Blanco to Boundary,
3 days on the crest of the White Mountains

by David Huebner

ON OVER COUNTY LINE HILL, which feels much harder than it looked on the topo, and Campito rises in front of us. Beginning the rhythm that will carry us through the whole trip, we drop down several hundred feet and then begin climbing another mountain, slowly, steadily, pacing ourselves. It is a long time before we reach the summit of Campito, all of us spread out on the slope, going our own speed, thoughts passing in front of our eyes, flowing under our feet, how can one think with so much to focus on? The rocks, my feet, the tough breathing at high altitude, going steadily up, blue sky overhead, each of us in our own complete zone. Already I feel separated from the rest of the world...physically the difference is obvious, hiking along an open grassy rolling plateau with the mighty Sierra Nevada stretching across the entire western horizon, I am almost 10,000 feet above the valley floor, but the separation is more mental than physical. While others drive by on the dirt road, their minds free to travel to tomorrow, today, or yesterday, I walk in a remote world of focus and meditation, with peaks lined up for the next few days, immense distances to cross, a huge gap to fill with hiking before I reach the other end and get to sigh and join in saying "we made it".

STANDING AROUND in Greg's house, we're bullshiting about climbing, photography, and whatever else. The light is subdued through the shuttered blinds, and steam rises from our coffee cups. Greg breaks the rambling and grabs his Inyo National Forest recreation map. Finding the White Mountains his finger traces a line of named peaks from one end of the range to the other. It looks fun and different. Something completely new. "What are you doing this week?" Greg askes. "Let's see, I just got paid some money, I can put off paying my health insurance since paying that would leave me broke again, I don't have anything really going on, so yeah, when were you thinkin'?" "Well I've got Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday off...so we could do the car shuttle wednesday, get ready, and go Thursday, Friday, Saturday. If we took three days, we could take our time, it'll be amazing." Once again Greg has thought of a trip that had never entered my mind. A journey into the neighboring mountain range of the Sierra that more and more now seems almost bigger, burlier, wilder. We bend over the map and imagine what it might be like to traverse the high alpine tundra along the crest of the White Mountains. Immediately I think of Tibet, and Mt. Kailash, and the wild sensation of traveling on a very high plateau of rolling grassy hills. Maybe the Whites are America's little piece of the Tibetan Plateau...that serene, heavenly place I yearn to return to.

Greg's girlfriend Brooke picks up the 7.5 minute topos (all 4 of them) of the route. Todd has remarkably though not suprisingly showed up just in time to go along, and we all sit in the living room of Greg and Brooke's bungalow in Bishop assessing the true nature of the trip we have planned for the next 4 days. Todd doesn't even quite know what we're talking about doing, and looks over the maps with his eyes glazed over, "What exactly are we going to do?" "We're going to start from Blanco, here, and go over these here, all the way to the locked gate, then we'll go over Barcroft and White and on over these out here and down to these springs here, hopefully they're running, and then the last day we'll go from there all the way out over Boundary and down to the car over here just off the map." "Oh, hmm..." As we try to figure out the up and down for the trip, Todd gives up and says, "I don't even wanna know, I'm just going to follow on this one....I've been drinking beer and partying for the past two weeks."

Greg eventually pops the crucial question, "So are we really going to try to cross four topos in three days?" Some laughter, smiles, acknowledgment of the oncoming suffering, and we dismiss it, "Sure, we can do it, I mean how many miles is it?" "48" "Really? Well...heck we've got three days." "Yeah" "Yeah, it'll be a cruise, no problem." Then Todd mentions, "On our trip this summer, we crossed one and half topos in 15 days." "Yeah but we weren't moving." "I know, but still..."

DRIVING OUT OF BISHOP, I stare up at the crest of the White Mountains. Thinking about the sun and how it will look from up there when it goes down over the Sierra, and how the early morning purple and grey will wash into golden rays of orange and yellow, and how the moon will quietly witness the cold listless nights on the tundra. A return to Tibet...my mind is fascinated. Will there be ponies in brightly colored handmade garb, or nomads sitting peacefully in tea houses spinning prayer wheels, or shepherds moving their herds across the countryside? We leave Greg's car at the north end, near Boundary, and head back to Bishop to pick up another truck and Brooke and then head for the hills. Pounding along the washboard for miles to the locked gate we pull in late, and sleep out in the open fresh cold air. It's always cold in the Whites.

