Mount Whitney Up-And-Over

By: LOWA Pro Team Athlete Sunny Stroeer

“It may not be pretty, but I can get down almost anything on skis.” That’s what I said to my AMGA instructor during a basic mountain guide training course just about two weeks ago, remembering the many winter days I spent skiing with my parents. There was a time when I would have called myself a highly competent and maybe even an elegant downhill skier. There were many other times when I felt controlled and capable, if not a master of the craft. And there were times when I felt a bit shaky, but I was always able to get down whatever I needed to get down - from moguled resort runs and double black diamonds to steep backcountry slopes and avalanche debris in a whiteout. Then again, it’s been a decade since I skied regularly… and the last time I made any turns whatsoever prior to today was right around four years ago.


“It may not be pretty, but I can get down almost anything on skis.” I am not far from the summit of Mount Whitney, the tallest peak in the contiguous United States, and my words from two weeks ago are ringing in my ears right now. I am alone, perched precariously in the middle of a steep snow slope at 13,000ft, sitting on my butt with ski boots firmly planted to avoid sliding down the abyss that I am staring into. I am clutching my ice axe while my skis and poles are strapped to my pack - straight across the top, so that I may have the option to glissade. With hesitation I start my controlled slide, only to dig in my ice axe and bring myself to a stop before I have gone even 10 feet. The snow is soft and wet at the surface, but frozen hard some 2-3 inches down - great conditions for a very fast glissade that can get out of control in a heartbeat. Adding yet another complication: with my skis horizontal across my backpack I don’t have the option of easily rolling onto my stomach to dig my ice axe into the snow, a critical component of the classic self-arrest movement that is a mountaineer’s first response to picking up too much speed during a glissade.


The slope I am staring down is somewhere between 35 and 40 degrees in steepness - a great gradient for a competent skier. If only I were to take those skis off my backpack and strap them to my feet I should be able to get down the next 1,000ft without much difficulty… yet unfortunately my de facto ski capability is nowhere near where I had imagined or boasted it should be, four years hiatus and all, and looking at the steep slope below leaves me with zero desire to attempt to ski it. Not for my first turns in four years, not solo, and definitely not today. So here I am, on my butt, indignantly inching down the side of the mountain at a glacial pace.


I have come full circle: a few hours ago I was moving at a glacial pace as well, heading up the hill - just on the other side of Mount Whitney. Taking advantage of a 48 hour break from my day jobs (running a desert hiking service, and a women’s expedition company) I drove from Utah to California, slept three cramped hours in the back of my tiny Honda Fit, and set out to climb Mount Whitney in a day. I meant to start my alpine adventure at 2am, but exhaustion and the desire to sleep delayed me by an hour. Unfamiliar terrain and tracks obscured by avalanche debris slowed me down more. Then, just before sunrise, I realized that I had fumbled and irretrievably lost my glacier glasses during one of my nighttime hike-ski transitions. Lacking eye protection during a sunny mountaineering adventure at altitude is a big deal - snow blindness and the resulting incapacitation are an almost certain consequence. What to do?


I considered turning around for a serious minute or ten. In the end, I decided that I had enough material in my backpack to fashion a makeshift mask that would limit the amount of UV light to reach and damage my eyes. I pushed on.


At 14,505 feet, Mount Whitney’s summit is the tallest point in the contiguous United States. Many Mount Whitney hopefuls spend 2-3 days in pursuit of the summit. I had 48 hours away from work, but, living in Southern Utah, I needed to squeeze both 15 hours of driving as well as the summit bid into my little window. Add sleep, and I was looking at a rapid dash-and-grab mission that would be just about precisely one third driving, one third sleep, and one third climbing.


Admittedly… for strong athletes with the relevant experience, Whitney in-a-day is a great backcountry outing yet simultaneously not that big a deal. I came in with lots of relevant experience - years of mountaineering, speed records on 22,838ft Aconcagua and on the  Annapurna circuit, and many other big endurance pushes in the mountains - yet my recent reality as a multiple small business owner meant my actual training and fitness was nowhere near where I wanted it to be. Combine that with my more than rusty ski skills, and this Mount Whitney adventure made for a full-value day that pushed me and kept me on my toes (and my butt, where I was too chicken to ski!). It made for a day that embodies all that I love about being in the mountains: physical challenge, uncertainty of outcomes, engaging risk management, and full mindful presence.


Was it a smart idea? Yes and no. I learned years ago that a successful outcome does not equal good decision-making. Just like one can make solid decisions and still have terrible outcomes (hello objective hazard), one can make terrible decisions and have solid outcomes. My first speed record on Aconcagua comes to mind as an example of the latter: by blasting up the mountain in 8 hours and 47 minutes I garnered recognition and laid the foundation for a robust adventure athlete track record - yet I consider the day of that speed record one of my worst days in the mountains. I pushed for the speed record even though I was not yet recovered from a severe respiratory infection, and paid for it at the summit: barely able to breathe I took dexamethasone and called for my expedition partner Libby to partially ascend the mountain so she could help me get back down to camp. In retrospect I know that should never have attempted a summit push that day in the first place. Yet in in this instance, poor decision-making led to a career-catalyzing speed record.


So what about Mount Whitney? Yes, the decision to bring skis despite my recent lack of ski days may not have been my finest hour, nor was the moment that I unknowingly fumbled my glacier glasses in the night. But all said and told I look back on this gumby up-and-over adventure with satisfaction and contentedness. Summiting Mount Whitney is just one factor playing into that; what’s more important is that I assessed and addressed problems as they arose, and managed risk proactively with - I like to think - a good mix of creativity and pragmatism.

Of course I know that my dad, who was a phenomenal skier in his lifetime, was turning over in his grave while my skis and I awkwardly butt-scooted down the best run on Mount Whitney. I know that my makeshift sun protection could have made a ninja turtle jealous. And that's OK. My style may not have been aspirational but I stayed safe, had fun, and I can't wait to get back out there for another lap.

Looking ahead to the next time I discuss my skiing ability with someone, I do know that I will watch my prepositions a bit more closely. “I can get down almost anything on skis” may not be true at this point, yet “It may not be pretty but I can get down almost anything with skis” sure is.



Photo credit: Sunny Stroeer