Prelude:
It looks like I’ve written quite a bit…I can assure you I didn’t mean to, I just started on a stream of consciousness run, blacked out for a second, and here we are! Today was boring relative to our other days in parks and whatnot, but all broken out it turned out a lot went down. Oh, bother, they’ll probably never let me write another blog post. Sorry for the wordiness, but here goes.
-Patrick “Moti” O’Neill
Leaving Zion:
As I’m sure Day 5 (See Above/Before/Previous [I don’t know what the blog looks like]) has alluded to, Day 6 brought with it the tearful au revoir from our faithful-romantic, campsite-sharin’, summit-climbin’, home-repairin’, Wisconsin-escapist, Latin-Americanist pal Bill. He writes books! I managed to snag a picture of him as he prepared to break his nightly fast; he looked well. I hope he’s still well. I’m only writing this a few days after the fact, so I’m sure he’s fine.
Here’s to you Bill – may you continue climbing mountains until there aren’t any more to climb.
The voyage couldn’t begin until Bill had sufficiently warned us of the trials and tribulations associated with alpine climbing, though, and he did a pretty solid job of scaring the pants off me. The gist of it went,
“If you want my honest opinion[1], I think you guys are going to freeze your tails off up there. Look around! This place is great, stay!”
This after several stories the previous night detailing his blood-brother’s terrifying fall to 9 fingers (Never fear, he’s a successful neurosurgeon now.) and his own travels to the hellish region above 12,000 feet. I hope whomever wrote yesterday’s account captured some of his tales; he’s really one of the more fascinating people I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
SO
Eventually we got out of town, but before we could completely break the tether, we had a couple tasks to finish up. It being Mother’s Day, we made our requisite calls home (I called every number I could think of without an answer and didn’t get a return call until later that afternoon…you try to be a good son), finished our NP ritual of bathing in a public restroom sink, and kicked off for Mt. Whitney, which has come to replace “Bitch” in my lexicon – as in, “Hey, you, quit yer Whitneying.”[2]
Viva El Desierto:
First on the itinerary was Las Vegas, which I can’t exactly call the shithole of Nevada because, well, I just don’t know what else is in Nevada. Reno’s there, and so is Area 51, so I guess I’d rather be in Vegas than those places. Driving through the strip was a barrage of mirrors, lights, and escort services – Escort services! We don’t get those in Cary, but they sound like great company if you’re ever short on conversation. The Bellagio’s fountains were turned off in a surprisingly disappointing gesture of goodwill to the environment. The one time the mecca of consumption smack in the middle of the God forsaken desert decides to exercise restraint, it’s when we drive by. Boo.
It was still fascinating to see the set for Ocean’s movies, though, and in silent tribute I stuffed my face with Pop-Tarts[3] and wondered how exactly I’d go about robbing the MGM Grand. Can’t be done, can it? I guess they’ll have to check their vaults to find out.
After navigating the mass of miniature sovereignties and cities (We drove through a New York, a Cairo, and more, I think.), we stocked up on outdoorsy-type gear at a local REI[4] foraged for food in the surrounding area. Lucky us, we chanced upon a wild Panera and POUNCED – in my case to the tune of 4 flatbread sandwiches and a Ciabatta loaf, or around 2500 calories. Why?
You see, Panera has this special with which you get two flatbreads by *apparently* ordering one, but if you order two flatbreads because you’re reading off the menu, you instead get four flatbreads, and the end result is that you are very confused, very full, and very out $20. Whatever, that was the beginning of my camel phase, storing up calories for the next couple days. You should’ve seen the hump. Hot damn, what a hump.
Andrew and Samarth got Greek food, but I don’t know anything about Greek food or what they ordered, so I’m just going to tell you that they ordered Greek food.
…They ordered Greek food.
Hammond would also like you to know that she got a free chocolate cupcake! As the rube gypped into buying a small-family-sized meal for 1, I feel like I’m somewhat deserving of a cupcake, but hey, c’est la vie.
Sigh. Nope, still mad about the cupcake. Damn it all, Hammond.
The rest of Nevada was pretty nondescript; roads turned flat and straight, the world turned to dust, and the car got quiet. I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it, but our GoPro’s time lapse looks like it’s on pause for about 250 frames.
THEN, lo and behold, we crossed into California! All but one of us missed the sign (Eagle-Eyed Hammond over there…), because out in the desert, all desert looks like the same desert. California Desert = Nevada Desert in all but name.
