Hiking Mt. Whitney

In the 1970s, when I was a young minister with lots of ambition, I agreed to lead a junior high summer camp. This particular camp took only about a dozen campers and guided them along the Sierra Trail, a total of 36 miles over six days and culminating in a climb to the top of Mount Whitney, the highest peak in the continental United States at a height of 14,495 feet. I don’t know what I was thinking.

The only reason the hike was even possible was because we were co-led by Frank Goodycoontz, an experienced mountaineer. Our hikers were mostly seventh graders, and the youngest, 12 ½ years old, would turn out to be the anchor dragging from our tail. In the interest of confidentiality for hikers everywhere, we’ll call him ‘Slug’. At the front of our band, was our 8^th grader, Charlotte. She was mature, already full figured, and blond. She knew what effect she had on boys, and I would have been in trouble if we’d any boys on the hike who knew what to do with her. Charlotte’s closest friend, Lucy, was also present- a 90 pound tomboy who loved the natural world.

Everyone carried their own pack, with their own food and water and cooking utensils. We hiked most of every day, and then prepared our hot meal as well as our lunch for the next day. There were no crafts or games like you might expect at some camps. Our daily challenge was to get all 12 youth the five or 6 miles of our allotted journey safely. We didn’t have the same kind of challenges that some youth camps have. The boys were too exhausted at the end of the day to develop any pranks. The girls were too depleted to flirt themselves into any trouble.

My most memorable day of the hike, turned out to be the last. It was a cool day for late August but we were plenty warm since the trail was mostly uphill all day. We were all in shirt sleeves and shorts as we approached the saddle where one could turn left and climb to the peak, or right, and start down the steep eastern slope called Whitney Portal. As we hiked through the day the sky clouded over, and began a gentle rain. At 13,000 feet, the rain became more like snow. As ‘Slug’ and I brought up the rear of our band to the saddle, we found every one huddled against a cliff face. Lucy was sitting on the trail with her arms around her knees, shivering. Frank was crouched beside her and the rest of the kids in a circle around them. Frank whispered in my ear that Lucy was quickly becoming hypothermic and we needed to act. I instructed the rest of the hikers to put on warm clothes while Frank broke out his pack and began heating soup over a sterno flame in the middle of the trail. He put Lucy into a sleeping bag with Charlotte right on the side of the trail and quickly fed her a cup of hot soup. In less than 20 minutes, her blue lips turned pink again. We packed back up and headed down toward the base of the mountain.

In retrospect, our whole group agreed it was better to bypass the peak and return to the desert floor than to risk the life of one of our group. I was so glad that sometimes God appears at just the right moment, and looks just like Frank Goodycoontz.