Alpine Logistics

Summer in Yosemite was in full swing and it was impossible to climb. We had tried; in the morning we went to El Capitan’s base but after barely two climbs the sun was already beating down on us, the rock incandescent with heat and our hands, which were still adapting to these renowned American cracks, slid all over the place. “Enough!” cried Julia, “If we want to get anything done we need to find somewhere cooler to climb.”

No problem, we thought, we’ll go to Tuolumne Meadows in the higher part of the park. However at 7am the campsite was already full (people had been queuing since 6 o’clock that morning), so without any particular destination in mind, we headed south down the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada mountains.

Whilst Julia drove I sat with my eyes glued to the windscreen, fascinated by the stupendous granite walls that kept coming into view. I began to dream…

After several hours and many granite walls we arrived in the first town, Bishop, where we bought some food and went in search of a guide book for the Needles. We walked into the climbing shop and started looking at all the guide books. As I was flicking through one on the High Sierra I got a sudden flash, “Julia, I’ve found the mountain! Mount Whitney…here’s the topo…cool!”

Julia wasn’t very convinced by the idea at first, since the Sierra are bordered by desert with temperatures of 40°C in the valley floors; this seemed a bit much for long walk-ins with heavy packs. However we pondered the idea for a while and a plan started to form; after all you have to sweat a bit to earn the roof of the States.

Having stocked up and made copies of the relevant pages we headed for the Ranger Station: here in America you have to get a permit to climb a mountain, something that for us Europeans is a bit strange….lets not go there!

We swam through the boiling mid-day heat to make the short walk from the car to the building, where air conditioning returned our bodies to their normal temperatures. We asked for a permit only to be told that they had all been booked in about March; we would have to wait in the hope that someone might change their plans. Bummer!

Disappointed, we went back outside to have lunch in the 40° shade of a small tree. Some time later, not very hopeful, we tried our luck again…either it goes or we’ll go, we thought.

As if by magic the three days we needed had freed up. We filled in a series of forms, hired the bear box we had agreed to keep our food in and off we went on our new adventure. We left the valley floor for Whitney Portal, the trailhead about 1000m higher up, which took us in next to no time from sweltering desert to a spectacular mountain environment with conifers, grass, rivers and mountains. Satisfied that we had made the right choice and back to near perfect temperatures, we cheerfully pitched our tent and prepared our gear as we planned the ascent.

The alarm went off at 5am. We ate a breakfast of oats with milk, dismounted our home, threw everything into the car and headed for the start of the foot path. It was 6 o’clock and we were just in time to see the dawn lighting up Mount Whitney’s beautiful east face, turning it a spectacular golden colour. The moon was still high. Encouraged by the magical scene we began the 2000m ascent to the base of tomorrows climb.

The path wound its way up a deep valley in amongst thick vegetation, deep streams and across some exposed steps on narrow ledges. Eventually we emerged from this jungle at a point where the valley opened out and presented us with a garden of multicoloured flowers, sheets of water running down the back of smooth granite humps and convoluted trees that released wonderful smells of resin into the air: “We’re in paradise!

The place was so beautiful it was hard to know which way to look. Exalted we walked on barley noticing the weight of our packs, passing the first lake then the second, our mountain getting gradually closer. The landscape changed as we gained height; paradise turned into the moon and lush green gave way to the grey of the granite that rules here. After 5 hours we reached our base camp, just under the south east face of Mount Whitney, on a platform of granite suspended at 3800m. From here a breathtaking panorama opens up onto some of the Sierra’s most elegant mountains, Death Valley lying far below to the east.

We set camp near Ice Berg Lake and went for a recce after lunch to find out where tomorrow’s route began. We took a few photos, cooked dinner and ate before the sun disappeared behind the mountain and the temperature plummeted. By 17.30 we were in bed after a long day.

The alarm was still set at 5am from the previous morning. We wanted to be at the start of the first pitch at dawn because at noon the face would start going into shadow and become very cold. There was also the risk of thunderstorms later in the day, so the earlier we left the better.

After the usual breakfast we set off, each with a rope over our shoulder and a series of Camelots attached to our harnesses. We were climbing by 06.15 just as the sun was rising above the horizon and the face was flooded with a warm golden light, as we had witnessed the day before. We started to climb up the cracks and corners of the first pitch in the beautiful early morning glow. One pitch down, eleven more to go!

The climbing wasn’t hard and we had fun moving our way up the perfectly parallel cracks. In some places the rock was great, in others we had to be careful not to pull anything down. On alternating leads it was Julia’s turn when we reached the crux; a corner with a finger jam crack to easier ground. One last exposed pitch lead to the less vertical and blocky final pitches, which we opted to simul-climb.

