Mt. Williamson - First Attempt

My climbing partner in crime, Mark, and I set off to the Eastern Sierras with our sights on two of Cali's finest offerings: Mt. Williamson and Mt. Tyndall. In this early season attempt, we were hoping for some good winter conditions to test our mettle against. Thus far, the precip this winter has been dismal... in other words, nonexistent.

As per usual, we worked our mandatory half-workdays that Friday and then split. for the mountains. Coming from Phoenix, my attempt at beating LA traffic failed, despite the early start. Tack on another 1.5 hours. I rolled into Lone Pine around 8pm, got our permit, some quick food and then set out to meet Mark in Independence. I reunited with Mark, we split a beer at some quaint lil' French coffee shop, convinced a really sweet Indian lady to make us subs after-hours, and then drove off into the darkness.

We both took turns drifting our front-wheel drive cars along the dirt roads.

KEEP READING...

After a semi-night of very little sleep, we both awoke, snatched our bear-stashed food from the nearby tree and finished our packing.

Ready for everything... or so I thought.

About thirty minutes in, we became wise to the conditions that lie ahead. I'm not sure if we even set foot on a patch of snow yet. The dawn was beginning to emerge on the horizon across the valley, illuminating the terrain that surround us. Sure enough, all of the southern aspects of the canyon were bare. Dirt and rock. The northern, shaded slopes still had some promise of the white stuff, so our hopes weren't dashed. However, we did decide to lose the five pounds of snowshoe we were lugging up. Good call, we would later find out. Not a trace of snow deeper than the shins for the remainder of the trip.

 We set out, checking off the four major stream crossings and before long, we set up the fifty-or-so switchbacks up to the main saddle. Back and forth, to and fro, it felt like an eternity as we strayed back and forth up that bloody slope.

 Alas, we arrived at the saddle at about ten. We were still stoked for what lie ahead and we caught our first glimpse of the objective.

Looming in the distance emerged Williamson and the impressive NE ridge with both horn precipices. Someday we'll have to come back and try our luck at that ridge. For now, we were humbled knowing that we would have to traverse through the large canyon, still separated from the main ridge of Williamson by and equally-impressive dividing crag. The views were astounding. We could see out into Owens valley, at over 4000 feet below our elevation.

I got the shot. Give me the word.

We would have to traverse across the steep, switchbacked terrain
all the way to the notch at the very far back right.

 

From here on, we trudged up and over sandy, rocky trail, painfully taking in each weighted step with our stiff, winter mountaineering double boots making sure to enhance the feeling all the more. The sun beat down and we baked out there, in the middle of winter, maaannnn. Come on.

"Uhhh, this is sand, not snow, bro. This sucks!"

Finally at around two or three in the afternoon, we arrived at Mahogany Flats, one of two spots to camp along the trail. We would later find, it's indeed one of the ONLY flat spots on the trail. We were beat. Mark suggested we rest for a few and cook up some food before pressing on further. At this point, our Shepards pass objective was out of the scope for the rest of the dragging day. We battled fatigue all day long and the thought of more switchbacks aggravated our weakened outlook on the remaining trek ahead. That's when it really started.

My head began to get cloudy and my entire body began to revolt against any further use of energy. I laid down on my pack in the snow-topped sand and passed out. From then on, I knew I was fighting something. I recalled the previous week that had cast a stressful spell over my work life. The cough that I thought was starting to overcome had come back in full force and gunk began to fill the bottom lobes of my lungs. Man, I wasn't over this quite yet. Fighting through it was only enhancing its strength and by the evening I was in bad shape. We agreed to press on despite the setting sun, in search of the next camp spot before the pass: Anvil camp.

 Trying to maintain good spirits despite our setbacks.

Before long, nightfall dropped its thick tarp of stillness onto us. We could see no further than 50 feet from our headlamps. We counted each switchback from Mahogany, and checked our map repeatedly. We began to hike out above the treeline, which we read would mean that we would be leaving the Anvil camp area. Desperately trying to find the camp, we split up. I went back down the trail, Mark went higher. We called out to each other the results of our failed finds and slowly returned to meet one another in frustration. We were both at the ends of our ropes of hope. We talked it over and decided to set camp right there in the middle of the trail. It was the best idea at the time. We couldn't tell where we were relative to the marking of the camp on the map. We immediately began the chores of digging a level platform in the snow, back-filling the exaggerated low spots and pitching the tent. At this point, adrenaline was the only thing fueling my movements. I kept pouring over the list of chores to do in my head: melt snow, drink water, eat food, repeat. The day had finally crept up on Mark and he began to feel lousy and uncontrollably cold, despite the layers he was bundled up in. He crawled into his bag and passed out. I would try to wake him every thirty minutes or so to give him first dibs on the freshly melted water and hot food. I wrestled with a stove that kept losing its pressure, quickly lengthening the time to get a full pot of snow melted to something consumable. Finally at around eleven that night, I gave up. It had taken almost two hours to melt a nalgene worth of water. Pathetic.

