The power and strength we had built over the previous three
weeks propelled us past the weekend peak-baggers toward the summit
of Mt. Whitney. As we climbed, the rounded west side of the
mountain kept unfolding and unfolding, hesitant to reveal the hut
that rests at the summit.
The power and strength we had built over the previous three weeks propelled us past the weekend peak-baggers toward the summit of Mt. Whitney. As we climbed, the rounded west side of the mountain kept unfolding and unfolding, hesitant to reveal the hut that rests at the summit.
Finally, it was there. The ground fell away in all directions. Looking north, a tangle of rugged country and massive peaks stretched as far as the eye could see. Over the past twenty-one days, Drew and I had grunted and plodded through all I could see and beyond. Now, all of it, as well as the 48 contiguous states, were below our feet.
A month ago, I wrote here that my 18-year-old son and I were setting out to hike the John Muir Trail. My overriding fear was how would a father and son get along on an extended backpack trip? If you offer a young adult such features as bad food, oppressive mosquitoes, no toilets, carrying a heavy load all day every day over high mountain passes aggravated by the fact that his only company for three weeks will be his father, the potential for problems is staggering.
In addition to the enduring these hardships, he will surely be thinking about all that he is missing; chilling with friends, music, TV, the Internet.
Beside these potential hazards, we had an unexpected difficulty: Bad weather. The Sierras are noted for outstanding summer weather. With the exception of an occasional afternoon thundershower, it almost never rains in the high country. But we experienced what one backcountry ranger described as a “once every six or seven year weather pattern.” A tropical storm in Texas and another in Baja combined to give us rain on 14 of the 21 days we were gone.
Now we are preoccupied with additional critical questions. Will this rain last five minutes or five hours? Should we wait it out, walk through it or call it a day and set up camp? I don’t want to cross 12,000-foot Muir Pass in this thunder and lightning. How fast can you set up a tent in a torrential hailstorm?
I confess to being a little bitter, even angry, during the trip about this weather. I am used to pleasant tent-less nights under the stars. I grew weary of being driven into the tent-tomb to escape the downpours and the constant preoccupation with maintaining our schedule (we had arranged to meet people at specific times along the trail to re-supply our food) in the face of the dicey weather.
Standing at the top of Mt. Whitney, assessing our three-week, 220-mile walk, I was pleased. Barely a discouraging word was spoken between Drew and me – certainly far fewer than would have been exchanged during the same time at home. The adversity we shared pulled us together. There were moments of frustration, but for Drew, the glass was always half-full. The idea of bailing out never came up. We were committed to finish.
Take heart parents. Through the affectations of young adulthood, I caught a glimpse of a solid core. Behind the attitude of indifference and open hostility that seems to be a part of the transition to adulthood, there may be person of substance.
I have the emotional constitution of a two-by-four. A movie can coax a tear from me, but nothing in my own life ever reaches me emotionally. So, I was surprised as I approached that hut on the summit of Mt. Whitney when, out of nowhere, the tears came. I tried, but I couldn’t stop. Some relief, some pride, a special moment with my son – I don’t know. But it felt good.
Ron Erskine’s column appears in The Dispatch every Wednesday.
