Friends Lost & Lessons Learned on Mt. Whitney

May 2019

Bright and early on May 5th, 2019, my best friend and I took our first steps towards a huge goal: hiking the Pacific Crest Trail together from Mexico to Canada. We had our gear dialed and our timeline loosely planned so that we could arrive at the trail’s northern terminus before the weather turned snowy and dangerous that fall. We were prepared to spend five months and 2,650 miles by each other’s side on this journey, and were buzzing with excitement that it was actually happening. We started slowly, cautiously ramping up our miles as we cared for our blistered, sore feet and our bodies adjusted to the weight of our packs. We fared better than we expected, and much to our surprise, we quickly joined a group we met in the early days of our hike. Before long, after shared meals and commiserating over thru-hiking woes, the seven of us became a trail family, or “tramily”. We all began planning our days around each other, stopping for breaks together during the day and sharing campsites in the evenings. During our town days, we’d all cram together in a cheap hotel room, passing beers and pizza back and forth over our pile of sore, smelly bodies. It felt like we had known each much longer than we actually had.

As our weeks of hiking continued, I began to find myself trailing farther and farther behind my tramily. During our first couple of weeks together, I would come around corners throughout the day to find them taking a short break on a rock or log, just minutes ahead of me as we walked. As we began to cover more miles every day, we noticed our legs, feet, and backs getting stronger. For others, this translated to a faster hiking speed, but meanwhile I couldn’t keep up. I was hiking at my maximum output and getting left in the dust, literally - this was the 700-mile stretch of desert that starts at the Mexican border and extends north. I started seeing my friends less and less, up to the point where I didn’t even catch up to them for lunch, and would only see them once I finally dragged myself into camp in the evening. I would be told they’d been there for an hour, or two hours, and I would wonder what was wrong with me and why I couldn’t keep up. 

It’s hard to describe how it feels to be left behind in this way. I didn’t expect my tramily - people I’d just met, who had their own big goals and dreams for the PCT - to stay behind with me. I did, however, expect my friend to be with me for the entire trail, no matter the circumstances. Our goal, or so I thought, was to be out there together, experiencing all the Pacific Crest Trail had to offer. Yes, we intended to hike the entire 2,650 miles, but we also knew that goal could be derailed in any number of ways. I hadn’t pictured struggling to keep pace with a large group, having so much of my trail joy exchanged for the stress of not knowing when or where I’d see my friends, and wondering if they resented meeting me, or in my friend’s case, agreeing to hike with me. 

My wondering was quickly answered when my friend and I started bickering about these unforeseen circumstances. We were sharing a tent, which meant we couldn’t split up, and she was finding it increasingly frustrating to wait for me every day, unable to make camp until I arrived much later than everyone else. My arrival was often met with an admonishment about how long I had taken or a brusque request to unpack my half of the tent as quickly as possible. We were each quick to snap at the other. These moments between us became sharper and more frequent. This wasn’t what either of us had imagined for this journey together, and I was sensing things were going to get worse. 

After 49 days of hiking through the topographically tame desert section, we were about to enter the Sierra Nevada range: 400 miles of incredible scenery at high elevation, with big climbs happening nearly every day to take us up and over the spiny mountains that call the range home. There would be deep snow, even in July, frequent water crossings, and steep switchbacks to traverse. I knew I had no chance of keeping pace with this crew, and our first objective in the Sierra would be the most challenging: 14,505ft Mt. Whitney, the tallest mountain in the lower 48. I didn’t feel prepared, but it’s a classic PCT side quest, as the trail scoots right past the giant’s base. Until this point, I hadn’t even considered not climbing it.

When we arrived at camp at the base of the mountain, though, I began flip-flopping through many emotions. I was excited about finally being in the Sierra and climbing this mountain I’d heard so much about. I was nervous about the snow we’d encounter, having never hiked on snow in my life. I kept looking at the shiny ice axe I’d purchased just days before, ready to catch me in a fall if I had the wherewithal to use it properly. I thought of how slowly I’d been hiking recently and how I’d been seeing so much less of my tramily throughout the day. I knew I’d be hiking this mountain alone. We’d see each other at the summit, but the switchbacks and shelves of snow and the hike up in the pre-dawn darkness would be all me - no emotional support and no trusted friends around if I did slip or fall.

By the time dinner rolled around the night before the climb, I was paralyzed with apprehension. I curled up in my sleeping bag while it was still light outside, silent tears flowing down my cheeks as I typed a goodbye letter to my then-boyfriend in the Notes app on my phone, just in case. I could so easily picture myself taking one bad step on the slick snow in the dark, and I knew that my friends would be too far ahead to hear or see anything. If the worst happened, it would take them hours to even notice, let alone decide they needed to call for help. After going back and forth in my head for a few hours, I let my friend know that I would not be joining the group for the climb.