At 12.30 we stepped onto the top, Mount Whitney under our feet. With that came a vast 360 degree panorama across the Sierra and the desert beyond. We sat and enjoyed the view with a well-earned cheddar cheese sandwich. After a few summit photos we began the descent via the Mountaineer’s Route; a loose scree gully which many people use as an ascent route.

The first few metres needed concentration as they required a down climb on rotten rock, in places icy, before reaching easier terrain and eventually our camp. Happy but exhausted we decided to descend a few hundred metres to lower altitude where it was less cold, greener and generally more hospitable. After a couple of hours we reached the higher of the two lakes we had passed on the way up. By this time we were starving; we set camp, ate and were in bed by sunset.

No alarm today. We woke up the way we like best; when our bodies tell us it’s time to do so. The sun had risen not long ago so we made the most of the fantastic light to take some photographs of the mountains and their near-perfect reflections in the lake. We began the long descent. Our packs felt heavy but our spirits were high and we were accompanied all the way by the fabulous mountain scenery.

After some hours we were back at our starting point. The first thing we did was remove the 22kg rucksacks from our backs, then we stripped and threw ourselves into the freezing river near-by for a wash. Feeling refreshed we sat down for a plate of chicken and potatoes at the Whitney Portal Shop; the adventure was over.
Having fulfilled an objective, the first thing any descent climber does is to plan the next and so came Julia’s words; “OK, where to now?”

After twelve hours of watching endless desert streaming past our windscreen, it was dark and way past the natural bed-time our bodies had established since the beginning of our climbing trip to the American West. We were now on our way to the Cirque of the Towers in the Wind River Range; names that bring a knowing smile onto the face of any climber who’s been there; a little known gem nestling in the desert.

“There should be a turning on our right just as we come into the next town. We had come to realise that ‘town’ in Wyoming can mean a street with a handful of wooden houses on either side, so they’re easy to miss. Our turning soon became an off-road track that injected us into the blackness of the desert night; our view of the world limited to the dusty sphere of light created by the car’s headlights…so this is why everyone here has four by fours as big as my bedroom.

Bumpier and bumpier, dodging buffalo and ducks resting on our track, it wasn’t hard to lose orientation. “I can’t see any mountains, are we sure this is the right place? I asked. Forty long kilometres later and now travelling through dense pine forest, we found ourselves in a car park, apparently in the middle of nowhere, under a sign requesting five dollars a night: “Post envelope no more than half an hour after arrival.

The following morning we were in no rush. We had the inviting prospect of humping twenty plus kilos of climbing and camping gear onto our backs for the 15Km approach. Bear-spray in hand and with an occasional holler to alert wildlife (and the odd back-country fisherman) of our arrival we made our way into the wilderness.
Thick forest gave way to open meadows littered with spring flowers of every colour. Rivers brimming with trout wound their way through the wide open valleys.

In the distance, as we gained elevation in a narrow-sided valley, the great looming tower of Warbonnet Peak came into sight, guarding the entrance to our destination. After six hours, a giant boulder field and several snow patches later, we gleefully arrived at Warbonnet’s flank and the col.

Dropping down the other side our excitement grew as a fairy tale landscape opened out in front of us. A multitude of small streamlets emerging from the ground tumbled energetically through flower-strewn meadows and dwarf alpine forests into a huge lake far below; the head of the valley was dominated by a 5km-long army of giant granite flames thrusting 600m skyward.

The clouds had thickened since the morning and shafts of sunlight beamed through creating a dramatic lighting effect on this grandiose stage. We stood in awe, wondering how many other climbers had been lucky enough to see this place. How many routes must there be!? We searched for a flat patch to pitch our tent and gratefully set down our packs.

It soon become obvious however that even paradise isn’t perfect, as we were engulfed by a swarm of small but incredibly hungry mosquitoes. They were to be our faithful companions for the rest of our stay…not even 100% DEET and several layers of clothing could keep us from their bites. Our only respite was at night in the tent.

Having hung our food out of the reach of bears (we hoped), we ate and made a fire; a useful anti-mosquito tool; to make plans for the following day.

Our Climbing and Hiking guide for the Wind River Range revealed that, far from the hundreds of lines we had imagined at first sight of the towers, only a handful of routes had been established…with descents largely left to the imagination. Aware that the afternoon could bring thunderstorms and only able to guess how we might descend once on top, we opted for a relatively short and easy first route. Despite the altitude (our tent was pitched at about 3300m) the sun was intense and it was almost too hot during the day; we were able to climb in little more than a T-shirt. To our great relief a light breeze kept the mosquitoes away whilst we were up high.

