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The 14ers for a Noob: Using California’s 15 Highest Peaks for Stepping Stones
December 4, 2009
 California has 15 mountains that stand higher than 14000 feet, and this last summer I had finally set foot onto the summit of the last of them. For the past few years, California’s “14ers” have occupied much of my time and thoughts, something I never would have predicted in what seems like a short time ago. Including mountaineering seminars, multiple attempts, and repeats, I’d spent 72 days on these 15 mountains. I’d gone from knowing absolutely nothing about being in the outdoors to spending almost 15% of my time climbing, hiking, and just being in the mountains. The experiences I’ve had on California’s 14ers have led to many things, including higher mountains around the globe, the desire and motivation to learn to rock and ice climb, photography, and the ability to be able to introduce others to something that has had such an impact in my life.
I hesitate to write about some of the experiences I’ve had as I am a bit embarrassed at some of the mistakes I’ve made and the amount of failures I’ve had. But, I continue to put it all down with an emphasis on those mistakes and failures, knowing that those were what made the largest contribution to how much I’ve learned and the level of perseverance that I have acquired, tools that will not only be useful on future climbs but in many other aspects of my life. This article is my opportunity to reflect back and touch briefly upon my experiences on each of these peaks (listed in order of successful summits). Sit back and enjoy a synopsis of what has brought much meaning into my life these past few years.
Mt. Whitney (14505 feet, June 2003)
The Mt. Whitney main trail was my first hike, ever. I’d read and had become intrigued by an article in National Geographic’s May issue about high altitude and its effects on the human body. Soon after, I came across an article in the local paper about Mt. Whitney, referring to it as the “poor man’s Everest.” I booked permits, enlisted two friends, and off we went. A coworker had suggested that I go to REI’s used member’s sale to pick up some gear. I grabbed a used pair of leather boots and a cloth suitcase with shoulder straps. Looks good to me, I thought. I wore jeans, a wifebeater, and had a snowboarding jacket for warmth. Between the three of us, we carried 2 lanterns, maglights for hiking in the dark, canned food, a can opener, etc… you get the idea…we were a wreck. We must have carried 50lbs of gear each and with some lengthy breaks, it took us a whopping 10 hours to go the 6.5 miles to high camp (In contrast, the last time I hiked the Whitney main trail, I carried 27lbs and the hike to camp took me about 2.5 hours). While hiking on some smooth slabs just before camp, I looked at my friend Tom and started laughing hysterically. I put down my suitcase-pack, extended the handle, and rolled it into camp as if I had just gotten off a plane, dead serious. Tom of course, has reminded me of that moment many times. It was early season and there were not many people at high camp, maybe 3-4 other groups. While we were making dinner, 2 older guys came over and talked to us for a while. They gave us some pointers on a few things including staying hydrated and how to keep our food from marmots. Reflecting back, they must have taken one look at us and figured we might die on Mt. Whitney’s main trail, which we very well may have. My friend Joe had purchased the same exact suitcase-pack that I had and was trying to convince us that if we did not carry our packs to the summit that the trip would somehow be incomplete. I was so tired I didn’t care, I carried my jacket filled with snacks and water, but yes, thanks to Joe, a suitcase did actually make it to the summit of Mt. Whitney and fellow summiters noticed. It was not until a week or so after standing on the high point of the contiguous US of A, that I realized how much I had loved the work and reward involved with hiking Mt. Whitney. Within a few weeks I had read about all of California’s 14ers, as well as other high mountains around the world. I was hooked. I day-hiked Mt. Whintey twice more before the end of summer, the 2nd time having ditched the jeans and wifebeater for appropriate hiking attire, and even went back for a fourth time (unsuccessful) in full winter gear in December. Although bored of the main trail, I’ve been back several times more, as I have a tough time turning down an invitation to go with friends if a permit is available.