This decision was one of the last threads in our unraveling friendship. I felt unsupported and like I couldn’t trust my friend to hike safely with me, though she claimed she would. I assume she felt that I wasn’t cut out for the adventure we’d signed up for together. I’d been left behind on trail and she was already starting to leave me behind in her mind. I could see it in her face and I could feel it manifesting as a hard ball of shame in my chest. I was embarrassed by my fear and weakness, and she was disgusted by it. 

The group left early in the morning - really in the middle of the night - and I waited in the tent, in and out of fitful sleep, until they returned. I remember being surprised by how little time had passed. It took them just until late morning to climb the tallest mountain in the lower 48 and return to camp. They had made it to the top in time for sunrise and had many beautiful photos to show for it. They talked about the stubborn snow remaining on the switchbacks and the brutal wind at the summit, but insisted it had not been a dangerous or scary ascent, just one that required attention and dedication. They told me I should have come. I listened to their stories with a smile and congratulated them all on their successful summit. I was truly happy for them, but I felt the gap widening in our experience of the trail and knew that I wouldn’t be spending many more trail days with this crew.

About a week after her successful summit bid, my friend and I waited for our tramily to leave the Airbnb we were sharing so we could have a huge blowout fight, which became the official end of our six years of best friendship. We didn’t know that in the moment, but we did decide to split up on trail and reevaluate once things calmed down a bit. She continued north with our tramily and I “flipped” up to Lake Tahoe to hike south for a bit and clear my head. Our reevaluation, but for a few curt texts and in-person conversations when we crossed paths on trail over the next couple of months, never ended up happening. We’ve now been strangers almost as long as we were friends.

To be clear, I don’t blame her at all for being frustrated with my pace and ultimately deciding finishing the hike was more important than sharing the experience with me, but it’s hard to describe the depth of hurt and loneliness I felt during those weeks on trail.

When I look back on that day at Mt. Whitney, I know I made the right choice for myself - I would have been left behind, and I would have been in pain, both emotionally and physically. It wasn’t the right day for me to attempt something that should bring joy - I know I wouldn’t have felt it under everything else I was feeling. And though it was the right choice, I’ve felt some disappointment in myself every time I’ve seen Mt. Whitney in the five years since. It’s more to me than a mountain I was scared to climb - it’s a representation of the obstacles in my friendship I wasn’t able to overcome either. I think about how heavy my heart felt knowing that I was losing something so important to me. I have a deep, innate desire to maintain relationships through any and everything, and my experience at Mt. Whitney was a stark reminder that I’m not always capable of that.

Clockwise, from top left: Standing at the southern terminus on day 1 of the PCT, Flo posing with "sun cups", which are a pain in the ass to walk on, looking out over the Sierra range, snowier than usual in July, posing during one of my first days hiking alone, near Lake Tahoe, and a sunset view from the tent deep within the Sierra.

May 2024

On the chilly morning of May 7th, 2024, almost five years to the day of my starting the PCT, one of my many adventurous friends, Patty Bolan, set out to accomplish a new objective of her own: an early season summit of Mt. Whitney via the class 5 mountaineer route on its northeastern face. She’d then descend the steepest ridge below the summit on foot and snowboard down to the camp she’d set up the night before with her boyfriend and another friend of theirs. This was a huge goal, but it wasn’t out of the ordinary for Patty - she had many other snowy summits under her belt, was an avid snowboarder and trail runner, and had just hiked the entire 800-mile Arizona Trail in just a month. She had back- and raft packed solo in locales as remote and rugged as Greenland. She was an absolute badass outdoors person. I don’t know the exact details of what happened that day on Mt. Whitney, and it’s not appropriate for me to speculate, but we do know that Patty and her boyfriend faced some sort of obstacle on their initial descent from the summit and fell nearly 1,000ft to their deaths on the unforgivingly steep face of the mountain.

While I didn’t know Patty as well as my friend from the PCT, losing her on the same mountain is poignant. This mountain represents so much to the hiking community, from the highest of highs (literally) to the lowest of lows. That’s what it’s meant for me and I’m sure it means the same to Patty. Knowing her joyful spirit, I can imagine how giddy she must have been during her time on the summit on the morning of May 7th. Through snow and wind and everything else, she made it through the early season conditions to tag the top. It was a clear day, so she would have had visibility for miles. She was in a transitional period of her life, having just graduated with her doctorate and in the thick of searching for jobs. I’m sure she spent at least a few moments of her time on the summit imagining all that was meant to unfold for her over the coming months and years.  

I think about how scared I was to misstep on this powerful mountain, and how sad I was to be losing a friend. Imagining Patty on Mt. Whitney in the moments before her fall is incredibly painful. I can’t help but to picture her having these same feelings, but having them magnified by being so high up and in danger on its slopes. Patty was a remarkably joyful person, and she easily made friends everywhere she went. She was incredibly capable in the outdoors and had both the mental and physical strength to accomplish goals that many of us cannot even imagine attempting. She knew, in theory, what she was risking on her climb that day, but the ultimate outcome is hard to comprehend in reality. Again, I won’t speculate on what happened, but my heart goes out to her imagining the many professional and personal goals, and the many faces of those she loved that must have been moving through her mind in her last moments. I’m still working through my disbelief that the world could lose someone as incredible as her in just the blink of an eye, and still processing what a loss like this means for her family, close friends, and the outdoor community as a whole. 