In the morning we're approached by a guy who tells us he's acclimatizing so that he can go and do all the Fourteeners in California starting in a couple days. Coming from Berkeley, we're all skeptical, but the weather's perfect. Meanwhile Todd spouts off the statistics for the days hiking..."Well, it's about eleven miles, with uhh 6,100 feet of gain." Really. Oh. I look at my tripod and two cameras. Today is supposed to be the easy day, with just day gear... Already my mind is beginning to reel at the sense of three consecutive days that will only get harder progressively each day. At the same time, it zones inward, focusing on the details of gear and lunch, and most importantly water. Water has gained utmost importance... we're confident about the springs running for our one night out in the middle, but not so confident that we can just forget about it. 'What if?' sneaks into our minds, and all we can do is hope.

The ascent up Blanco quickly establishes the reality of our planned traverse. Gradual rolling mountains they may seem from the road, but in actuality they're tough steady climbs and at times quite steep, especially Blanco. The bristlecone pines along the summit of Blanco easily replace the wild monasteries of the Tibetan Plateau and guide us with their twisted shapes, and ancient wisdom. From the top of the first of over a dozen peaks, we look ahead, and the meditation, the focus of this trip rises to prominence. It will not be easy, it will be as intense a mountain meditation walk as any of us have ever undertaken; it will be a purification like that of circling Mt. Kailash in Tibet. You can only put one foot in front of the other, and breath.

The meditation breaks occasionally and I reflect on why the hell I'm even interested in doing things like this. Nothing glorious, no granite to climb, no powder to ski, nothing to attach to my ego and say yeah I'm bitchin'...no, we're just hiking. Lots and lots of hiking. Hard hiking over loose shale and grassy slopes breathing thin air and getting beat on by the high altitude sun. Many would call it slogging. But I know why I'm doing it, and why I do everything else in my life. That impulse built into my soul that grabs my eyes, my mind, my attention when it sees something, somewhere, that it wants to walk through, climb on, ski down, touch, smell, experience. Building a greater sense of place, a wider range of sensations about this western edge of the Great Basin that I call my home. How can I really know the river, the valley, the endless sunny days without having walked through the region's highest plains, it's coldest climate? For me the answer is to go there, to be there, to see it, hear it, and know it. I am motivated by this simple desire, to watch the land go under the sun and then the moon, and even better if I'm hiking during the whole passage of the day.

DOWN IN CAMPITO Meadow we look up the gradual long slope of Campito Peak. Beautiful, quiet, serene. Sweeping graceful slopes like wind in the sagebrush. We sit down and eat some food, feeling the beginnings of tiredness, and try to mentally prepare ourselves for essentially three Campito Peaks before the day's end at the locked gate. It's not easy to sit and prepare though, so we finish our snacks and continue moving on. It's easier to match steps on shale, and feel the summit getting closer, feel the wind pick up and cool you. The sun is reaching towards afternoon as we top out, and see another drop and another gain to Sheep Mountain, and Paiute beyond that. It's so hard, and yet it's so easy. It's just walking. Going to work five days a week is a lot harder than any hiking of any kind, for me at least.

On top of Paiute Mountain, the last summit of the day, 6,100 feet of gain burning and quivering through my legs, I look out at the silhouette of the Sierra Nevada, and the shadowed valley of the Owens River. Golden light is bathing all of us. Greg, Brooke and Todd pass the peak register to one another, reading it over and signing it, taking in the dramatic sunset. I ask Todd how he's feeling on the last summit of the day, and he replies, "I uh feel like I could drink some beer, and uh my quads feel like they're bleeding." And it's a sunset which we will enjoy for the moment, knowing we have to keep moving, with a descent still to finish to the truck, and this feeling of constant movement sets the tone, refines the feeling of last light on the peak. We're here for last light because we moved steadily all day, and we'll make it to the truck right at dark if we keep moving steadily. We know tomorrow will be the same because today is supposed to be the easiest day of the three, and tomorrow there will be no truck with a cooler full of beer and good food. Like meditation, one begins to lose focus on other things. Nothing seems very important; the movement of our feet, the breathing of our lungs, the physical pain of our suffering, all losing ground as we go farther. All our defenses, our distractions are gone. To walk is such a primitive and simple feeling, the pain, the effort becomes a euphoric release.