The rock was solid with amazing grip; an absolute joy to climb. Our line took a series of well protected cracks to the top, around 4000m, where we took in the 360° panorama. I felt so small. Huge valleys lined with granite walls, forests, meadows and lakes stretched out as far as I could see. Beyond that I knew there were hundreds of kilometres of desert, and here were we standing like two little dots in the middle of it all; what a tremendous sense of isolation. I looked down at our tiny yellow tent; it stood out amongst the brilliant fresh green vegetation fed by all those steams. ‘This is living’, I thought.

We descended via three or four abseils using slings left by other people, occasionally adding one of our own to reinforce the more sun-bleached stacks of tat. Hungry and tired we returned to our tent and the mosquitoes for our dinner: couscous, dehydrated vegetables and anchovy paste garnished with hot chilli peppers, plus half an apple each for pudding. We ate on the move to avoid being eaten to death ourselves since dusk was mosquito rush-hour. “This would be a good ‘Lose Weight’ programme we joked, although it didn’t seem very funny at the time. “Can’t even sit still whilst you eat!”

The next morning we rose early. We wanted to attempt Pingora’s north-east face; a historical ten-pitch 5.8 route on one of the area’s most prominent towers. We had to be down by early afternoon in case the weather turned and also to avoid going into shade.

After breakfast, as I was hauling the food bag back up into its tree, Manuel beckoned me over to where he was brushing his teeth. I crept as quickly and quietly as I could in my walking boots. A pair of moose was standing munching leaves in a sunny clearing amongst the pines. They considered us as we watched them motionless from our rock and soon decided to disappear into the undergrowth. It’s incredible how such huge beasts appear so inconspicuously from the forest, apparently from no-where. It makes you wonder what else you walk past or could be standing near in these places without being aware of it…my imagination ran wild as we trudged through forest and marsh to reach the base of the route.

After an airy traverse to reach the bottom of the first stance, we enjoyed pitch after pitch of superb granite and varied climbing; stemming, laybacks, jamming and the occasional roof or more technical smearing move. Route finding wasn’t a simple task and on several occasions who-ever was on lead had to probe in several directions before finding what we considered to be the right way. Exhilarated, we finally topped out after about 6 hours and another spectacular route. A series of sometimes dubious abseils returned us to Pingora’s imposing base, now in the shadows.

We were back at the tent just in time to prepare dinner before dusk. During the meal we made the difficult decision to walk out the following morning. Although there were still a great many other towers to explore and in the knowledge that it would be some time before we would be able to return, our food supplies and tolerance for the mosquitoes were fast dwindling.

That night Manuel got up to go to the loo; I stirred in my sleep as he unzipped the tent and let in a rush of cold. “Julia, look at this! he whispered from outside. Poking my head cautiously from behind the flysheet, I was greeted by one of the most beautiful and magical scenes I have ever seen. A vast, deep blue/black sky densely studded with bright stars filled my vision. It was contoured by the dark and mysterious jagged outline of The Cirque of the Towers.

In the frigid, silent night air I let myself be absorbed into the nocturnal landscape; like another world reserved only for the trees, rocks and streams that belonged here. It felt like I could touch eternity in that moment, I was honoured to witness this grandiose display. Is this what the world was like before we built cities and roads? I remembered an evening when I was a small child living in Kent: I looked into the pink-tinted night sky to the north and asked “Daddy, is that the sunset? To my horror even then my father replied; “No, that’s London. There was no light pollution in the Wind River that night; the stars pierced through the thousands of millions of light-years of space and time that separated us and cast a shadow behind our two-man tent.

Since our arrival in the Wind River we had been greeted each morning with clear skies and brilliant sunshine, this morning was different; there was a light wind and small clouds had started to form - the weather was about to change. We were in no hurry, so I spent some time after breakfast taking photographs of some of the beautiful flowers we had been living amongst for three days. In the early morning light you could see everything in its full glory; translucent purple, red, yellow and white petals and bright green leaves swaying occasionally in the breeze.

It occurred to me what a contrasting landscape this was. On the valley floor, close up, it was green, welcoming and full of life; gurgling streams, butterflies, flowers, mammals and birds. As soon as you looked up there were the unmoving, solemn masses of granite of the Towers and a sky that could change so quickly from cheerful blue to a menacing swirl of dark grey. I was sad to be leaving this wonderful place. There is a huge potential for new routes both here and elsewhere in the range, but it was time to move on for new adventures.

We shouldered our packs and turned our backs on valley….but we had already made plans to come back: “next time we thought, “we’ll come armed with an anti-mosquito mesh tent and stay for at least a week!