Friday 8/18/2023:

1:42pm. I got home from work with most of my stuff packed ready to go. I excited a flawless fire drill. I got changed , took a shit, loaded and packed the car and rolled out of my apartment’s complex by 1:58.

6:00 pm. Made it safely to Lone Pine, California. Cut across Death Valley, on a pretty uneventful drive. Listened to “The Golden Son” by pierce brown for the whole drive. stopped to grab diner at The Grill. I got a plate of Pesto Linguini with a side of clam chowder. They had insane portion sizes.

7:30 pm. drive up the up the mountains to the cottonwood pass trail head. Car camped in the back of the Subaru. at 10,000 feet, the stars were incredible. Got to sleep around 10:30 after reading for a bit.

Saturday 8/19/2023:

4:45 am. Hit the trail bright and early, before the sun rose. My left Achilles started hurting like something fierce right off the bat.

5:05 At about a mile in, I had to stop to assess the damage. I got a new pair of hiking boots about three weeks ago. They carried me up to the tops of Griffith peak and Mount Charleston in comfort and style. With 35 trail miles, I didn’t expect for any issues to really arise, save for a blister or two. And yet, I’m sitting on a rock contemplating scrapping this whole hike, one which I will drive a combined 9 hours for, slept in my car for, and turned down the invitation for a night of revelry with a particularly attractive second grade teacher for. I do not fear the pain, but the possibility of losing out on my goal, The R2R2R. If I’m stupid now it risks an injury that derails a goal a year in the planning. With n devil and an angel wrapped my hiking polls whispering these risks and rewards, I make my choice. Fuck it , we ride. I pop some vitamin I while I tape my heel in the hope that will help. I make the brilliant decision to move my ankle brace from weaker right ankle to the hurting left side. With teeth gritted and an optimistic attitude, I press on.

7:30 am. Todays target is Mount Langley, a rocky 14’er that is commonly overlooked in favor of its more popular sister Mount Whitney. I summited Langley last August during a charming overnight backpacking trip. There are two passes that one can use to approach Langley from cottonwood lakes, Old Army Pass and New Army Pass. Old Army Pass is a rat bastard of climb, steep rock switchbacks that gain 1000 feet in less then a mile. It’s successor New Army Pass adds an extra 2 miles but offers a more forgiving accent. Most hikes choose to eat the extra miles of New Army, partly because it clears of snow much earlier in the session then old army. With the threat of the first wave of hurricane Hillary due to hit in the late afternoon, I wanted to take Old army for the short path. I run into a pair of day hikers also going for Langley who don’t really know what turns to take and did not bring a map. The fools were doomed. After informing them to the best of my knowledge, I left them in the dust.

7:55. About 7 miles in, a pair of backpackers returning from the lakes informs me that Old Army pass was still snowed over. Fuck. that sucks. Now not only will I have to eat the extra miles of New Army, but I have to add some more to switch over to that trail.

9:15: At the bottom of New Army, I get to watch a pair of trail runners paint the path my future ascent. It looks like it sucks, I crave my lost ignorance of my path.

10:15. After a minor scramble at the top, I make the pass. My legs are feeling good, and I barley notice my Achilles on the uphill. At 12350 feet, the thin air chills me. I’ve grown soft in the hot Vegas summer. Mount Langley towers overs me still 1700 feet up. Standing at the southern end of the high Sierras, my gaze is unchallenged as take in the magic. The southern horizon is filled with an invading armada of dark thunderheads pushing toward me like the unforgiving tide.

10:40 A short decent to saddle of Old Army pass hurts. Instead on the expected rest and recovery of a downhill, each step sends a Trojan arrow stabbing into my Achilles tendon. I stop for a snack break and reevaluate my life choices. As the last of my grapes and salami disappear in Langley shadow, I swallow my pride accepting that I was not meant for the summit today. I set my sights on unnamed ridge point overlooking the Cottonwood lakes as my consolation prize.

11:30 Arriving to the point, my reward stretches’ out in a breathtaking view that I wont do the injustice of attempting to put into words. The view, a beautiful carrot, juxtaposed with the fast approaching stick that is the dark thunderous fingers of Hillary sweeping from the south. I mark my territory with a quick picture and a piss into the wind, before setting off down the mountain. My watch reads 11 miles.

12:30 I am speed. I am Mercury clad with his winged boots as New Army is reclaimed. Fueled with the caffeine of gu packet and my Achilles tamed down to a dull throb with the power of 800 mg of ibuprofen, I eat miles. Descending down New Army, I have a singular mission: get home.

