge. I suppose that we should be at the very least thankful for the lack of a need for any sort of specialized or technical equipment to make the summit. Nearby Jeff Davis Peak is an example of the more nuanced variety of alpine ascents, at a bird’s eye view from its neighbor.
Jeff Davis peak, rising to an elevation of 12,771 feet above sea level.
What level of training went into this endeavor? More than a half dozen or so summits were achieved in the Angeles National Forest (ANF), or San Gabriel Mountains National Monument, if you will. The somewhat infamous seventeen mile long Three T’s Trail was the most difficult feat, involving a three in one bagging of Timber, Telegraph, and Thunder peaks. With irrefutable evidence of my ability to withstand grueling, and equally rewarding, treks at high altitude, it was time for my focus to shift towards the ultimate prize at this stage: a connection with Mt. Wheeler both tangible and in a sense beyond a description that words can provide.
Preparation also involves the mind. What is not elaborated upon enough in this recreational field, from my point of view, is the importance of training the mind just as much as the body. What use are strong muscles built to endure if doubt creeps into one’s thoughts and giving up a summit bid is suddenly the more desirable option? An appropriate level of mental stamina is an often overlooked aspect of preparation, and encountering a hiker who has taken on more than they can grasp mentally does happen on occasion. It is harder to take as seriously what cannot be seen, heard, or felt. I look at it as a way to ante up the challenge. It also forces the adoption of a solution-oriented mindset. The trail feels longer than expected? Focus on noticing the little things and it will suddenly shrink the distance. Doubt creeping into your thoughts halfway up the final push to the summit? Remember what you’ve up to this point achieved, and keep going. The same tree branch is somehow tripping you repeatedly both ways on an out and back trail? Get up again, brush off, and head back down the canyon with the pride of knowing that at least a couple of peaks were bagged that day (also F that branch, man).
Anyways, with my faithful companion Davis left under the supervision of a close friend who accompanied me on this trip and elected to stay around camp, I embarked towards the upper reaches of the park. Upon making a left turn from the Baker Creek campground road towards my destination, I came upon a group of wild Turkeys, three in all. They were just off the side of the road, pecking without a hint of exhaustion at the ground between a small grove of trees and brush. Turkeys here are smaller than what we’ve come to traditionally expect. They also tend to be disguised by their surroundings, blending in harmoniously with the landscape as everything seems to do so well here.
A wild turkey on the trail heading back from Mt. Wheeler to the trailhead.
I continue on, the road weaving through the mountainside like a snake in the grass, its orientation unmistakably vertical while the destination remains hidden behind the trees and ridges. The miles of the scenic drive appear to subtract themselves from the total, bringing me ever closer to the start of a conclusion. For this chapter of course. Another will begin in its own time.
The first thing I notice while pulling up to the trailhead is the relative silence. There are several other cars parked. A few fellow hikers are hurriedly strapping on gear and talking in tones hushed by a gentle breeze that moves as a current, shaking the trees to the newfound beat of Summer. It is not difficult to move in time with the low hum of the forest. I check my list of belongings meticulously, lest I forget an all important piece of gear once again. Then I set off.
My footsteps crunch leaves on the hard packed ground. The Aspens continue on with their quaking in concert with the wind. Early morning light filters through the stands of thin, cream colored trunks made dense and dark in numbers. The sky displayed itself in its full glory. Not a single cloud made its presence known in this far reaching view of the world above. A calm, clear day when the objective is to chase that which lies in the far reaches of what is known, cannot be taken for granted. That these ideal conditions prevailed through the entirety of the day is nothing short of a miracle.
That beginning stretch is without doubt a personal favorite. Every step reinforces faithful adherence to the path ahead. No single motion of a sole meeting the ground is more important than another, and yet does it not feel otherwise in practice? First and last are the same, but the last imprint made upon the earth is celebrated as a distinct accomplishment because of what transpired in between. Making way past the rows of Aspen, the meadows with deer grazing intently, and the alpine lake with snow steadily increasing the reaches of its banks, affords time to consider the details of life often hidden in plain sight, only we’re usually too distracted by unimportant day to day musings. What does the trail to Wheeler Peak have to offer to the inquiring mind? An opportunity to revel in a state of pure bliss.
Rows of Trembling Aspen lining the trail just beyond the starting point.
I like to think of mountain hiking as fundamentally comparable to the stages, cycles, and challenges of life. A measured sample of the broader journey! Endeavor to see the mountain as a waypoint, the trail as the connecting thread, and the associated elements - wildlife, weather conditions, the consistency of the path itself, as the context for everyday existence. There are always details to the journey to be expected. Likewise, unexpected circumstances present themselves just as well. It’s really about taking every development in stride.