Rolling the suitcase into Whiney's high camp, 2003
Near Whitney's high camp, 2006
White Mountain Peak (14246 feet, April 2004)
White Mountain is California’s 3rd highest peak, and located just across the Owens Valley from the Sierra Nevada, is one of only two CA 14ers not located in the Sierra Nevada range, Mt. Shasta being the other. I attempted White Mountain Peak’s West ridge in February of 2004. I had purchased tons of gear, had taken a 4-day winter mountaineering course on Mt. Shasta, and I’d even made an unsuccessful yet not uneventful attempt on Shasta’s demanding Casaval Ridge (described below in the Shasta section). We had made it to about 13000 feet on White but turned around due to high wind and low visibility. Even in perfect conditions, I wonder how I would have handled the class 3 sections at that time anyway, as I’d had zero experience on rock at that point. I’d been really discouraged, getting shut down on Whitney the previous December, then Shasta, then again on White. White Mountain has the easiest summit route of any of California’s 14ers, so I knew that I could make the summit by the normal route outside of winter, but I wanted there to be at least some difficulty (i.e., suffering), so in April I took off on my first real solo adventure, a “winter” ascent of the normal route. Due to snow and closed gates, the normal route that time of year turns into a 54 mile out-and-back trek, which I completed in 4 days. With my new gear, I was prepared for the long winter hike, but the new boots I’d recently purchased weren’t broken in yet. “Full shank boots don’t need to be broken in”, the salesman at store X had told me, me not knowing otherwise. I had painful quarter-sized blisters before the end of the first day, but I wasn’t having any of that, I was making it. I cached food/fuel for the 3rd/4th days, and moved up near an observatory located at about 12500 feet on my 2nd night. I had the pleasure of meeting a few guys who were wintered over in the lab up there, doing studies on dogs at altitude. They offered me a beer which I reluctantly declined, fearful it might interfere with my summit attempt. I woke the next morning and made my way to the summit, of which the surrounding solitude was overwhelming. I enjoyed a lengthy stay on the summit, knowing I had a long way to go. My feet were in bad shape, but I was able to put that out of my head and finish out the trip. Just moments after reaching the car on my 4th day, the guys from the observatory were snowcattted out to the trailhead, and again offered me a beer which I gratefully accepted and savored as I examined my bloody heels. I experienced a huge deal of satisfaction after pulling off my first solo trip, not necessarily from the trip itself, but from the realization that I was capable of many things and that I had much to look forward to. Since this particular trip, I’ve been back to White Mountain a few times, once on another weather thwarted attempt on the West Ridge and another as a mountain bike trip. I look forward to my next visit to the White Mountain area as I continue to be intrigued by the desolate and unique landscape.
White Mountain from the "normal" route, 2004
High on White's West Ridge, 2004
Mt. Langley (14026 feet, May 2004)
Mt. Langley is one of my more memorable early climbs, as it was the most picturesque to me at the time, and it included one of the stupider things I’ve done. The unfrozen Cottonwood Lakes nestled within the snow-covered landscape was absolutely beautiful, and I had never seen anything like it. When we reached old army pass, a high mountain pass used to gain the upper reaches of Mt. Langley, the trail was covered in enough snow that we didn’t trust it, it looked like it would slide. We looked for an alternative route and eyed the steep chute next to the pass and decided to get a closer look. Before we knew it we were halfway up, and were on steep enough terrain where it seemed safer to climb up then down. My partner and long-time friend Joe started chopping both hand and footholds in the ice, why we didn’t break out our crampons I can’t remember. I believe the chute steepened to over 60 degrees before we topped out, and with heavy packs, the 700 or so vertical feet had taken us over an hour to climb. Given my experience level at the time, this is probably the most dangerous thing I have ever done. Had I fallen, I would have tumbled down the ice and probably slid right into a slightly iced over lake #4. If Joe had fallen, well, I was 20 feet down and directly below him, he would have taken us both to the lake. I’ve been back to look at the chute, and in similar conditions, is something that I would attack with crampons and ice tools and would probably back off otherwise. Joe and I made camp at the top of Old Army Pass, made the summit the next day but couldn’t downclimb the way we came up. We descended the west slope, and hiked cross country until we eventually found the cottonwood pass trail. It took an extra day to hike out, the only time I’ve come out later than expected, and we had selfishly worried our parents and workplaces. I’ve been back to the Cottonwood Lakes several times to fish, bag other peaks, and I have repeated the Mt. Langley summit once with a group of friends.