Dinner is incredible, a couple beers have never tasted so good, and then we crash, telling ourselves that we can definitely do the rest of the traverse, even if the days get harder and harder from here on. "What if?", regarding the springs, does enter the conversation and it is decided that we should bring some extra water if we can, try to conserve some water to have left just in case. A good idea, but with four people and two dogs... a few extra quarts is really just going to satisfy our thirst while we starve.

PURPLE AND BLUE FEATHERED brush strokes spread across the western horizon as we struggle to rouse ourselves and feel excited about the suffering ahead. The hiss of the Coleman two-burner greets the arctic desert dawn. We're all feeling sore and tired, yet beneath that is the draw, the motivation to push beyond White Mountain today into unknown territory for all of us, a land of nearly mythical plateaus and plains, springs and meadows; the big high open country that has always struck me as the characteristic element of the White Mountain crest, most closely mirroring the Tibetan Plateau. I ask Todd what his expectations are for the day, and his response is classic: "Pain. Dehydration. All in all a miserable day." Turning to Greg, I get his response: "Piece a' cake‹walk in the park‹no problem‹cruisin'" We all know he's being sarcastic. Brooke follows that with, " That and we're gonna find popsicles, and all kinds of good stuff, iceys at the top..." At which point Greg approaches me with his sunblock smeared face demanding "hey bro, help me out, is it smeared in? Is it smeared in?" And we're off on another epic day.

Starting with Barcroft Mountain we're feeling good, steady, even with the heavier packs. On to White, which is the biggest climb of the day, and the pace slows, the steps begin to hurt, and endurance kicks into full gear. Dumping the packs at the last switchback, we head up to the top and take in the view, looking at distant Boundary Peak which is looking very distant. Greg mentions a Bishop local who ran the distance and back in a day, and Brooke qualifies it saying "Well, he said it was the torture test from hell, but..." Looking at the distance it's impossible to imagine setting out to reach that high point and think of getting back the same day. It's hard enough for me to think about carrying my pack all the way to Boundary, let alone back. Our conversation wanders, as high altitude and weariness take hold, with Todd asking Greg, "What do you think they're growin'?" "Carrots and alfalfa." "What's the difference between the rounds of hay and the rectangles?"

Pushing on from White Mountain we begin traversing an increasingly difficult ridgeline that's third class in places, and the big packs begin to feel cumbersome, even scary on those special moves that require balance, strength, confidence. At one point one of the dogs, Bodhi, has to be given a little extra encouragement to descend a steep drop into the arms of Todd. As we finish the most difficult section of the ridge Greg and Todd happen to look down and to the west and see a paraglider spinning wildly out of control and then disappearing right into a steep ridge. The pilot was even with his chute as he ripped out of sight, a clear sign of no control. Immediately on the cell phone, Greg gets a hold of search and rescue and gives them details on the paraglider's location. And thus begins The Wait, or The Rest, or whatever you want to call sitting on your ass in the cold for a few hours.

Staying in place with a good view of the crash site, we wait for a helicopter to arrive, which takes close to two hours, and then watch as it circles and looks and circles again. Eventually Greg calls in and gives them further details regarding the location and where to look closer and we wait and watch and eventually they say that they've got a GPS on the person's location and can proceed without further need of us. At this point, the sun is on it's way over the Sierra Crest, close to gone, and we're all cold, stiff and having very mixed feelings about the trek ahead to an unknown wild looking area with two springs side by side dropping to opposite sides of the crest. (Is it really there? Will there really be water?) As the sun drops and twilight begins to become dusk, Todd stops and pulls out the map for one last look, and Brooke calls up, "I think I see a point where there could be two springs going two opposite directions, and I kinda think it's over there." Todd responds, "Yeah, I've got a good idea where we're going....(pause)...and it's not close." So we go marching off into the dark empty plains of the White Mountain crest with several miles to go, soon to have the moon as companion and flashlight.

Very tired we reach the saddle below the low summit of Hedley Peak. Should we climb to the high point? It becomes the point of a short debate. It's dark, late, we're exhausted, near camp, and there's the final summit of the day. It doesn't even look like a summit or much of anything, but what should we do? If we let it go, we compromise our original goal, and isn't that the reason we huffed it up the others? If we go it will add an extra hundred feet of climbing or so. Eventually we all realize that going to the top of Hedley will really make no difference in how tired we are, and although Todd and Brooke could do without doing it, Greg and I rally a bit of spirit to make the final push of the day. It hurts, but in the end it feels good not to have lost any step of the path, to have continued even in complete darkness and exhaustion.

