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| Doesn't that kind of look like where The Grinch lived? |
Mile 1. I have limited experience with this kind of thing. Most hikes I go on are just an excuse to hang out with beautiful women for a couple hours and snap some selfies before ultimately landing at bottomless brunch.
Mile 2. Mt. Whitney is a rather straight forward climb. 11 miles one way, with an average elevation gain of 500 feet per mile, but there are a few sections where some canyoning or mountaineering experience could be helpful. I once climbed a big rock at Joshua Tree, but it was only to get a better vantage point of the sunset. Oh, and I was totally bombed.
Mile 3. I agreed to this months ago when I was absolutely sinned. In the past, I would have figured out a way to weasel myself out of this. But for some strange reason that is not apparent to me, I convinced myself that I can do this, it won't be that big of a deal. Sure the longest hike that I've gone on is 10 miles...but what's another 12?
Mile 4. Oh, so apparently there is this thing called elevation sickness. I live at sea level on the beach. Whitney veterans suggest doing a short training hike at elevation to get yourself acclimated, maybe I could do that this weekend but...
Mile 5. I'm going to Vegas this weekend. And not just your typical do a bunch of drugs and spend $1200 to see Calvin Harris at Hakkassan only to get a disappointing handjob from a married woman on a #girlstrip. I'm going for 24 hours only to a Bachelor Party with a bunch of college and pro football players. While I can't disclose the goings on of last trip, I can verify that I spent 10 hours on a bus back to LA wedged between two fetishist porn stars. I'm pretty sure they both convinced me that getting jacked off with feet would be worth their $250 rate. Actually sorry. They charged $250 per foot, but if you wanted one of EACH of their feet, it was $600. Or they can make a video of them giving some other guy a footjob and send it to you for $100. What a deal.
HALFWAY TO THE TOP. Smoke a cigarette and shotgun a beer!
Mile 6. Concerning Vegas, I will be flying back this year (on Spirit, arguably worse that then bus) I will have most of Sunday, and Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday to rehydrate. I will start my hike at 3 o clock in the morning Thursday, and hope to be up the mountain before it really gets hot, but something tells me I am not adequately planning for the amount of water I will need. Or the containers to carry said water...or any equipment for that matter...
Mile 7. I'll just Google it an find out what I need! It can't be that hard right? I'll go get it tonight! Oh no wait, tonight is a pier concert, I will be blacking out and NOT doing a bunch of research at REI.
Mile 8. Ok, if I can't make it to REI tonight or this weekend because of Vegas...or Monday because I'll still be too hungover. There is always Tuesday right? Yes, Tuesday! This is sucha perfect microcosm of my life, I think California is trying to suspend my license bc of an unpaid seatbelt ticket, I might be getting audited, but both of these letters demanded action in August. It's July. PLENTY of time to procrastinate.
Starting to get pretty tired, but just think about all the instagram likes I'll get when I take a #SELFIE standing on top of North America. GAH! I better start thinking of my witty caption now.
Mile 9. What about diet? I go to Taco Bell about 12 times a week and eat whatever they are pushing. Last month that was breakfast and now it's the old QUESARITO. Let's do a quick Yelpish review shall we? The quesarito did NOT disappoint, all the filling qualities of a burrito, but with the cheesy goodness of a quesadilla, and coming in at a very reasonable 2500 calories, it felt like at least 3k! Minus a star bc the drive thru attendant only gave me 4 fire sauces. I said a FUCKTON. If ton is 2000, then the prefix of FUCK should indicate at least double that.
Mile 10. So I have no equipment, I don't know what to eat, I'm really not even in that good of shape, oh and my "running shoes" are now pink from the Color Run and Mildewy from Cliff Diving. I should probably get a new pair in advance of this undertaking, but isn't that what causes marathon runners to get blisters and die? Never run in new shoes. It's the one thing I remember from a website I went to for 5 minutes once when trying to judge the viability of me doing a half marathon.
Mile 11. The last mile is always the hardest, but wait. What if I have to shit during this mile. I NOTABLY poo at least 2 floors away from my office, preferably in a different building. I have the worst poo anxiety in the world. Girlfriends will never see me go to the bathroom, if my roommates are home, I will pretend I'm taking a shower. You're saying hikers just wander off the trail and squat? No. Just no.
Holy shit. I made it. I'm at the summit. I DID IT. I may be vomiting my guts out and bleeding from several orifi ORIFI? Plural of orifice? LET'S ROLL WITH IT. If my heart gives out from years of stimulant abuse, history will remember me kindly. HE DIED DOING SOMETHING HE LOVED. WHAT AN INSPIRATION. You know what? Fuck all the white noise. This mountain ain't shit. I can do this.