The Cottonwood Lakes, 2004
On a rock perch halfway up, Cottonwood Lake #4 frozen below
Looking back at the chute
The Cottonwood Lakes area, 2009
Looking towards Langley's Summit, 2009
Mt. Shasta (14168 feet, July 2004)
In my opinion, Mt. Shasta, being a huge freestanding double volcano, is the most aesthetic and alluring mountain of California 14ers, and I’ve been on the mountain many times. In January of 2004, I participated in a private 4-day mountaineering course with 2 other friends. We learned how to build snow shelters, use crampons/ice axes properly, crevasse rescue, roped travel, etc… After the seminar, the guide departed and we stayed on the mountain for a summit attempt. The guide had suggested Casaval Ridge as our ascent route, which in retrospect was probably over our heads. We didn’t understand the importance of an alpine (early) start and left camp late, probably making it to about 11500 feet at 10am when we were caught in a whiteout. The intense white clouds combined with the paper white snow eliminated all depth perception. Its an experience that is not easily explained and was very scary at the time. The steep slope I knew I was on looked flat, it honestly looked like I could step to either side of our tracks and be on flat ground, when it was the steepest thing I had been on at the time. We moved down slowly, retracing our exact footprints, only able to see the holes our crampon points had made in the snow on the way up. Eventually the clouds dispersed to some extent and our depth perception returned, but that still didn’t prevent the fall I took, the only fall I’ve ever taken. I caught one of my crampons on some ice, and went head over heels 2-3 times down the slope before I somehow flipped over onto my stomach and into self arrest position. I dragged the ax about 20 feet in hard snow before I came to a stop, shaking and disoriented. I still don’t know how a crampon didn’t snag and snap my leg, or how my pack was fully intact with an avalanche shovel strapped vertically with the handle sticking up. I was shaken up but with zero injuries. I think I had fallen about 100 feet on a 30-35 degree slope, and I remember thinking two things during the fall – either I was going to get down really fast or I was going to be hurt, bad. My buddies were pretty shaken up also, but we held it together and hiked out, slowly. I returned with another friend in July to climb the avalanche gulch (normal) route, and climbed it easily on my birthday/4th of July weekend, enjoying the local fireworks in the town of Mt. Shasta the night after we summited. I’ve tried to climb Casaval Ridge twice more with bad weather turning us around both times. The last attempt, we had completed the ridge but turned back above 13000 feet due to high wind and extreme cold (three out of four of us were climbing in down parkas). That afternoon a climbing ranger came up to warn climbers about the weather, it was -30F near the summit that day and was expected to be -40F the next. They were advising everyone to descend. I still want to climb Shasta via Casaval Ridge, but the long drive and fact that we had completed the ridge itself would make it more of an ego satisfier than anything, but I do hope to climb Shasta via a north side glacier route sometime in the future.