Heading down the slope toward the springs, it's after nine o'clock at night, and we're peering through the darkness at the parallel then diverging springs wondering if there's water down in those gullies. A long descent toward the springs keeps me wondering for some time, not being able to hear Greg and Todd out in front by a few hundred yards. As I get closer and reach the edge of one of the springs, I hear water running, lots of water, and there are few things in my life that have sounded so good, so comforting. With zero sign of any surface water for two full days of hiking, this oasis truly relieves my soul, and relaxes all my aches, pains, worries. Breaking the meditation of water conservation, we're briefly able to waste water and drink as much as possible. It's hard to gather the strength to cook dinner but we know that we must, in order to rebuild ourselves for tomorrow. Tomorrow...the biggest day of all. The dogs look pleased to be camping, but have an uneasy look about them as they settle down for a brisk night in a strange place, knowing hiking will continue tomorrow.

Fairly early in the morning we all get up and start making breakfast and tea, wandering around and taking in the fantastic colors of morning light on willows, yellow grasses, and the deep blue sky. By far the most awesome oasis I've been to, none of us are really gearin' to get going. Lingering and relaxing, we enjoy the morning, knowing that so much distance, exhaustion and suffering lie ahead before we reach the truck.

The mountain meditation of the trip seems to be hitting its stride at the springs. A brief relief from constant movement, we have the chance to look at the sun and not feel the earth passing under our feet at the same time. To talk and not feel out of breath, rushed, or worried about the next climb. Long ago thoughts of the "real" world vanished and were replaced with physical pain, breathing, endless movement, and now we have this chance to absorb and relish a wonderful feeling of removal, remoteness ‹ camped completely isolated from the workings of the man-made world. It is joyous. After talking, looking, laughing and stretching, with a large mug of tea and then some coffee, the morning seems to vibrate with the colors, the feelings, the hilarious ease of backcountry life.

ONCE WE GET GOING, it's about nine-thirty or ten in the morning, late start by anyone's standards, but we feel better from the extra time. We move quickly along the long upward slope out of the springs and eventually get quite spread out. Early on we cross some additional small springs and at the highest of these, a hawk is swooping and hunting the watercourse. Watching it fly by, I can see it's head looking down and back up and down again, scanning the ground for it's next meal. To watch a hawk so closely with the naked eye is fantastic and leaves me buzzing with energy the rest of the day; a real wakeup after the fantastic morning.

Taking photos and filming keeps me shooting from behind everyone early on,, but as we get towards Pelisier Flats I get out in front and climb the long steady grade to the summit of Mt. Dubois, spotting a large herd of deer and a big group of Big Horn sheep along the way. From Dubois I'm able to film the rest of the group crawling like ants on the huge plateau of the White Mountain crest. People are so small, the mountains so big, the whole scene of basin and range enormous on the western edge of the Great Basin.

They're at the summit before I realize it and we enjoy a short break before pushing on across the true high flat lands between Dubois and The Jumpoff. This stretch is easy, fast hiking and we're feeling confident that we're making good time as we reach The Jumpoff. The ridge leading to the summit of Montgomery Peak is dramatic to say the least. Long, jagged, and beautifully lit by the afternoon sun, we sit on the summit of the Jumpoff and get the strong sensation that this will be the icing on the cake, both aesthetically, and physically. Already over ten miles for the day, we've got plenty more to the car, and the ridge on Montgomery is 1,000 vertical feet tall. Then there's Boundary. We're all hurting but the sun is shining and the ridge is inspiring, and like in Campito Meadow, we realize that it's easier to keep moving.

It's a steep, loose talus descent to the pass between The Jumpoff and Montgomery, where there's an old shotgun that Greg begins wielding around, proclaiming "I will fight (jabbing the gun violently into the ground) for my right to bear arms." "Greg gets pretty excited around guns." Todd adds. Brooke, who doesn't much enjoy firearms, quietly agrees with Todd, "Yes, he does."

The light is turning to beautiful hues so I get ahead of the group to set up a nice shot with the video camera and take some photos. The white rock of the ridgeline is absolutely gleaming and with the distant line of the Sierra Crest in the background, I momentarily forget my days of hiking, blown out muscles, high altitude, heavy pack and start ripping around a bit frantic to stay ahead of the group. My veins are charged with energy. Now is the time, the photographer in me screams. The sun is dropping, getting closer to the ridge, and as we reach the upper third of the climb it is reaching the crest of the Sierra, ready to disappear. The light is beginning to turn from intense gold to a subtle pink.