Death Valley:
True to form, Death Valley was a glimpse into my own mortality. I’m not sure if I made it through or I’m in some bizarre, parallel afterlife, but either way, “life” is still good at this point. If this is death, I have an announcement: don’t be afraid of dying; it looks like a road trip with some of your best friends. Don’t all go jumping off bridges at once, though. Patience is a virtue.
If, on the other hand, I’m still alive, you may all go back to fearing the eternal void.
Back on track – how to describe the place? I’m at a loss for words. I’ve never been to a more alien place anywhere in the world[5]. You open the window to look out at the Martian landscape, only to be greeted by a blast furnace of an environment sucking moisture out of every pore. Ignoring the omnipresent threat of heat stroke, dehydration, and French Tourist Bus, the valley really is fascinating. The only other times I’ve ever been below sea level have been in the ocean, and even in diving, I’ve never descended as far as we did in our lovely Odyssey (190’ below sea level!). Death Valley is quite the place, and I hope to return someday.
Whitney or Bust:
Once we climbed out of the valley, we puttered on through what looked like some awfully similar desert that the map assured us was actually quite different, and BOOM. A spiny dragon soared above the desert plain, a spiny dragon we came to know well over the next couple days as W-H-I-T-N-E-Y. But that’s a story for another day, that day being tomorrow.
OO arrived in style in Lone Pine, California, a small town that mostly serves thru traffic and the seasonal influx of climbers like us, searching for the route above the 48 states around us. I figured the climb to be a more exciting, slower version of the rapture.[6]
Natural athletes to the marrow, we decided to prep our bodies at McDonald’s, a local joint renowned for its pre-climb fuel. Continuing my penchant for overpaying for food, I confidently ordered a double cheeseburger and a McFlurry, chuckling a little at the man next to me ordering the double off the dollar menu.
Inside Patrick’s Head: “I’m a fancy climber, I get to splurge on the real deal. I just can’t wait; this burger is going to be ginormous. Oh, boy, here it comes! Hold on, why are there two there? Oh, one’s for the man next to me. Wait a tick, why do they look the same? Crap.”
Long story short, I paid an extra two dollars for a piece of lettuce on top of the patty. Game-Set-Match, Dollar Menu Man.
Defeated and trudging back to my seat, my mood was boosted by Samarth’s poetically phrased Whitneying[7] about the restaurant’s lack of outlets. Well, not so much the lack thereof, but more that they were recessed into the ceiling, about 10 feet above us. Looking around, we realized the local Lone Pine-inians had the area scoped out; some of the booths had small extension cords hanging from the ceiling, and every booth was taken.
Deciding that my first double cheeseburger wouldn’t hold me over until Day 8, I returned to the counter, triumphantly ordering the double from the dollar menu. I may be a fast food boob, but no one can accuse me of not learning from my mistakes. Mcflurry still in hand, I grabbed my greasy sandwich and turned to go when behind me rang, clear and true in the manliest pre-pubescent voice I’ve ever heard, “Bye, bitch!”
Now, I may be a pacifist and a bit of a pushover, but I draw the line at strangers directing obscenities my way. I revolved on the spot, searching out my offender. My eye fell upon a gaggle of beanied, longhaired preteens, the ringleader of whom had uttered the offending phrase. To this day, I’m not sure if his salty language was directed at me – I’m going to guess not – but I had to make sure.
I glared at him over my McFlurry. He glared back. We acknowledged one another with the customary head nod. We discovered mutual respect. I will always remember you, Little Skater Man.
Not long after, OO shipped up and out, climbing the road to the mountain that would be our home for the next couple days. Pulling into basecamp, we met Site Host Lee, who looked to me to be the harbinger of doom seen often in horror films – a la Cabin in the Woods. We pulled up to his RV, where we found out he wasn’t the prophet of our impending deaths, he was a righteous dood!
Lee: “Oh and don’t forget you can buy firewood here, if you like. $6 for a bundle and $15 for 3. I’ll leave them out here once I go to sleep in case you want some; just make sure you pay. If you don’t put the money in the container, well, we don’t get the money!”
Fair enough, Lee!
Once in camp, we scurried about, feeling the stares of the noticeably more prepared climbers in the adjacent site. The Eagles (Andrew and I) set up camp: Andrew to the tent, I to the fire. Samarth started ripping our gear out the back of our mobile home, and the girls began putting together our meals for the ensuing adventure (Peanut-butter, Clif Bars, Oatmeal, and Ramen). After I finished cutting some wonderful kindling, I hiked back to where Lee’s RV was stationed above us. He was kind enough to make change for me ($6 out of $10, if you’re curious), and we got down to the serious business of shooting the breeze. I explained from where we originated, told him about the crazy Operation on which we found ourselves, and he told me some wild stories about his days as a host. They almost always ended with cops or rangers hauling away some perp. I’ll dub the most interesting of the bunch “The Tale of The Fugitive Wanted on 17 Felony Counts” and “The Four Drunk Guys That Took Turns Throwing Themselves Through Cabin Walls.”