Mt. Shasta
Shasta's shadow on the clouds
Phil and Ryan on Casaval Ridge, 2008
Split Mountain (14058 feet, July 2005)
I first attempted the north slope of Split Mountain in May of 2005. We camped about halfway in at Red Lake, and I was thoroughly disappointed when my partners’ girlfriend got spooked on the steep snow and decided to turn back en route to the summit, which of course forced him to turn back. I had never done anything that steep on my own and did not feel comfortable going solo. During the drive home, I realized I needed a more serious climbing partner, as all my partners up until this point were relatively un-interested and were kind of along for the ride. I ended up climbing Split Mountain via the north slope in July of 2005 with a partner (now a good friend) that I had met on Summitpost.com. Despite what I had read, I found the area to be quite amazing, with the summit of Split Mountain looming over Red Lake. It was a straightforward climb with ideal snow conditions. In the 45 minutes that we enjoyed the perfect day on the summit at 14000 feet, the clouds moved in fast and within an hour of starting our descent, we were caught in a mild snowstorm. We quickly glissaded down to camp, packed everything up, and aimed downhill. The lower elevations turned the snow to light rain, which again turned to brilliant sunshine and clear weather as we approached the truck. We could see the storm still behind us hanging over Split’s summit, and we felt lucky on our way out as another party on their way up were grumbling at the unanticipated weather. Split Mountain was my first no-hassle/no hiccups trip, and it felt good to have something go so smoothly.
Split Mountain
Phil on Split's summit
The bad weather descent
Mt. Williamson ( 14375, April 2007)
I set foot onto California’s 2nd highest peak 3 times in 3 years, and the change in my comfort level over those 3 trips is obvious. I had 2 failed attempts on Mt. Williamson on the class 2 George Creek route in 2005 and 2006. The first attempt, I attribute our failure to pure inexperience. Our routefinding was terrible and our packs were heavy, we struggled hard to get to our high camp, and the 3 of us lost steam shortly after leaving for the summit the next morning. It was too easy to turn back with no serious motivation within the group. Ironically this first attempt would have been a far easier year to summit compared to the next few years due to the great snow dump of 2005, a nice snow cover down low covers and allows you to hike right over many energy-sucking obstacles. In 2006 I returned with 2 different partners, both of whom lost motivation, this time before we even left for the summit in the morning. I was amped and ready to go, thought deeply about going solo, and it killed me to turn back. I just didn’t have it in me to be on my own up there. And our routefinding was again terrible on the way out as we missed a key stream crossing and got caught in thick brush for what seemed like an eternity. By the 3rd attempt, I felt confident enough to climb Williamson by its more popular 3rd class route on the West Side, but I wanted to finish what I had started. So I returned to George Creek a 3rd time with one of my previous partners, and I was determined to make the summit no matter what. The entire trip was epic and about 2 miles in, we found an illegal pot farm at 7500 feet, but that’s another story. When we woke up at our high camp at 10000 feet on our summit day, my partner again declined on a summit attempt, but it didn’t matter, I quickly left for the summit on my own. It was probably one of the most mentally challenging climbs of my life, it was the first time I was solo on steep enough terrain where I felt something could go wrong and I could be screwed. I felt pretty exposed being that far out there alone, but I made the summit with confidence, and in turn it was one of the most rewarding summits I’ve had.
Mt. Williamson over Manzanar
Mt. Barnard and Mt. Trojan make an impression on the route to Williamson
Looking down Williamson's summit ridge
Mt. Tyndall (14018 feet, June 2008)
Mt. Tyndall was the 3rd of 3 mountains that I had repeated failures on. Shasta, Williamson, and then Tyndall with an embarrassing 4 attempts before reaching the summit. That’s right, I hiked up and down the ridiculous Shepard’s Pass trail 4 times (the longest approach of all the 14ers). The first time in July of 2005, I reached 13900 feet and got spooked along with my partner at the “notch” where the NW ridge intersects the main summit ridge. We tried to find a route onto the summit ridge that wasn’t too exposed and figured we just didn’t have the experience. I went back the following year, when my partner hurt his ankle on the approach. I went for the summit myself, again reaching the notch, and being alone, didn’t try as hard as we did the year before. My third year, with a yet a different partner, we reached the base of the NW ridge before he decided to turn around. I didn’t have the motivation to go it alone this time, I had just gotten out of a 2 year relationship and it weighed heavily on my mind. I had almost cancelled the trip altogether and my head just wasn’t in it. So year number 4 and back with the previous partner. He gets spooked at the notch, but I pushed on this time, set on finding the supposed class 2 route. I dropped down the west side of Tyndall, further then I had planned and got caught in class 3 climbing which is what I was trying to avoid in the first place. After some time though, I started feeling pretty comfortable. Finally. I’d been rock climbing off and on for about a year at this point with the whole intention of feeling more comfortable on stuff like this, and it worked. I made the summit, which I had entirely to myself, and looked over at Williamson, my one other hard-earned solo summit. In retrospect, I should never have bothered with the NW ridge of Tyndall. Although it’s rated class 2, most people contest that rating and rightfully so, might as well go for the more direct NW Rib. I retraced my steps and headed back down to camp, taking a long moment to gaze back at Tyndall and the valley above Shepard’s Pass. The huge valley floor surrounded by 13000+ foot peaks made me feel small, and the view here is one of my favorites in the Sierra. Having enjoyed the view 3 times before, I experienced a bit of sentiment, as it was unknown as to whether I’d ever see it again.