Where the metaphor for life ends is in the nature of the path itself. The trail to Wheeler Peak is challenging, full of expectations and surprises, and culminates in a feeling of gratitude like no other. However, it is clearly defined. No path in life is. It is tempting to wish that the two could be one and the same. I sometimes find myself unreasonably frustrated at the very idea. I stand on a saddle between peaks, my mind wandering uncontrollably, flooded with thoughts, gazing up at the next waypoint as though it were an indication of where my life is headed. But if it were, I suppose that would only oversimplify what ought to be experienced in all its great obscurity. Part of the beauty of life is that we just don’t know what happens next.
On to where the trail stretches through the Aspen forest and arrives at a fork: go left and arrive at Stella lake, or go right and traverse the spine of the mountain. The left trail juts into a thin meadow where deer come to feast on the early summer annuals blossoming forth every day. A veil of trees stands between that and the alpine lake rudely carved out of the mountains by a glacier long lost in memory. There is only a single glacier left here, still shifting along in the shadow of Wheeler. Only the Bristlecone Pines have been around long enough to see much progress.
Stella Lake as seen from the spine or summit of Mt. Wheeler (no it's not that tiny really).
I stick to the right, remembering why I’m here. The lake can wait for tomorrow. I dream of alpine, of great heights where the air is thinner and the snow sticks around through the summer months, even in a dry climate. The path winds around switchbacks that prompt a frank questioning of whether the correct route was indeed chosen. Nevertheless, the destination draws nearer. Its terrain like this that merits worthiness to the summit seeker.
The spine leading to the highest point is straight ahead. A small clearing consisting of a limited number of weather beaten trees makes for a fine resting place before the grueling climb ahead. It is also a fair respite from the howling high-altitude winds that bite without remorse at any patch of skin left uncovered. But not this day. The normally unrelenting gales chose a day of rest, much to my delight. I have a special fondness for the sound of the wind making its way through the highlands. Nevertheless, its presence makes for a more difficult climb. I consider it a positive omen when a day above 10,000 feet is met with this rare calmness. It’s like the mountain itself is inviting one to commune with it and share in its majesty.
The "spine" of Mt. Wheeler, well above the 10,000 foot elevational threshold.
As the sparse number of trees gave way to loose rock and scattered patches of snow, I quietly took stock of my progress. This is hardly the infamous "death zone" (8,000 and above in meters, 26,000 in feet) in which seekers of extreme altitude weigh the quite literal prospects of life and death in every decision. Nonetheless, the thinner air even at this altitude is enough to cause shortness of breath and varying stages of physiological distress if not prepared for and managed properly. It is worthwhile to practice positive self talk internally rather than talking aloud to save that increasingly precious breath of air.
The art of chasing summits requires the adoption of personal principles, several already discussed. One not yet mentioned, and that became prescient as the trail severely steepened, is consistency in pace. As the path suddenly became inundated with loose rocks, the long practiced lesson in consistency was tested. After all, loose rocks make it that much more difficult to move at a steady pace, with their constant shifting and shuffling underfoot. Some crawling and stumbling was involved. At least there was little snow and no gale force wind!
Chasing the summit with scattered individual hikers (They had a head start but i was faster).
The sheer steepness of Mt. Wheeler during the most arduous stretch.
This is the most arduous stretch, the kind of trail that forces a determination of exactly how much one wants it. There is, after all, a logic to the dearth of life here - spiders in the rocks and lichen steadfastly adhering to any north facing surface that it can - essentially constituting the basis for biodiversity at extreme altitude. Each step is measured now. Every ounce of pressure is meticulously shifted onto the rocks until absolute, unwavering certainty of their weight holding merit prevails. Rest stops are now considered and made with increasing frequency as burning legs uproariously announce their displeasure with the climb's continuance. Alas, I assure them and myself that the destination is close at hand.
I thought to myself, why am I only focusing on what is right in front of me? After all, it is about enjoying one's surroundings in their entirety as much as possible. I stopped abruptly and endeavored to survey what lay below. It is fantastic, this unique sense of perspective earned only from aspiring to journey into rarefied heights. I will describe everything in detail relating to the ultimate vantage point: the summit. A short while and a number of shaky steps later, I arrived.
Arriving at the summit. Very little snow in a comparatively dry year.
A triumphant photo-op prior to the usual meditation.
Looking South over the sprawling field of ice-capped peaks in the Snake Range.
