This week was full of high points.

I had fun and everything, but I specifically mean the physical kind of high points.

On Forester Pass, the highest point on the official PCT, I was above 13,200’, while on Mt. Whitney, the highest point of the contiguous USA, I stood at 14,491’.

Though I initially struggled with the altitude, I’m acclimating quickly. I hit real snow for the first time on the trail, and am feeling more confident in my ability to handle alpine environments.

6/3 KMS Kennedy Meadows South, known as the official entry point to the Sierra on the PCT, has been a fun if not particularly relaxing stop. I eat the biggest pancake of my life for breakfast before we have a short day out of town. For the first time in weeks, there are plenty of trees around. Evergreens! Not that weak-ass east coast deciduous shit. The air smells good: dry, clean, fresh, and the quality of the sunlight takes on a golden hue.

6/4 I see what I think is my first glimpse of Mt Whitney in the distance. The altitude change hits me hard, much worse than everyone else. As we ascend, the previously golden light of the sun turns a bright, clear, fiery white. There is no escaping it. I feel sluggish and struggle to reach 2mph for the final few miles of the day. Everyone else seems fine and I wonder what the hell I did to deserve this.

6/5 Again I wake up feeling off. We slept above 10,000’ so it’s no surprise. I push through and start to feel normal again later. Captain America seems to be struggling as well, and later, Eddie too. Though it was hard to be the first one to struggle with the altitude, at least it means I also acclimated quickly. Biscoff seems to be essentially impervious to this kind of physical issue and offers little sympathy. We hike to the trailhead for Mt. Whitney and turn in early, tomorrow will be a big day.

6/6 Today we will summit Mt. Whitney, the highest mountain in the lower 48 states. It will be my first 14er. Unlike some other popular, lower peaks, like Mt. Hood and Mt. Rainier, you can basically just walk up to the summit; no real mountaineering is required.

We decide to try to catch the sunrise on top. Wake up is at 1am, it’s cold but I quickly start sweating as we begin the climb. Captain America and Eddie lead first, going (in my estimation) way too fast. In the dark, it’s hard to tell what’s happening outside of what is immediately in front of my headlamp. As we climb, I begin to see snowfields on neighboring mountains reflected in the moonlight, with an eerie and serene glow.

The way up is not overly steep nor punishing in its terrain, but the altitude is significant and the climbing is relentless. Two thirds of the way up, Eddie and Captain America decide to turn around due to feeling sick and fatigued. I continue with Biscoff to the top, not even a doubt or question in our minds that we will make it.

Biscoff points out we have covered 500+ miles of trail together by now. But who’s counting. The significance of this will be lost on me until much later. In the moment I’m just focused on getting up.

As we near the summit we can’t contain our excitement as hints of alpenglow tinge the edges of the surrounding peaks. Though we are a couple minutes late for the sunrise because we got stuck behind a large, slow group, the views on top make everything worth it.

With the light changing from one minute to the next, various facets of sharp crumbling spires and needle-sharp ridges around are highlighted in the sun’s spotlight one after another.

It is bitterly cold and windy on top so we take cover under some rocks, sharing snacks and handwarmers as we take in the view. Neither of us does particularly well in the cold so we stay only a few dozen minutes until we can’t take it anymore.

On the descent, we finally see the surrounding area, which is stunning and vast in its intricate detail. We descend the endless talus and snowfields, making time to run around on the snow like little kids near the bottom; the marmots laugh when we both slip and fall.

6/7 I do Forrester Pass alone in the morning. I don’t really know what to expect but instinct kicks in and I feel more confident traversing the snow by the end. Passes on the PCT are basically a steep switchbacked climb and descent over the lowest point between two mountains. My microspikes are awesome and let me walk straight up the near-vertical headwall of snow.

Some other hikers get turned around on the descent due to the trail being invisible under the snow; I pick my own line and feel vindicated as they follow me down. Later I do Kearsarge pass, snow-free, to total about 5,000ft of climbing today. What used to seem like an incredible amount of climbing is just another day now. Biscoff and I hitch down into Bishop, sad to be leaving the mountains but equally excited for hot food.

As he leaves the next day, it’s hard to say goodbye; we have been together so long. But I want to explore the unmarked areas on the map and he wants to stick to the red line (hiker speak for the official marked trail) so we need to split up. I knew this day was coming but I’m still sad.

Alone in Bishop I make my preparations for the high route, finally shell out for an ice axe, and absolutely mutilate a guidebook to make sure I carry only the absolutely crucial pages to save weight.

We’re in uncharted territory now. Making the jump from zero to one, from no experience to some experience, is the hardest part. Nobody can really teach you how to routefind, traverse and explore unmarked terrain, you have to go out and try it. Instinct kicks in or it doesn’t. Your sense of direction, selection of which pieces of talus are likely to hold your weight, guesstimation of the strength of the snow, ability to locate water, are all honed and improved. These are things that can only be learned by doing. Muscle memory. I need to go put some reps in.

Best, Mac

Milk&cigarettes

Gear update—I found the photo of what I had at the starting terminus, this is an updated version of what remains. I have added a couple things too but forgot to take an updated picture while I had my own room so it will remain a mystery to the audience until I remember to do so.

The moral here I guess is that no matter how long and hard you plan, life happens, needs change, and you could always roll over in your sleep and break your favorite sunglasses. RIP.