Headed towards Shepard's Pass
Mt. Tyndall from the top of Shepard's Pass
Near 13500 feet on Mt. Tyndall
Middle Palisade (14012 feet, June 2008)
The weekend following Tyndall, I went to the South Fork of Big Pine Creek to make an attempt on Middle Palisade. We hiked in, camped at Finger Lake, still one of the most amazing places where I’ve set up camp, and went for the summit the next day. This was my first sustained class 3 route, it looked intimidating and I feared this could be another Williamson or Tyndall. We crossed the Middle Palisade Glacier, found the elusive ledge that leads into the Secor chute, and started climbing. Although the climbing was easy, the exposure was huge and it was tough to convince myself to go up. Eventually I just got used to it and it became super fun. Thick, dark clouds threatened us, and we could occasionally see rain coming down in the not too distant distance. It worried me and I paused often, thinking of the possible consequences. I debated on continuing while my partner moved up towards the summit. I think he almost made it before I found the motivation to commit to finishing the climb. I hurried up and almost made it to within the view of the summit block just as my partner rappelled off of it. I moved quickly and he followed me up to share the view. We rapped off the summit block, climbed down and packed out, making it back to the truck at 9pm, home at 2am, and work the next morning in typical weekend Sierra trip fashion. We were successful, efficient, and it actually seemed relatively easy. This was my first 14er where it seemed like actual climbing, where upward progress depended heavily on using your hands as opposed to my previous 14ers which were mostly just steep hikes, and it was after this trip that I felt that I might actually be able to climb all of California’s 14ers.
Our route on Middle Palisade from camp, June 2008
Halfway up the East Face
Near the summit
Mt. Sill (14153 feet, August 2008)
For both aesthetic reasons and just the general nature of the climb, Mt. Sill takes a high rank among my experiences with the CA 14ers. Mt. Sill is part of the Palisade group, a steep and rugged sub-range of the Sierra Nevada that contains 5 of California’s 15 highest mountains and offers some of the best alpine climbing in California. We (Tom and I) climbed Sill via the North (or L-shaped) Couloir, a route I had seen pictures of years before and had concluded that I would never be in a position to attempt it. We had a long approach and a beautiful camp at the foot of the Palisade Glacier, the largest glacier in the Sierra Nevada. The following day, upon reaching a point below the summit of Mt. Sill where the climbing becomes steep and exposed and the majority of the remaining route becomes visible, our first reaction was astonishment. It just looked ridiculous. I almost let the feeling of failure destroy my motivation before I surprised myself and said, “let’s just go have a look.” Once we were closer to what had frightened us, something else took over, something that made us realize that we came to do a job that we were capable of, and we were going to do it. I felt good, and I felt even better when I saw the rappel anchor up high and knew we wouldn’t have to downclimb, but was comforted by the fact that I could if I needed to. Sill was an amazing summit, and it stuck with me, I felt that I was finally molting from my hiker shell. Once down on the glacier I had one of the worst descents I’d ever had, slipping and falling several times through an icy boulder field, threatening my hard-earned dignity. But it didn’t matter, I had learned to understand my abilities and control my fear, it was a great trip and my confidence was up.