We slept in the next morning. Mark awoke lively and rested, but my fatigue still lingered. I crawled out of my sleeping bag, drenched in sweat and shivering. I still had a fever. My head was still painfully cloudy and every joint in my body ached in excruciating unison. Okay, I thought, one step at a time. Need to pee. Need to drink fluids. Then breakfast. Then we'll see how everything feels.

We slept in that Sunday morning and the sun beat down from its apex.

Then the fiasco with the stove began. The trouble I was having the night before wasn't just bad luck, or due to the cold conditions. We started 'er up again to get breakfast going and our issue with the ceasing flame was fully realized. No problem, right? Mark broke out his repair kit and methodically stepped his way through all the diagnostic tests. First problem: no o-ring. Indeed, that's right -- the o-ring that seals the pump to the fuel tank had disintegrated over time and there was nothing left. Replaced. Still nothing. Mark continued the delicate task of replacing every feature on that thing before the tell signs of a working stove were apparent. An hour plus of wasted time had come and gone. In the meantime, I fought with myself to dress into today's clothes, dragging like molasses. This wasn't a good sign.

Time to celebrate our working stove!... with dance! We quickly ate some mountain house chilly mac and packed up the remaining traces of camp.

We set out up the trail that had previously eluded our bearings the night before. In daylight, the spectacular views were both daunting and comforting, providing our eyes with something tangible to head towards. We rounded another switchback and another small area of trees opened up before us. NO! As it turned out, the sly Anvil camp was hiding just beyond a corner more of trail. If only we had made it to here the night before. That would have eliminated much of the hassle we dealt with, back-filling a tent platform and moving boulder aside to accommodate a two-person tent. SIGH!

This small triumph was great for our spirits, but proved to be insufficient in curbing the fever that was still creeping its way through my muscles. I began to get noxious, with an overwhelming pain in my stomach. Each movement was again intensifying the dizziness in my head and my breaks became more frequent. I would sink to my knees or drape over my trekking poles to allow my head to catch up to my prior burst of strides. Finally I sank into the snow, which was now plentiful. I leaned over with my head down and all I remember from that moment was Mark patting me on the back saying, "it's time. We gotta go down." Those were the words I never wanted to hear, but for a moment they provided a glimpse of hope. I was feeling worse and worse throughout the day and the thought of trying to get to 12,000 feet to camp for the next night, a day behind schedule, was not sounding great. Mark and I split ways -- he ascended to a high point to get cell signal to call our loved ones, while I traced my way back the way we had come. I kicked trees to vent my frustration and finally slumped into a nook in one of the pines to wait for Mark.

Not good times for the fella on the right.

From then on, it was a race against the sun. We had a new objective: get back to the first saddle to camp for the night and hope I didn't get any worse. With that new objective came a new-found energy within me. We practically ran down the trail, retracing our steps from the day prior. I would stumble at least once every two minutes and rest to regain composure, then set out again. It was a battle against myself for the next four hours.

There's the saddle, we finally muttered to one another. We had made good time to that point and decided to go further. We descended to the north side, steeped in snow and icy switchbacks. We carefully made our way down, in hopes of making it all the way back to the car that night.

Goodbye for now, Willy. We'll be back.

Ugh.

Finally down, we changed into a nice fresh set of clothes and warm cars with heaters.

I learned a valuable lesson this trip about humility and knowing when to set the ego aside. Sure we invested a lot in the planning and the approach. But sickness is never a good recipe for strenuous activity, especially in the wilderness, and at altitude. I really learned a lot about my climbing partner and best friend Mark too. He was also willing to put aside his ambition in order to help his friend get back safely. Although nothing got too crazy in getting down, I attribute our success to his support and understanding and drive to step through each motion in descending the mountain together safely. You're a great fella, dude. Many, many thanks, brah.

We'll be back. Hopefully next time with better "winter conditions".