where very few fucks are given

I’m not an “Adrenaline Junkie.”

I don’t sky dive, bungee jump, hang-glide, or climb rocks. I don’t seek out those kinds of thrills. But I still have managed to have a few brushes with death.

It started with a fun conversation at one of my best friend’s birthday. I think I said: “Hey, we’re not getting any younger, we should do something awesome this year. How about we hike up to the top of Mt. Whitney?”

We had all grown up visiting my Dad’s cabin in Sequoia National Park, and had climbed a few mountains in the western Sierras, but nothing over 13,000 feet.

Everyone said: “Yeah, let’s do it! It’ll be awesome!”

So plans were made, permits obtained, and we trained kinda seriously for five months.   Some of us took Diamox to prevent altitude sickness. On a beautiful day in early August 2010, we all met at the Whitney Portal to camp out the day before the big hike.

It was going to be amazing. Five friends, good food, perfect weather, a good strenuous effort. We were going to hike up, hike down, and have an amazing cookout with steaks, and we had cases of celebratory Sierra Nevada Pale Ale  waiting for our victorious return.

One bailed before we hit the trail. His head wasn’t in the right place. So he bid us adieu and hit the road. Now four, we set out on the trail at 1:00 am. We hiked in the dark, with headlamps. When we got to the lake at about 12,500 feet, altitude claimed the first victim. We sent him back down the mountain.

Three of us started up the dreaded 96 switch backs as the golden sun rose onto the mountain facing us.

The climb was a grind.  I ate as much as I could, sucked down caffeinated power gels, drank Gatorade, and noticed a light cough developing. I figured it was the super dry freezing air.  Or, maybe the light smoke from a forest fire that was burning 40 miles away.  Undaunted, we soldiered on.  I coughed some more.

On the way, we met many other hikers; some older, some younger.  At the top, I asked many people how old they were:  The oldest was 76, the youngest was 12.  I was amazed; I wanted to be like that 76 year old fella that said it was his 14th time up the mountain.  Amazing.

While we were up there, the rescue helicopter whisked off three hikers.  I wasn’t going to be one of them; I imagined that ride would probably cost $20,000.  Money I didn’t have, and I didn’t have health insurance at the time.

My cough deepend.  I felt like complete crap.  A crumby time to get a bad cough, but at least we made the summit.

After the obligatory victory photo, we started down the mountain.

Obligatory Summit Photo; Smiling, but near death.

Garrett blew out his knee, and started lagging.  I know you’re not supposed to leave anyone behind and stick together; but we were angry, exhausted, and just wanted to get the hell off the mountain.  So we split up.

Eventually, we got back to camp; the three of us, arriving one by one.

Steak? Beer?  Heck no.  We were too tired.  I managed to eat a cup-o-noodles top ramen and retired to my tent to cough up blood.  I felt like I had pneumonia.  Fever, chills, rails.  I wanted to die.

The next day, we awoke, packed up quickly and drove down the mountain to Independence and ate breakfast or something… I don’t really remember.  When we got cell reception, I Googled: “High Altitude Cough” and read about High Altitude Pulmonary Edema (HAPE.) Yep, that’s what I had.  And it could have killed me.

We laugh about it now, and my friends don’t let me plan “adventures” any more.

The realization of a dream or goal is great; but sometimes the path to get there isn’t what you expect.  Reality can be a humbling teacher.

As the memories from the pain and agony fade; I still think of those old timers in their 70′s up on the mountain and feeling fine.  I want to be like that guy when I’m in my 70′s.

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