Our camp at the foot of the Palisade Glacier, Mt. Sill off to the left
Checking out the rest of our route
A few hundred feet below Sill's summit
Mt. Muir (14012 feet, September 2008)
In September of 2008 I went back to the Sierra for a shot at Polemonium Peak which is ¼” mile from and shares a ridge with Mt. Sill. If I would have been efficient, I would have climbed Polemonium in conjunction with Sill, had we an extra day for hiking out. Anyway, I tried to climb Polemonium by an unconventional route, the South Fork of Big Pine Creek. I had read about the horrendous boulder field, but I figured it was no big deal, I’ve been on terrible boulder fields before. Wrong. This one ended up just being the worst ever. It just wasn’t any fun and was going to take hours and hours to cross, twice. My partner Tom and I called it off, promising to come back and try another route. We spent the night at 11500 feet and hiked out the next morning. During the drive out, I called the Whitney ranger station and asked if they had any notoriously-difficult-to-get day permits for the Whiney main trail the following day. There were two of us, and there was one permit available. I was thanking the ranger for her time when she cut me off - at that exact moment, someone had come into the ranger station to cancel their trip to Whitney. Hot dog! We now had the opportunity to get onto the Whitney main trail and climb nearby Mt. Muir, another of California’s 14ers that includes a short but exciting class 3 climb. We tried desperately to get some sleep that night but having slept in the night before, shuteye eluded us. I think I slept for about an hour before we crawled out of the bed of the truck and hit the trail. Starting at about 1am, we booked it, hard. I made it to Whitney’s high camp at 3:40am, having made the hike in nearly 25% of the time that it had taken me five years ago. I waited a short time for my partner, we ascended the 99 switchbacks and reached the point where you leave the Whitney trail to head towards Muir at 6am sharp. It was still cold and dark with just a faint glow on the eastern horizon. We paced around for 15 minutes or so until there was enough light to navigate through the loose rock and dirt, then began to climb the large granite blocks until there were no more, reaching our high point of the day just before 7am. Back to the car at 11:15 am, we’d made the roundtrip to Muir in about the amount of time it took me to reach Whitney’s high camp my first time around. Nothing felt better than slashing one’s own trail times and going home with a 14er when we thought we were going home empty-handed the day before.
Waiting for the sun
Early AM scrambling
Tom nearing Muir's summit
Looking back at Muir from Whitney's main trail
Thunderbolt/Starlight/North Palisade (14003, 14200, and 14242 feet, respectively, Aug 2009)
Almost a year had gone by since I’d bagged a 14er. I’d been busy. I’d traveled to 3 continents, earned my state engineering license, and I’d injured myself. I’d also started rock climbing more regularly in anticipation of doing some climbing in the Palisades. I had the most technical of California’s high peaks in front of me, and I wanted to be ready. I’d even started to lead easy trad routes before 3 days of climbing hard at Joshua Tree left me with a shoulder that didn’t heal. I spent 4 months trying to climb on it off-and-on before I was finally able to start climbing regularly again in July of 2009. Unfortunately for me, my two most qualified rock climbing partners had moved out of state within the last year and I was on my own for technical peak-bagging. I was sure that I could lead these climbs and take one of my less-experience partners, but I wasn’t so sure about the routefinding and I didn’t feel comfortable taking responsibility for someone else on something that I wasn’t 100 percent comfortable with. I had a few choices: wait until I had more experience, wait until my now out-of-state partners could make it (probably summer of 2010), or find a new partner which would involve climbing together beforehand and getting to know one another, again possibly delaying these climbs ‘til next year. All of these choices had one problem – waiting. I didn’t want to wait another year. I desperately wanted more experience and had previously contemplated hiring a guide to ramp up