But after a while it seemed equally pointless to sit all day, on a chair, in a building, with a ranger who knew little and cared less. It was the first day my legs hadn't pumped more than six miles and the fact I was using furniture in a solid structure seemed sacrilegious, a contradiction of the whole purpose behind the trek. The longer I sat, the less I liked it; rain or shine I knew I would hike out the next day.

IT WAS RAIN: cold, clammy, pervading rain that leaked through the tent and soaked the sleeping bag. The sky bode more ill than good. There was no thunder though, which left me no excuses. Moreover, I had specifically asked 'Ranger Bob' the night before what the streams would be like, reminding him I would be making the hike alone. Stoned, but still the authority, he said "no problem."

It took six people an hour to cross what once had been a small but forceful stream, since turned into a bank-leaping, hip-high rush of water just two miles from the station. Adrian and Johnnie, two hikers I had met by chance the day before, were leaving the ranger station as I set off. When I first caught sight of the water we ran into three other hikers who were having trouble finding a crossing--two American servicemen stationed in Germany and a German friend of theirs in the Sierras for a vacation.

After an hour spent trying to find a dry crossing, both feet and both boots were soaked from having fallen into the stream. Only later did I realize that falling in had been a good thing. Not only did it force me to keep moving so my feet wouldn't freeze but I didn't waste time avoiding water anywhere else.

Once we got above the treeline, two or three miles of gradual climb beyond the stream, the light drizzle that had accompanied us from the outset turned into moderately heavy snow. Everyone was hiking at his own pace. I was at least 15 minutes behind Adrian and the same amount of time in front of Johnnie, Mike and the other two. It seemed an interminably long way to the top. I was getting cold, dressed only in shorts, t-shirt, down vest, poncho and wool cap. I hadn't eaten anything that morning and very little the day before, which was beginning to worry me. But worse still, my shoe came untied.

I tried to lace it, and couldn't. My fingers wouldn't respond, wouldn't work, could barely bend. I wanted to panic, to sit down and cry. Instead, somehow I balled the lace up and knotted it loosely, then shoved my hands under the pack straps and beneath the vest. Hopefully they would warm up, while I was losing feeling in my feet.

Even at that point it was hard not to stop, give up and wait for Johnnie and the others. The trail, with 10 miles to go beyond the pass and the pass not even in sight, looked hopelessly endless...I started to wonder about hypothermia (when your body can no longer generate enough heat to maintain body temperature; as heat drains, so does strength and eventually consciousness.) Every few steps I would run through the symptoms and tell myself that, so far, I was fine. My mind's ability to stifle fear and panic came into play. So did the fact that finally, after climbing 11 passes. I knew how to hike up a verticle climb of 3200 or so feet in less than four miles without getting tired. It meant plodding along until the pass in the rock itself appeared and then scrambling down the other side.

I expected the other side to be easy. I also expected sun. Somewhere along the line I had been told that it was always sunny, a veritable desert, in the Owens Valley, just the other side of Trail Crest. But expectations are a mistake, especially when they are unreasonable and almost hallucinogenic. At the sign that pointed the summit direction, different and farther than the pass itself, there was still more uphill while at the apex between uphill and downhill there was no sun. Nor was there any sign of Adrian in front or Johnnie behind.

There was no comfort anywhere. Even the usual sterility of raw rock, clear water and open sky was obliterated. Only white pervaded, the white blanketing, falling and unformed snow. It gripped me even more than the cold did. It was even more engulfing than overwhelming. I didn't know whether I wanted to go on, or should go on or even could. It left me a decision.

I could either hike the two miles to the Mt. Whitney summit where there was an emergency hut with no door or I could continue towards the end of the trail at Whitney Portal. I continued.

The wind was fiercer on the Owens Valley side. It blew sleet and snow hard enough to turn any exposed flesh a deep red-violet. There was also more snow. Old snow, left over from a harsh winter, was covered with a new and slippery coat. Most of the time I could follow Adrian's footprints but there came a stretch where they ran out. At the same point, the snow all of a sudden became too steep to walk across.

Perhaps Adrian had fallen. I looked down. He hadn't. But I might. I panicked momentarily because for the first time it finally dawned on me that any moment, with any slip, I could die, that, in fact, I probably would--especially since there was no safe way to get across the snowfield. The only thing to do was to sit and slide on the snow and try to halt before the rocks, which reared up like so many menacing bone-breakers, stopped me. So I did, and it worked. The snow even warmed my legs, which scared me. I started to worry seriously. No one was anywhere in sight. There was only snow and rock, inhospitable and oblivious, almost daring me to make it.

IT WENT ON forever. Until I saw two people who I'd never seen before, three or so turns in the trail below. The turns were three hard "switchbacks," like the five or so immediately before them. The trail was filled with ice-water and slush that reached mid-calf. It took at least five minutes to reach the hikers. During those five minutes fear and worry vanished. People meant help. They would know how much farther to the end, to Whitney Portal, they would be able to put the wool shirt on me and get out wool socks to use as gloves.

But they couldn't. They were in much worse shape than I was in, walking slowly, in scantier clothes, soaked, with ice-caked beards. They needed help badly and I knew I wasn't strong enough to do what was necessary alone, which scared me. No longer thinking about myself, I tried to follow Adrian's footsteps at a run but kept losing them since the switchbacks had stopped as the ground leveled off for a while. Because the cairns meant to mark the trail were snow-covered, and indistinguishable from countless other rockpiles, it could go anywhere. I started to panic, tearlessly, soundlessly, then started to yell for Adrain. No answer. Nor was there any sign of Johnnie and the others. Unwillingly, I assumed they'd been wiser and gone to the summit hut, which meant there was no one behind us at all.

I stopped, went back to the men and told them to follow me. I asked them if they'd seen any tents they could go to. They slowly answered no, stumbled and followed. Hypothermia. I ran on, hoping they still knew enough to follow my footprints. But I couldn't keep going for long. Again Adrian's footprints ran out, suddenly, for good reason. There was a torrent that had to be crossed, one that looked too strong to ford.