Danger and loss are not new concepts, and they’re not exclusive to mountain environments, but they’re amplified in that unforgiving landscape. I believe you feel everything more deeply when you’re in the mountains. The only comfort I can take in losing Patty is knowing that, until the accident, she was truly living - she was feeling and experiencing some of the most special emotions this life can provide.

Mt. Whitney at sunrise, as seen from the lupine-filled valley below, Patty in March of 2024 as she began her Arizona Trail hike, and the memorial I left for her in the trail register on the summit of Mt. Whitney.

July 2024

Back in March my boyfriend Jared and I selected the maximum number of lottery entries we were allowed and a few weeks later, voila - a one-day permit to hike Mt. Whitney on July 3rd appeared in his inbox. My stomach did a backflip. I hadn’t expected us to actually get a permit through the notoriously popular lottery. He asked if I was still stoked for the hike. I gave a tight-lipped nod and began mentally preparing myself for what this meant. I’d be going back to redeem myself on the mountain that had been holding me captive for half a decade.

Fast forward 4 months, after some training hikes and determined sessions on the stairmaster at my local Anytime Fitness, and we were pulling up to the trailhead to get a couple hours of sleep before a 12:30am start. This was a little overkill, but my nerves were shot thinking about how slowly I’d ascend the 11 miles and 6,600ft of elevation to the top. I wanted us to be able to get back to the trailhead before dark, but more than anything I wanted this hike to be over.

For several hours, we stumbled along in the dark on the surprisingly well-maintained trail. Our headlamps lit only a fraction of the vast landscape we knew was surrounding us but that we couldn’t see. I occasionally gave a half-hearted “hey, bear!” and had to stop frequently to settle my labored breathing. 

Thankfully we had spent the several days before our big climb doing other acclimatization hikes in the area, and the altitude was affecting me noticeably less than when we had first arrived in the Sierra. If I moved slowly, but steadily, I could maintain an acceptable pace as the trail progressed ever higher, even with my still-necessary breaks. 

When the sun rose over the Inyo Mountains to the east at 5:40am, I got a rush of energy - at least as much of one as you can get at 13,000ft. We could see the valley below us lit up in the incredible golden light and Whitney herself looming over us - the closest I had ever seen her. I felt a new level of determination to make this happen. We ascended the infamous 99 switchbacks to be rewarded with our first view of the stunning valley on the opposite side of the mountain. 

From there, the trail became more or less a rocky traverse across the backs of Mt. Whitney’s neighbors. It would be fairly easy hiking if not for the fact that it was all above 13,400ft. My head felt a little swimmy and I could barely stand to have any food or water as we made our last push to the top. At 9:30am, we dropped tearfully onto the rocky ledge that makes up the summit. I was overcome with emotion and so many questions from the past 5 years - why had I not trusted that I was capable of doing this? What emotional baggage from the loss of my friendship could I leave here? Why did this beautiful, special place have to be the one that took Patty from me and everyone else in her life?

Some answers came with time - I couldn’t keep up on trail thanks to exercise-induced asthma, diagnosed shortly after returning home from the PCT. It affects every outdoor goal of mine, but I also now know that I can accomplish basically anything I want with training, confidence, and support (and albuterol). Other things I’ll never know the answers to include whether my friendship would have survived if we hadn’t attempted the PCT together, or if our separation was inevitable. I’ll never know what Patty was thinking during her last adventure - either while she was standing on the summit of Mt. Whitney or during the likely harrowing moments afterwards. I have to make peace with the complexities of not knowing in these situations. What I’ll take with me from this is simple, though - we must live our lives fully and stay true to ourselves. Not every relationship should or can last forever, so we must be grateful for the present moment we have with those we love. This grand adventure of life belongs to you and to do anything less than following your dreams and cherishing your loved ones would be a disservice to the short time that’s been given to you. The two friends I lost on Mt. Whitney have left an indelible mark on my life, and while the lessons they taught me were painful to learn, I can’t be anything other than incredibly thankful that they helped me get to where I am today.

Clockwise, from top left: Mt. Whitney and her neighboring peaks before sunrise on summit day [photo credit Jared Stever], taking in the sunrise just over an hour later, taking in the view of the Eastern Sierra, including Whitney, from Alabama Hills, and posing with the summit sign at the top!

“In that dream I could hardly contain it

All my life I will wait to attain it

I will see you someday when I’ve woken

I’ll be so happy just to have spoken

I’ll have so much to tell you about it”

Dedicated to Dr. Patty Bolan