my skill level, so I knocked out two birds with one stone – I hired a guide and chose a route that was beyond my leading abilities, the Palisade Traverse. The Palisades are connected by a single jagged ridge, and the Palisade Traverse is considered to be an uber-classic route, traversing along and between all 5 of the Palisade 14ers. The plan was to climb Thunderbolt Peak, supposedly the hardest of California’s 14ers, then traverse to Starlight Peak, followed by North Palisade, Polemonium, and ending with my 2nd summit of Mt. Sill, all in a single push. Upon reaching Thunderbolt’s summit, I felt a little sheepish for hiring a guide. Although caution is essential, Thunderbolt seemed fairly easy and the routefinding was straightforward. I climbed the infamous summit block with ease on top-rope and I wished that I’d led it. The traverse to Starlight and through North Palisade was another story. The climbing was wildly exposed, sometimes standing on tiny ledges thousands of feet up, and at one point we even used the rope to swing across a large gap in the ridge. Although technically easy, I imagine that I would have had serious problems with the routefinding and for that reason hiring the guide was justified. As it was we (I) were slow, the wind had picked up considerably, and it took us an excessive amount of time to lasso Starlight’s milkbottle, another semi-infamous summit pinnacle. By the time we traversed over North Palisade and into the U-notch, a huge gully running down to the valley floor between North Palisade and Polemonium, it was getting dark and we had to call off the climb to Polemonium. We had been ambitious, and it was obvious why many people bivy on the ridge and complete the traverse in two days. Either way the climb was as exciting as ever, and Thunderbolt and Starlight were especially awesome since I had read so much about them and their notorious summit blocks for many years. I imagined that it was like meeting that celebrity that you’ve read about time and time again but had only seen on TV. I was more comfortable with the exposure than I first thought I would be, and I learned where my weak points were. Originally, I had vigorously debated the decision to hire a guide in my head, but I think it was a good call. I now feel that I have the ability to go back and bag those peaks on my own and many others like them, and safely, and I intend to do so.
Camp at Thunderbolt Pass, Thunderbolt and Starlight Peaks overhead
Part of the traverse between Thunderbolt and Starlight
En route to Starlight Peak, its milkbottle visible in the distance
An exposed downclimb
An exciting traverse
Nearing North Palisade's summit
One of several rappels
Mt. Russell (14088 feet, Oct 2009)
Mt. Russell was my absolute favorite climb of all of California’s 14000 foot peaks, and I knew it would be. I had actually intended to save Mt. Russell for last, but circumstances worked out otherwise. There was always something about Russell’s East ridge that inspired me. Partly because it was the first 14er other than Whitney that I had read about in depth, but really it was because the East Ridge looked downright scary. I remember seeing photos of it shortly after my first hike of Whitney and thinking that I would never be able to do something like that. Slowly over the years the fear became intrigue. I wanted to be on that ridge! During the drive up, I actually thought that we would return home without topping out on Russell. We had anticipated not being able to get permits and bad weather had been predicted, but the bad weather never came and the permit problem worked out. Actually, the bad weather prediction was probably responsible for the area being pleasantly deserted, and the permit issue led to an enjoyable extra day. We camped two nights before the climb, taking the time to visit the Normal Clyde (responsible for the first ascent of Mt. Russell in 1926, solo) exhibit at the museum in Independence, and my partner’s studies while away from school afforded me a solo dayhike to the beautiful Meysen Lakes. I found Russell to be quite the enjoyable two day trip, and I will almost certainly repeat it as a day-hike. The ridge was just plain fun climbing with plenty of exposure to keep you on your toes. All in all a relaxing and enjoyable trip where everything seemed to come together just right.