Increasingly, as the light fails, we're running into more difficulties along the ridge. Gendarmes that must be circumvented, or climbed over, and we start looking for the summit hopefully thinking it's just around the next bend. The light is pink and grey and getting too dark for filming as we near the final difficult section. Getting onto some difficult class three climbing in near darkness with a big pack and a couple cameras swinging around is a pretty wild feeling. Kind of close to crazy, but somehow it feels fun. At the top of the final section I holler down to Todd to come up. Soon I'm on top, and it's too dark to take video or pictures, it's time for headlamps and down jackets.

Now, as I pack my cameras into my backpack, the frantic pulse of amazing light on a dramatic ridge fades fast, and the ache returns, the lack of strength, the exhaustion. Soon we're all huddled on the summit of Montgomery Peak, signing the register by headlamp, cold, tired, feeling like the car is still a long way off. And now the real suffering begins. Descending off Montgomery Peak by headlamp turns out to be more time consuming and difficult than we'd anticipated. Fortunately Greg has been up the route not too long ago and is able to guide us through, and along the jumbled ridge. Reaching the saddle before Boundary, we think it'll be easy from here. Nope, the jumbled ridge continues, going uphill now, the route finding remains a challenge and we struggle against our exhaustion, the complete muscular fatigue of hard days of hiking on end, to push on through the dark to the final summit of the traverse.

Reaching Boundary Peak we're all hurting bad, having arrived at the point in which physical exhaustion can overcome almost anything, all of us could sleep right where we're sitting, without even taking our packs off. We're probably close to 20 miles or so at this point for the day, with nearly 5000 feet of gain, and now ‹ now we think OK the suffering's over, we just cruise from here to the car, OK I think I can handle that. But no, getting off Boundary takes some time and then we're on the loose steep use trail that drops down to Trail Canyon saddle far below. Pounding down just destroys us. Slipping, and watching for loose rocks, and trying to stay on the path, and just pounding down down down, with the weight on our backs just slamming through the soles of our feet.

We're in a lot of pain now. Delirious pain. When all things become funny, or not even worth mentioning.We're all hurting regardless of our experience with this type of terrain. Full body pain ‹ how else can it be described? Just pure, brute, full body pain, delivering more pain with each step down the trail. It seems like we endure a couple hours of this brutal torture before we reach Trail Canyon saddle, and stop for a break. "Should we stay here, or should we push on to the truck, it's not far from here?" We debate the issue, and after briefly wavering toward finishing at the truck we realize that to go to the truck would mean driving back to Bishop tonight as well and that would be a rough ordeal for the driver. We agree to spend the night at the saddle, with Todd immediately dropping his pack and pulling out his sleeping bag in a seemingly fluid motion. We crawl into our bags and don't wake 'til the sunrise.

Getting up in the morning we all feel sore, but so much better than the night before. "I'm so glad we decided to sleep here last night, " Greg says, "I was thinking about how it would've been to drive all the way down that dirt road and then all the way back to Bishop...it would have hurt. I feel so much better doing it now." We all agree and slowly pack up.

Walking up to Greg's truck an hour later the feeling of relief is strong, but also anti-climactic. Afterall, we didn't walk all this way to see a late eighties landcruiser, no matter how sweet the vehicle is. We didn't walk all this way to say "we did it" either. So as we load things into the car, it's not so much a relief as a sudden break from the deep, intense meditation we were in for three days. As nice as it is that a car is carrying us instead of our beaten legs, it's not as nice to know that it's carrying us back to the world of people, bills, responsibilities, technology, politics, pollution, schedules, jobs, and lots of things to do. It's a relief but it's also a sudden reminder, oh yeah, ...so when am I gonna pay that health insurance bill...?

For three days we had nothing between us and the moment, nothing between our feet and the ground, nothing to occupy our thoughts except movement over the grassy plains of the White Mountains. They were the toughest three days of backpacking I've ever undertaken, and that final day is up there on the list of the worst suffering days, but so much suffering, so much pain I guess I will always take instead of the easy, luxury world of the current reality we've created with our elaborate societies, civilization and technology. The rich are getting farther away, the middle is wishing for more, and the poor are being ignored, and me, I'm at the bottom, barely enough money to scrape by each year, and for some reason I'm wanting less. I just want those three days to stretch on, into eternity, timeless and vast as the White Mountain crest, to relieve me of the true suffering, the true pains of this modern world.