Pain, Exhilaration and a Little Poetry
By Serban Nacu

California has its share of “epic” summits; arguably the top two are Mount Whitney and Mount Shasta. Whitney (14,494 feet, 4,418 meters) is the highest point in the USA outside Alaska; incidentally, the lowest point in the USA is in nearby Death Valley, close enough – rumor has it – that on a clear day you can see one from the other. Despite its height, climbing Whitney is not very difficult. By September most of the snow has usually melted, which makes it a hike, though a long and steep one. The main challenge is adjusting to the elevation: at 12,000 feet, every step is a struggle. But a fit person can make it to the top and back to the trailhead in one grueling day, with an alpine (i.e. very early) start. Or you can continue northwards on the famous John Muir Trail, which ends some two hundred miles later in Yosemite Valley.

Shasta (14,162 feet, 4,317 meters) is quite different from Whitney: almost as tall, but it is further north (hence more snow and worse weather). Shasta is a volcano, and it towers alone high above its surroundings. It is also better climbed when covered in snow, May to July; by fall it involves a painful crawl over volcanic rock and mud, with a decent chance of getting hit by falling boulders. Snow, of course, has its own hazards, and while serious mountaineers would regard Shasta as an easy trip, it does require crampons and an ice axe, along with some idea of how to use them. Only about one third of the climbers make it to the top; many turn around because of exhaustion, bad weather, or the occasional accident. Hence the expected number of attempts it takes to reach the top is three, which is exactly what happened in my case.

On my first trip to Shasta, we missed a turn and ended up on a very difficult route. After a few scary slides, we realized we were out of our league and wisely turned back. On my second attempt, we made it up to 10,000 feet and camped there. When we woke up in the morning, our tents were buried in snow. Breakfast gave me the idea of an oatmeal-and-brown sugar flavored ice cream. The descent in the blizzard was difficult and exhilarating.

The third attempt, though, worked like a charm. With my friend Paul, we drove from San Francisco and camped at the trailhead, giving us an extra night to get used to the altitude. Next morning we leisurely walked up to Lake Helen, a flat spot on the slope of the volcano at 10,500 feet. There is no lake at Lake Helen; instead, there is a city of tents on the snow, as most climbers camp here. The views of the valley are wonderful; it is a nice place to kill an afternoon. We had an early dinner and went to sleep. The stars were out and the night was bitter cold; it felt even colder when we woke up at 2:30am. Mountaineering can be painful; some say that is its essence. It took us a while to get started, but by 4am we had our crampons on and were climbing silently into the darkness. There was almost no wind, and the only sound was of crampons sinking into the snow. The slope was icy and steep, and at times it was hard to breathe. There were no trees and very few rocks: just snow. Eventually the sun rose, and Shasta cast its huge shadow upon the valley.

The climb seemed endless and monotone, but some two hours later we arrived at Red Banks, a rocky wall at the top of the valley, at about 12,800 feet. There was a short but scary stretch, extremely steep, icy, and temporarily crowded with climbers. I wasn’t sure I could stop if I slid, but fortunately my crampons held, and soon we were past Red Banks, climbing a gentler slope. Paul started feeling altitude sickness and remained behind. I continued, past Misery Hill (from below it looks like the summit, but it is not) and on towards the real summit. At its base I could smell the sulphur of the hot springs. John Muir and a friend were trapped there by a storm and spent the night on the ground, their backs scalded by steam, their fronts frozen by the blizzard; they survived. Another short ascent, steep but not too difficult, and by 9:30am I was on the summit. It felt incredible. There were amazing views all around, north towards Oregon, south towards Mount Lassen, California’s other famous volcano. I savored the moment for a few minutes, then started the descent. By then the sun was out in full force, but the wind had grown stronger, and it seemed to have chosen the summit as its main target.

On the way down I passed Paul, who was still going up. He was still feeling sick from the altitude, and kept himself going by counting steps (he was already in the thousands). He told me he would keep climbing for a few more minutes, then return. Amazingly, he reached the summit, and made it back to the tents only an hour after I did.

The descent was a breeze. We reached the trailhead exhausted, burnt by sun wind and snow, and elated. There is something special about facing the ice and the cold: it pushes you beyond what summer hiking does. It is not for everyone; perhaps you have to be twisted in some way in order to like it. Recently I learnt of something called the Shasta-Whitney challenge: summit both peaks in 24 hours (the clock keeps ticking during the 600 mile drive from one mountain to another). At thirty, I felt too old (or too wise) for it. But then again, the day after Shasta, I thought it was a great trip, but I probably wouldn’t do it again. Now I am not so sure.