Mile 12. Some people don't believe in dinosaurs. It's true! Like they saw Jurassic Park and thought...ehhhh Bullshit! Some people don't believe in God. Apparently reading a story about turning water into wine and thinking, TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE. You know what I don't believe in? Altitude sickness. Altitude sickness is for pathetic little bitches with weak immune systems. Probably gluten free people with fake celiacs disease. Besides. I went skiing in park city this year and totally made it down a double black.
Mile 13. Did I mention I ran a sprint triathlon a month ago? Sure I had to backstroke the swim the entire time for fear of otherwise drowning, but I FUCKING DID IT. I feel roughly the same way about walking. The Indians walked the trail of tears, and I know at least some of them survived, because APPARENTLY every one of them lives in LA and takes my writing gigs. FUCK the Indians, Dan Snyder can keep the Redskins name.
Mile 14. Ok, that was a little crass. I have nothing against Native Americans, just white kids who have a zany grandparent that fucked an Iriqouis for sport once and now have the requisite 10% blood that activates writer's guild affirmative action. But honestly, old people climb this mountain all the time. I think merely by being 27 I will be able to do it, regardless of the fact that my diet consists largely of Sriracha covered Domino's.
Mile 15. Concerning the Vegas trip directly before the scaling of the mountain...many of you probably rightly assume that I am an idiot, and you would be correct. However, I am also likely smarter than you (the two are not mutually exclusive) I went out until 3 in the morning the night before the LSAT, never took a prep course and still got like a 163. (Smartish!) But, I also had a warrant out for my arrest at the time, and I couldn't think of a single professor that knew me well enough to write me a solid rec. So I took my Kelley degree to Chicago and developed a "party" habit (idiot)
Mile 16. It seems several people die each year scaling Mt. Whitney unprepared, accidents, dehydration and BEARS. But most people don't die. As someone who has bum rushed many a concert gate, you learn quickly that the only thing that matters is not being the slowest. I'm sure this rings true with the Pamplona running of the bulls as well. As long as you aren't the WORST at something, you probably won't die. Thus when a black bear starts chasing my group, I will be safe because the bear will settle for the weakling of the group. Humans are not the only lazy animals.
Mile 17. Something that everyone bitches about at Mt. Whitney is the wildly changing weather. I've always found inclement weather very unimpressive. There was a blizzard un Chicago a few years back, it was snowing at a rate of like 9 inches an hour and there was somehow thunder and lightning and hail involved as well. I had work cancelled the next day, so I walked a mile to a bar. Not wanting to risk smelly feet in case some girl wanted to bang, I wore sandals. Alas my roommates and I were the only people there, but still watching The Weather Channel at Kincades while taking Fireball shots is way better than laying on a couch.
Mile 18. You may remember a story in which I gave myself alcohol poisoning on my friend Ryan's 21st birthday and passed out behind a dumpster in Florence, only to wake up in an ambulance and attack my rescuers. I'm pretty stories things like that render me death proof.
Mile 19. Almost done. Man my feet are starting to hurt, but you know what? How hard can climbing DOWN a mountain be. Don't you just kind of fall forward and let gravity handle it? Isn't that what the movie 'Gravity' was all about? No? Regardless...Sandra Bullock is 49 years old, and I would STILL do unspeakable things to those A cups.
Mile 20. I've always thought that if everything goes to shit, I can join the military and have one last chance at being a productive member of society. Back in the days of the Roman Emperor, their military would be expected to march 20 miles in a day. And they were probably all like 4 foot 8 and had sex with little boys. I would like to think my athleticism is AT LEAST on par with a 4 foot 8 man who has sex with little boys.
Mile 21 Women can do it. And I am a firm believer in that a woman can do anything as well or better than a man. I am ALSO a huge fan of the Transitive property. If A=B and B=C A=C. I can climb this bitch.
Mile 22 I DID IT! Let's be honest. I'm doing this solely so I can tell people I did it. That's really the only reason I do anything. I want to appear more impressive with my stories of travel and physical accomplishments. I want to trick people into thinking I'm more interesting than I really am. It is the same reason I read dozens of books a year, it is the same reason I work out, surf. I do epic shit so people will see it on Facebook and be like man Dave is so fucking cool. And I'll be dragging on this last mile...but your approval will keep me going. I can't imagine a worse shame than failing this goal and having to tell every hiker the rest of my life that I tried climbing Mt. Whitney once and fucked it up. No, I'll crawl, or ride someone's back to the top, and then roll down on those sketchers heely shoes, and next time I'm at a bar I may not have "a job' perse or a credit score over 500, but I'll have a fucking story, and stories are what it's all about. It's why I do everything. So I can have something to fill the awkward silence with when I'm on a date, or something to write about when I hit a lull. I'm going to climb this fucking mountain next Thursday, get back to LA Friday, tell some chick at Townhouse all about it, and pull an away game. Oh and ya...being one with nature. That too I guess.
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