Mount Whitney - part I

I burst out of the office doors, a flurry of spreadsheets in my wake. It’s a race against the clock to get on the road before the rest of the city’s population. A race that is lost, which results in a few hours spent peering out over golden rolling hills in stop and go traffic. Could be worse. A bunch of nothing compared to the gridlock back east.  My first weekend in California with a car tastes like freedom and having to play the old cat and mouse with a bunch of commuters isn’t enough to ruffle my feathers.

We stop halfway for a burrito dinner. A dubious choice before spending a few days in the woods but the best available option and so we dive in.

Darkness falls before we reach Yosemite but the moon, hanging heavy and yellow in the sky, provides enough light to hint at the wonders that lie below on the valley floor.

We barrel into camp in the wee hours of morning and collapse into sleeping bags. Morning comes in a hurry and I’m abuzz with excitement and nerves for what lies ahead. The first miles roll by easy as we settle in to a rhythm and soak up the surroundings towering above our heads. 

About lunchtime the headache hits me right between the eyes and settles in for what will be an extended stay. We’re at Trail Camp by early afternoon where we drop our packs and I skirt around some boulders to find a place to dry heave in private. Hats and jackets come out as we boil water for dinner and watch the sun slide behind a distant peak for the night.  I crawl into my tent with what feels like a hangover of epic proportions.  Defeated by a mere 6 miles, I resign myself to throwing up the white flag if I still feel this bad in the morning...