Looking North towards US Highway 50, the "Loneliest Highway in America".
A West orientation presiding over peaks of modestly lesser prominence.
A northeast oriented viewpoint capturing the studded ranges in the distance that the "basin & range" province is known for.
The Wheeler Peak scenic drive as it weaves and climbs into alpine splendor.
A casual transition of mountains gradually fading into the Great Basin Desert, facing the very close Utah state line, which that road receding into the distance leads to.
A wind turbine industrial-scale renewable energy development in the adjacent valley to the East.
A farm? Weird Nevada crop circles? Literally no idea what these are. You guess!
What I arrived to can never be aptly summarized or described in its entirety in this format. It can only be shown and experienced in the present moment. Regardless, I will dissect the scene element by element in some effort to convey its personal gravity, or meaning. I will say that it is impossible to avoid here the sort of grandiose verbiage espoused by other trekkers of high peaks. The summit of Mt. Wheeler is a window into the soul of the world itself. It should be clear what I sought, but what did I see?
I saw the entirety of the Snake Range's rugged terrain. I saw frosted mountaintops, their hulking, granitic frames carved intricately, to perfection, aligned within an alpine maze that went on not nearly as far as the eye can see, for the clarity at this vantage point is rarely surpassed. I saw lakes in shallow depressions in the rock left as natural mementos by glaciers having long since disappeared, the result of tedious action now providing life sustaining nourishment to the creatures that call this island in the sky home. Some of the adjacent peaks were forested, others bald and craggy much the same as the one I stood upon. Some jutted assertively into the sky, others opted to passively fall in place with the rest of the landscape. The Great Basin desert stretched imperceptibly forth, eventually meeting the mountains with a graceful transition of green bleeding into a brownish hue. It almost appears as though the desert is creeping ever closer, making its way toward the greenery with the utmost patience, like it views these mountains as a holdout from its grasp. Whichever the case, the transition is sensational. The highway served as a human-constructed intermediary, negotiating the climatic differences as it weaved first, from this vantage point, through the hills, then through Baker, and finally through the desert and beyond.
I cannot hold back from mentioning what is abundantly clear in a photograph below: the presence of an industrial-scale renewable energy development in a valley near to the National Park. So near, in fact, that it is hardly an expense of effort to pick out each wind turbine amongst row after row, from the trail to Wheeler. As someone who generally regards myself as a conservationist, particularly of the desert, this is a convoluted topic. I internally weigh a general distaste for scraping the largely untrammeled desert for development, with the need for combatting climate change, transitioning to cleaner energy, and so forth. The sticking point for me, I suppose, is that the turbines are practically abutting a National Park and wilderness areas, while I assume the site was chosen because it was cheap. A better idea, I think, is to site these projects closer to cities and in already degraded areas, reducing energy transmission distance and cost, and likewise preserving intact landscapes and biodiversity. Anyways, that's my spiel, for now.
Every other peak in the vicinity appears to be within reach up here. Anything conceivably could feel much the same way at 13,000 feet. The air thins and the possibilities broaden. I took the customary summit selfies with the assistance of a tripod and shutter timer and found a quiet space on top of the immediate world, the least challenging aspect of the entire affair given that relatively few hikers make it this far. I found a slab of pale grey rock dusted lightly with snow and meditated, though on what exactly I cannot now recall. I could've fallen asleep were it not for my responsibility to make it back to camp at a decent hour. The sun did not set until late in the evening, but I had made it a point to return around dinnertime. It was this self promise that negated a subsequent idea to claim a connection with Jeff Davis peak, tantalizingly close at hand. The rock on its north face however appeared especially loose, with few opportunities for firm footing observed from even this distance. I made a mental note to carefully investigate this and other potential routes for next time, as well as to summit Bald Mountain, seemingly with its own small trail winding up to its, well, sparse top.
I could keep going on and on and on about the majesty of the mountaintop, the sheer incredulity that such a place exists in this world, and so forth. But that would have this story devolve into nothing more than constant superlatives or definitions of greatness that few experience. I'll say that summiting Mt. Wheeler completed a journey within a journey for me, serving in part as a benchmark that reinforced a perception of potential with evidence behind the vision. Of course it was fun too.
A lone hiker making their way through snow and rock on the ascent.
This guy gave me a military vibe, and he was hella fast and clinical in his approach....I still passed him.