In Lee’s words, “All those fellas woke up in the slammer wondering what had happened. Ha! If you’re gonna go to jail, why come all the way up here to do it? I’ll just call the cops, sit here in my chair and watch the pretty lights.” Man’s seen some things.
Following the most entertaining conversation of the day, I hauled the firewood back down to our site, where most of our gear by now was laid on our picnic table. I lit the fire, we packed our gear, divided the communal equipment, Samarth experimented with exposures on his Nikon-Canon camera device, and we promptly went to bed. Day 7 was going to come early, and we’re all responsible adults.
[1] No, Bill, lie to me until I feel comfortable with this insane endeavor.
[2] I say this, but I’m not sure anyone else does. Sigh. The life of an artist.
[3] They’re always eating in the movie! Don’t believe me? Watch it; I won’t waste my time trying to convince you.
[4] At this point I got a call from my mom, but had to hang up to buy things that would keep me from dying on Whitney. Ha! That’ll show you not to answer my phone calls. Just kidding, Mommy, I love you and happy Mothers’ Day. I also bought some clearance XXL long johns to keep me toasty on our adventure into the sky. They look like elephant skin, but they’re oh-so-warm and no one’s looking, anyway.
[5] Hefty words for a 20 year old who’s ventured outside the country on THREE whole occasions.
[6] I’ll be honest here, I don’t know much about the rapture. I’m not sure that I’ve even ever read all of Revelation after 11-odd years of Catholic school, but I can tell you that Whitney is pretty damn exciting looking. If the rapture beats that, then boy-howdy, are we in for a time!
[7] It’s a thing!
tl;dr
Nothing memorable happened. Samarth got angry. Gabby laid down. Andrew was snarky. Patch told Hammond to shut up. The usual. We moved on.
Miles Driven: 628 + 1,211 + 462 + 310 + 5 + 410 = 3,026
It looks like I’ve written quite a bit…I can assure you I didn’t mean to, I just started on a stream of consciousness run, blacked out for a second, and here we are! Today was boring relative to our other days in parks and whatnot, but all broken out it turned out a lot went down. Oh, bother, they’ll probably never let me write another blog post. Sorry for the wordiness, but here goes.
-Patrick “Moti” O’Neill
Leaving Zion:
As I’m sure Day 5 (See Above/Before/Previous [I don’t know what the blog looks like]) has alluded to, Day 6 brought with it the tearful au revoir from our faithful-romantic, campsite-sharin’, summit-climbin’, home-repairin’, Wisconsin-escapist, Latin-Americanist pal Bill. He writes books! I managed to snag a picture of him as he prepared to break his nightly fast; he looked well. I hope he’s still well. I’m only writing this a few days after the fact, so I’m sure he’s fine.
Here’s to you Bill – may you continue climbing mountains until there aren’t any more to climb.
The voyage couldn’t begin until Bill had sufficiently warned us of the trials and tribulations associated with alpine climbing, though, and he did a pretty solid job of scaring the pants off me. The gist of it went,
“If you want my honest opinion[1], I think you guys are going to freeze your tails off up there. Look around! This place is great, stay!”
This after several stories the previous night detailing his blood-brother’s terrifying fall to 9 fingers (Never fear, he’s a successful neurosurgeon now.) and his own travels to the hellish region above 12,000 feet. I hope whomever wrote yesterday’s account captured some of his tales; he’s really one of the more fascinating people I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.
SO
Eventually we got out of town, but before we could completely break the tether, we had a couple tasks to finish up. It being Mother’s Day, we made our requisite calls home (I called every number I could think of without an answer and didn’t get a return call until later that afternoon…you try to be a good son), finished our NP ritual of bathing in a public restroom sink, and kicked off for Mt. Whitney, which has come to replace “Bitch” in my lexicon – as in, “Hey, you, quit yer Whitneying.”[2]
Viva El Desierto:
First on the itinerary was Las Vegas, which I can’t exactly call the shithole of Nevada because, well, I just don’t know what else is in Nevada. Reno’s there, and so is Area 51, so I guess I’d rather be in Vegas than those places. Driving through the strip was a barrage of mirrors, lights, and escort services – Escort services! We don’t get those in Cary, but they sound like great company if you’re ever short on conversation. The Bellagio’s fountains were turned off in a surprisingly disappointing gesture of goodwill to the environment. The one time the mecca of consumption smack in the middle of the God forsaken desert decides to exercise restraint, it’s when we drive by. Boo.
