Guitar Lake - Whitney Portal via Mount Whitney

You’d think it was a military drill by our efficiency. No sooner had my shrill alarm pierced the silence at 05 in the morning, before we slid out of our sleeping bags and dismantled camp mechanically. Our headlamps were the only source of lights in the utter darkness. Muffled sounds from a distance where Philip, Jeff and Freda were going through similar motions. No time to waste, crawl behind a large rock to poop in the bag that we’d picked up at Crabtree Junction (which ironically was decorated with the American flag, it’s hardly patriotic to crap on the nation…).

I was freezing in my shorts and t-shirt, but felt surprisingly perky as I took to the trail (for the last time!) munching on a Pro bar (the last one!). My only worry was our limited water supply.

The Sierra had been bountiful in this record snow year, but once we began the ascent there were no more water sources until we reached the lakes on the other side.

Philip generously let me scavenge some caffeine-infused gummy blocks and he waved us on as we passed him with steady strides.

The first grey hue of dawn illuminated our paths as we started up the switchbacks to Whitney. We would climb 1000m to reach the summit. High above we could see the headlamps of hikers attempting a sunrise summit, like little fireflies on the mountainside. Walk, turn, walk turn. Breathe, stop, breathe. Every step took us higher than we’d ever been before, and even our steady pace couldn’t save us from dizziness and slightly slurred speech as our brains screamed for oxygen. Our naturally fast pace put us ahead of the pack, but we were moving slower than ever. I tried eating a Larabar in a daze, tasting only ash.

The sun rose over the northern Sierra in the distance, creating spectacular reflections on Guitar Lake. Please lungs, hold on! My heart pumped frantically, my legs felt like logs. We inched up the switchbacks, a tiny outcrop plummeting hundreds of meters to the basin down below. Some ledges were so narrow we had to cling to the rockface and squeeze through chasms. At last we reached Trail Crest, where we dumped our packs and shooed away obese marmots that eyed us hungrily.

Sun filtering through the clouds above Owen’s Valley

Without the pack, I seemed to float upwards. The trail was wide now, and cracks in the mountain opened up to spectacular vistas of Owens Valley to the east. We were speedwalking now, tracing the iconic crags of the Whitney Crest.

At last we burst out of the shadows and into the white light, making our way along the final snowfields beneath the summit.

I can’t remember if I ran the last steps. But once last rush of adrenaline sent me stumbling through the field of white boulders to the very tip of the mountain, where groups of other triumphant hikers were celebrating their victory.

The notes in my journal end here. I ran out of patience and paper, and only have the broad strokes of long-term memory to rely on now. But I do remember the blissful hour we spent on the summit, cheering for our friends as they popped over the summit ridge one by one. I remember the bliss as I finally bit into my honeycomb Crunchie that I’d saved for this last moment of glory. Hundreds of peaks in the High Sierra framed us 360, and the world was ours.

I couldn’t quite take it in. On one hand, I was so ready for it to be over. To sleep in a real bed, to wash my hair with expensive shampoo, to walk the air-conditioned aisles at Whole Foods. But at the same time, I knew that the allure of everyday life is short-lived. The magic of the trail is everlasting. It is these moments we look back on when we think about the highlights of our life. The great adventures. Summits that make up the pinnacles of our existence.

I could tell you at length about our long descent to Whitney Portal. 9,5 miles of winding downhill (and will you believe it, some rain!), ever re-enforcing my belief that the JMT NOBO is a suicide mission. We got our hitch with some amazed tourists, and had a fittingly glamorous recovery in Los Angeles. Vegan meals, Venice beach, mascara all the way. I could tell you of how our relationship disintegrated shortly after we arrived back home, trying to settle into a life that was no longer ours.

But I’m not going to. Because this is the story of hiking the John Muir Trail, and that ends on the summit of Mount Whitney. Arms stretched out wide, embracing the whole world from up above. Head turned up towards the sky, looking out at the endless mountains we’d passed. Feeling the raw strength in my legs that carried me all this way. Knowing that here, in the wild, I am free.