It was time to make my descent. I generally appreciate the aid of gravity on the return, as I expend considerably less effort while competing this half of the trek in record time. To do so in this instance however required a form of quick, yet measured and calculated, form of patience that is not all that common in day to day activities. It led to the repetition of a certain style of movement - plant, pivot, lunge. The accuracy of split moment choices was imperative. One wrong decision and I slide down the mountain. This presents two oppositional choices: dwell on the precarity of the situation at hand, or accept it and move forward displaying none of the doubt in the actions taken, despite its existence harbored in the mind. The second choice encapsulates a necessary transition as one progresses in this space of peak baggers and summit seekers. We are ALL afraid. Whether some are apt to admit it or not. I am often. It's a balance to strike with the self. No one does this perfectly. Not even me.
As I clambered down the spine of Wheeler, I surpassed several who left before me. This is something that I am most proud of: I have to this point never been passed up on a summit trail. I understand that it is due to a combination of reasons, spanning from my actual quickness and all encompassing desire (I want it more), to other hikers of course being unaware that I am stubbornly racing them to the finish. It is personally amusing that the majority are better equipped and more than a few visually appear to be in comparable or in even better shape than I. It's all just extra motivation. Think of it in a similar way as the athlete who starts imaginary beefs with their opponent or competitor so that the former can summon the intensity necessary to elevate their own performance.
It's startling to see just how minuscule each person stands in relation to this mass of earth soaring heavenward. In an image presented below, it is somewhat of a concerted mission to find the hiker who's diminutive form also blends with the rock. I think this ought to convey an appreciation of sorts for the mountain. We are not greater than it. It is not something to simply claim, surmount, or conquer, but to commune with. This is a point I believe is often unintentionally or innocently lost among those who do not hike or climb high peaks, and intentionally discarded among some of those who do. The broader mountain hiking/climbing community is full of constant flexes. It's like a perpetual d**ck measuring contest, with each project or goal becoming increasingly extreme and sometimes dangerous. To me, that's not even worth it. It has to be for a reason or reasons bigger or greater than the self. What deeper meaning is there in simply bragging? An intimate, personal connection with each mountain and its surroundings, in my frank opinion, is more fulfilling than any other conceivable option.
Look at how absolutely insignificant and tiny that hiker is compared to Wheeler!
Heading back down the spine of Mt. Wheeler with Stella Lake in the foreground.
That wild turkey again!
As I continue down the mountain, Stella Lake looms not so significant in proportion, yet it exists from this height as a distinct landmark, a way of informally measuring one's progress. Finally, and after more than a few precarious stumbles that freed loose rocks from their former perches, the upper reaches of the tree line are in immediate view. The temporary freeing feeling of existing above a landscape otherwise defined by the presence of trees gave way to a comforting arboreal display.
The path below, leading up to the Stella Lake junction, on the return became a tricky set of switchbacks not particularly suited for tired legs and wobbly knees. However, this challenge was surpassed with the same stubborn conviction as all that came before.
I will brag about one thing that I consider a skill because It is not an everyday strength for me, and that is acute observation on trails. I've caught snakes several times before I or someone else stepped on them, and I routinely pick up subtle details of the landscape, including sounds, smells, and things of the sort. This time I heard a light crack coupled with a faint rattle of stirring leaves. I cautiously rounded a corner - and there it stood. Another wild turkey! Mere feet away! This proved to be far more special than the encounter on the drive up to the trailhead. It was a state of general acceptance, from the turkey, of my presence that I truly appreciated. It could have been startled and chosen to flee, or alternatively, become defensive and charge me, but the turkey resigned itself instead to continuing to peck away at the ground in what I assume was a search for sustenance. Do turkeys get bored? Who knows. This one did not seem much interested in doing a whole lot.
A fleeting jaunt through the Aspen groves once more and I was home free, meaning of course that I reached the trailhead and my car. At this point, if it hasn't either been adequately inferred or if it was said already and this post is so long that I lost track, its fair to wonder what the meaning of all this is. I'm talking momentary and bigger picture. The momentary aspect is somewhat simple: accomplishing a goal, some personal glory, testing my fitness limits at the highest altitude that they've ever been tested at. The bigger picture is more nuanced, more abstract. I'll try to put it into words. The whole experience of summiting Mt. Wheeler literally and figuratively furthered the bounds of what I believe is possible within myself. The wave of confidence that arose in the wake of the hike was surely something. My connection with and appreciation for that landscape was strengthened in a unique way that only engaging in that specific activity could bring about. It was and remains a hallmark moment in my life, and I surmise that this will continue to be the case for years to come. Here's to reconnecting sometime in the imperceptible future with the majestic conglomeration of rock, snow, and dreams that goes by the name of Wheeler.
Comments