It was still fascinating to see the set for Ocean’s movies, though, and in silent tribute I stuffed my face with Pop-Tarts[3] and wondered how exactly I’d go about robbing the MGM Grand. Can’t be done, can it? I guess they’ll have to check their vaults to find out.
After navigating the mass of miniature sovereignties and cities (We drove through a New York, a Cairo, and more, I think.), we stocked up on outdoorsy-type gear at a local REI[4] foraged for food in the surrounding area. Lucky us, we chanced upon a wild Panera and POUNCED – in my case to the tune of 4 flatbread sandwiches and a Ciabatta loaf, or around 2500 calories. Why?
You see, Panera has this special with which you get two flatbreads by *apparently* ordering one, but if you order two flatbreads because you’re reading off the menu, you instead get four flatbreads, and the end result is that you are very confused, very full, and very out $20. Whatever, that was the beginning of my camel phase, storing up calories for the next couple days. You should’ve seen the hump. Hot damn, what a hump.
Andrew and Samarth got Greek food, but I don’t know anything about Greek food or what they ordered, so I’m just going to tell you that they ordered Greek food.
…They ordered Greek food.
Hammond would also like you to know that she got a free chocolate cupcake! As the rube gypped into buying a small-family-sized meal for 1, I feel like I’m somewhat deserving of a cupcake, but hey, c’est la vie.
Sigh. Nope, still mad about the cupcake. Damn it all, Hammond.
The rest of Nevada was pretty nondescript; roads turned flat and straight, the world turned to dust, and the car got quiet. I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy it, but our GoPro’s time lapse looks like it’s on pause for about 250 frames.
THEN, lo and behold, we crossed into California! All but one of us missed the sign (Eagle-Eyed Hammond over there…), because out in the desert, all desert looks like the same desert. California Desert = Nevada Desert in all but name.
Death Valley:
True to form, Death Valley was a glimpse into my own mortality. I’m not sure if I made it through or I’m in some bizarre, parallel afterlife, but either way, “life” is still good at this point. If this is death, I have an announcement: don’t be afraid of dying; it looks like a road trip with some of your best friends. Don’t all go jumping off bridges at once, though. Patience is a virtue.
If, on the other hand, I’m still alive, you may all go back to fearing the eternal void.
Back on track – how to describe the place? I’m at a loss for words. I’ve never been to a more alien place anywhere in the world[5]. You open the window to look out at the Martian landscape, only to be greeted by a blast furnace of an environment sucking moisture out of every pore. Ignoring the omnipresent threat of heat stroke, dehydration, and French Tourist Bus, the valley really is fascinating. The only other times I’ve ever been below sea level have been in the ocean, and even in diving, I’ve never descended as far as we did in our lovely Odyssey (190’ below sea level!). Death Valley is quite the place, and I hope to return someday.
Whitney or Bust:
Once we climbed out of the valley, we puttered on through what looked like some awfully similar desert that the map assured us was actually quite different, and BOOM. A spiny dragon soared above the desert plain, a spiny dragon we came to know well over the next couple days as W-H-I-T-N-E-Y. But that’s a story for another day, that day being tomorrow.
OO arrived in style in Lone Pine, California, a small town that mostly serves thru traffic and the seasonal influx of climbers like us, searching for the route above the 48 states around us. I figured the climb to be a more exciting, slower version of the rapture.[6]
Natural athletes to the marrow, we decided to prep our bodies at McDonald’s, a local joint renowned for its pre-climb fuel. Continuing my penchant for overpaying for food, I confidently ordered a double cheeseburger and a McFlurry, chuckling a little at the man next to me ordering the double off the dollar menu.
Inside Patrick’s Head: “I’m a fancy climber, I get to splurge on the real deal. I just can’t wait; this burger is going to be ginormous. Oh, boy, here it comes! Hold on, why are there two there? Oh, one’s for the man next to me. Wait a tick, why do they look the same? Crap.”
Long story short, I paid an extra two dollars for a piece of lettuce on top of the patty. Game-Set-Match, Dollar Menu Man.