Mt. Russell from near 13000 feet
Climbing on Mt. Russell's East Ridge
Phil descending Russell's East summit
Looking towards Russell's summit
Polemonium Peak (14080 feet, Oct 2009)
Polemonium was my last CA 14’er. Due to the sheer generosity of the guide (the guides name has been left out to protect his innocence) from the Palisade traverse, he offered at no charge, to complete the palisade traverse with me or to climb Polemonium by a different route. I took advantage of the offer and elected to climb Polemonium by the U-notch, a route that entails 7 pitches of ice followed by 3 pitches of rock. I had climbed ice about 4-5 times and was excited to finish the 14ers this way. We made the long approach and camped at Sam Mack Meadow, a beautiful alpine meadow at 11000 feet along the north fork of Big Pine creek. We arose early, 4am-ish and pointed ourselves towards the glacier, reaching it shortly before 6am as the sun began to pierce the darkness and illuminate our route. We crossed the glacier, roped up, found a steep snowbridge to cross the bergshrund (a large crevasse that forms where the glacier is pulling away from the mountain), and started climbing. Down low, the ice was extremely hard and brittle, requiring multiple strikes of each tool to get them to stick. It was hard work for sure, and it took about 4 hours to climb the 700 vertical feet or so of ice. Although a lot of fun, I was glad to be done with it and get onto the rock. The rock pitches went quickly, and the climbing was some of the best I’ve done up high, just plain fun moves with huge exposure. The summit itself was a small platform with room for a small car, and the summits of 9 other California 14ers were visible. I never know what I’m going to think about when I reach the summit of a mountain, sometimes its as simple as thinking about the way down, and sometimes its more complex. This particular summit, I thought about my grandfather who’d recently passed away, a man who cherished success based on hard work. And I took in the view this time, really really soaked it in. We spent a total of 15 minutes on the summit, rappelled down to the top of the ice and then spent what seemed like an eternity rappelling and freezing our asses off, making our last rappel over the bergshrund in the dark. We walked back into camp at 10pm, had a great dinner and a good nights’ sleep. The following morning we woke up to light snow and had a pleasant hike out. Once back in the parking lot, I said my sincere thank-yous and drove to a nice spot near Lone Pine and opened the personal-sized bottle of almond champagne that I had been saving for this day (it was actually something I had received free at a wine-tasting event a few years before). It tasted terrible and had it not been for the sweet view of the Sierra to even out the bitterness, I might have tossed it aside. I felt ultra-relaxed, grabbed some drive-thru, and wished the drive home had been longer. Starting that night the Sierra Nevada received two consecutive storms, blanketing the upper mountains with snow and ending the climbing “season.” Perfect.
The U-notch
Crossing the bergshrund
Swingin' tools
My final 14'er summit
Conclusion
All in all a large chunk of the knowledge I’ve gained over the years about being in the backcountry was taken from being on or around California’s 14000 foot peaks. I’ve learned ice, rock, summer, winter, failure, and success. I still consider myself a noob, mostly because I know there is so much more to learn, but also in part because I don’t look at climbing the CA 14ers as finishing a goal, but rather finishing the first chapter in what I hope to be a novel. To be honest, finishing the 14ers was somewhat anti-climactic and the champagne actually didn’t even feel appropriate, I was excited to move on to other peaks and away from the numbers game. Don’t get me wrong, I was ecstatic on climbing California’s 14000 foot peaks and I’m sure I will return to many of them to repeat the climbs I had the most fun on, to lead the climbs that I did guided, and to try myself on more challenging routes.
California's 14ers were a big part of my life and much of what I experienced will remain with me forever. When I reminisce, I think about the color and pulp involved with each climb, the rich experiences involved with each move, each time my hands felt the course granite on a new peak, the feeling of unshouldering a pack after a long approach, to spend the time conversing with my partners, my friends, anticipating the day ahead and forgetting our troubles 1000s of feet below. I can remember the times when I was cold, unhappy, fatigued, or frightened, but mostly my mind flashes to the times when I was pushing myself, the person or people I was with, the laughs we had, the views we shared, and how no one could quite understand.
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