1:15 I shit behind a boulder the edge of a meadow, making prolonged eye contact with a deer. 7/10 would shit again

2:00 An invisible threshold exists were you cross over from a long hike to long distance hiking. In my experience, it hides right around 16 miles. Your body comes to terms with the situation and kicks into survival mode. The mind begins to wonder like a drunk toddler, brushing against ideas and epiphany. Even well trained legs feel used. Miles seem to expand and contract, disappearing in blink or dragging for what seems like an hour.

2:25 With less then half a mile to the trail head, I warn a poor pair just starting their journey to “watch the skies, and don’t die”. Not 5 minutes later, the harsh klaxon of a flash flood alert screams out in the quiet forest as my phone briefly grabs signal. I give a quick prayer of thanks to my pained tendon for forcing early my turnaround.

2:40 Success. 20.89 Miles and 9 hours after setting out, I reach the trailhead. Crossing the parking lot, the first rain drops grace my head. Sore legs and tendons are forgotten in the joy of of a trail well hiked.

2:45 I retrieve my food supplies from the bear box, change into fresh skivvies and hit the road. Grasping my post hike chocolate milk, I drive with “Too Young’ by The Stoplight Obviations blaring out the open windows. A five drive lays ahead of me.

2:48 I drive into a thunderhead. Not under, not around, directly into the thunderhead. At 10,000 feet, the mountain pass and the storm are as one. My visibility drops to less then 10 feet as the heart of the clouds chokes my vision. The road to the trailhead descends 8,000 feet to the valley floor in dizzying narrow switchbacks. White knuckled, I descend to the sound of my Emo Ragers playlist, not allowing myself to overthink the certain death that lives just a few feet away.

3:06 The valley floor welcomes me with hammering downpour. Cutting through the Alabama hills on the way into Lone Pine, I find the road before me in early stages of washing out in several sections. Dirt, rocks, and flood water pose no match to the mightily power of my Subaru Outback. The desert town is soggy, it main street wasn’t built for rain. I stop and get robbed at a gas station, paying $5.45 a gallon to fill my tank (thanks Biden). Previsioned with fresh McDonalds, Lone Pine’s last muddy vestiges fade in my review mirror.

3:30 Last August, when I returned home from the very same mountain, I was one of first people to drive across the reopened death valley after a historic “1000 year storm”. I bore witness to effects of water’s power in one of the most extreme places on earth. Roads were buried under rock flows and washouts, erasing man attempts to tame this alien landscape. Even with the knowledge, I am going to attempt to race the first hurricane California has seen in decades across a valley that has death in it’s very name. Yee haw, cowboy. Let’s race.

3:40 A few individual storm cells have beaten me to the valley, carving paths across the expanse. The road is partially washed out in many places, forcing me to navigate around boulders and scree. One partially flooded curve in the road give me the chance to water blast a minivan packed with Asian tourists who don’t respect the etiquette of unplanned one lane roads. This boasts my morale significantly.

4:40 During the drive, whenever my phone would briefly grab a signal, a new flash flood warning would scream out. The visitor center at Furnace Creek is the only decent bathroom in the park and one of the only places with consistent cell coverage. The center itself is closed down, all the rangers wisely have fled to higher and safer ground, leaving the bumbling tourists and myself to our fate. Checking the weather radar on my phone, I am greeted with a picture that would have made me shit pants had I not already been seated on a porcelain throne. A storm wall straight out of the shattered plains of Roshar is moving up quickly to flood my exit to the valley and my only way home.

4:45 The road out of the valley snake’s along the bottom of a dry river bed as it climbs. It’s the perfect place for a flash flood. I’m already hitting 80 miles per hour as I exit the town. This is one sprint I can’t afford to lose. Traffic laws and speed limits become suggestions as I tear uphill. A red Jetta that I pass gets the memo and slides into my wake. Together we drive like bats out of hell.

5:25 Last turn out of the valley is a welcome sight. Across the plain, the leading edge of the storm wall is less then a mile off. We made it with less then ten minutes to spare. (Note: That night Death Valley would break it records for rain, beating out last years “1000 year storm”. The park fully closed the next day and is not expected to reopen of months)

7:30 Compared to my adventures in the valley, the rest of the ride is uneventful. Wet, but uneventful. I finish “The Golden Son” as I drive through Pahrump. Arriving at my apartment, I am tired, stiff, sore, and satisfied. No, I did not conquer the mountain I set out for, but I did the most important things. I got home safe and I had fun. Langley is not going anywhere and I will return. I might make this an August tradition, but I plan bringing friends next year.