Defeated and trudging back to my seat, my mood was boosted by Samarth’s poetically phrased Whitneying[7] about the restaurant’s lack of outlets. Well, not so much the lack thereof, but more that they were recessed into the ceiling, about 10 feet above us. Looking around, we realized the local Lone Pine-inians had the area scoped out; some of the booths had small extension cords hanging from the ceiling, and every booth was taken.
Deciding that my first double cheeseburger wouldn’t hold me over until Day 8, I returned to the counter, triumphantly ordering the double from the dollar menu. I may be a fast food boob, but no one can accuse me of not learning from my mistakes. Mcflurry still in hand, I grabbed my greasy sandwich and turned to go when behind me rang, clear and true in the manliest pre-pubescent voice I’ve ever heard, “Bye, bitch!”
Now, I may be a pacifist and a bit of a pushover, but I draw the line at strangers directing obscenities my way. I revolved on the spot, searching out my offender. My eye fell upon a gaggle of beanied, longhaired preteens, the ringleader of whom had uttered the offending phrase. To this day, I’m not sure if his salty language was directed at me – I’m going to guess not – but I had to make sure.
I glared at him over my McFlurry. He glared back. We acknowledged one another with the customary head nod. We discovered mutual respect. I will always remember you, Little Skater Man.
Not long after, OO shipped up and out, climbing the road to the mountain that would be our home for the next couple days. Pulling into basecamp, we met Site Host Lee, who looked to me to be the harbinger of doom seen often in horror films – a la Cabin in the Woods. We pulled up to his RV, where we found out he wasn’t the prophet of our impending deaths, he was a righteous dood!
Lee: “Oh and don’t forget you can buy firewood here, if you like. $6 for a bundle and $15 for 3. I’ll leave them out here once I go to sleep in case you want some; just make sure you pay. If you don’t put the money in the container, well, we don’t get the money!”
Fair enough, Lee!
Once in camp, we scurried about, feeling the stares of the noticeably more prepared climbers in the adjacent site. The Eagles (Andrew and I) set up camp: Andrew to the tent, I to the fire. Samarth started ripping our gear out the back of our mobile home, and the girls began putting together our meals for the ensuing adventure (Peanut-butter, Clif Bars, Oatmeal, and Ramen). After I finished cutting some wonderful kindling, I hiked back to where Lee’s RV was stationed above us. He was kind enough to make change for me ($6 out of $10, if you’re curious), and we got down to the serious business of shooting the breeze. I explained from where we originated, told him about the crazy Operation on which we found ourselves, and he told me some wild stories about his days as a host. They almost always ended with cops or rangers hauling away some perp. I’ll dub the most interesting of the bunch “The Tale of The Fugitive Wanted on 17 Felony Counts” and “The Four Drunk Guys That Took Turns Throwing Themselves Through Cabin Walls.”
In Lee’s words, “All those fellas woke up in the slammer wondering what had happened. Ha! If you’re gonna go to jail, why come all the way up here to do it? I’ll just call the cops, sit here in my chair and watch the pretty lights.” Man’s seen some things.
Following the most entertaining conversation of the day, I hauled the firewood back down to our site, where most of our gear by now was laid on our picnic table. I lit the fire, we packed our gear, divided the communal equipment, Samarth experimented with exposures on his Nikon-Canon camera device, and we promptly went to bed. Day 7 was going to come early, and we’re all responsible adults.
[1] No, Bill, lie to me until I feel comfortable with this insane endeavor.
[2] I say this, but I’m not sure anyone else does. Sigh. The life of an artist.
[3] They’re always eating in the movie! Don’t believe me? Watch it; I won’t waste my time trying to convince you.
[4] At this point I got a call from my mom, but had to hang up to buy things that would keep me from dying on Whitney. Ha! That’ll show you not to answer my phone calls. Just kidding, Mommy, I love you and happy Mothers’ Day. I also bought some clearance XXL long johns to keep me toasty on our adventure into the sky. They look like elephant skin, but they’re oh-so-warm and no one’s looking, anyway.
[5] Hefty words for a 20 year old who’s ventured outside the country on THREE whole occasions.
[6] I’ll be honest here, I don’t know much about the rapture. I’m not sure that I’ve even ever read all of Revelation after 11-odd years of Catholic school, but I can tell you that Whitney is pretty damn exciting looking. If the rapture beats that, then boy-howdy, are we in for a time!
[7] It’s a thing!
tl;dr
Nothing memorable happened. Samarth got angry. Gabby laid down. Andrew was snarky. Patch told Hammond to shut up. The usual. We moved on.
Miles Driven: 628 + 1,211 + 462 + 310 + 5 + 410 = 3,026