White Mountain Peak, CA

Of all the places I've been in my life thus far, White Mountain Peak has affected me in a deeper way more than any other spot.

I found White Mountain Peak on a map sometime in late 2014. It was at the end of my first semester as a senior in high school. On a whim, I started trying to find the biggest mountain I could legally ride a bike up in California, I was scouring roads in the Eastern Sierra when I noticed that the neighboring White Mountains had a fourteener with what looked like a gentle trail to the top. Upon examination of satellite imagery, I found out it was a dirt road for the most part. Even better, boundaries around it were gerrymandered in such a way that the trail wasn't Wilderness, and therefore was legally accessible to someone on a mountain bike

After some further research, I found that the mountain in question, White Mountain Peak, is a natural wonder in and of itself. In contrast to the nearby Sierra Nevada, there are swathes of dolomitic soil, and with the exception of the knife-edge ridges north of White Mountain Peak, the crest of the range is gently rolling. It’s home to all kinds of endemic plant species, from the beautiful maroon flowers of the White Mountain Buckwheat (Eriogonum gracilipes) to forests of Great Basin Bristlecone Pines (Pinus longaeva), which stand as the world’s oldest trees.

7 grueling months of high school later, I found I finally had a chance to meet the White Mountains. It was the first time in my life I was actually about to realize something I'd been dreaming of, and I was over the moon.

To make a long story short, 2015 hadn't been great for me up to that point. Four years of high school drama, busywork, and generally being on the fringe of things due to my different tastes, values, and interests had taken its toll. My race season up to that point was of great disappointment to me as well. As if life hadn't been enough of a letdown, and my best friend had moved all the way across the country.

The bad feelings ended when I was up in Mammoth with my mom for MTB Nationals. Mammoth is only about an hour and a half away from the access point to the White Mountains. So, the day after my race, I tried to convince my mom to drive me up into the White Mountains as an early 18th birthday present. When she agreed I could hardly contain myself. Even though I realized I couldn't do the whole ascent in one go for the sake of time (I didn't have access to a car at that point and was reliant on her for transportation) I was still incredibly excited.

We left Mammoth at 9 am, got onto Highway 395 and started heading south to Big Pine. From there, we turned left towards State Highway 168, and started driving across the Owens Valley into the White Mountains.

Instead of continuing east over Westgard pass and into Deep Springs Valley, we turned again and continued our ascent up White Mountain Road. At around 9,000 feet we pulled over to get out and look at some bristlecone pines by the side of the road. After a few minutes of taking in the trees, we continued onward to the dirt.

Since the decision to head into the White Mountains was effectively spur of the moment, I was only comfortably prepared and able to do about three hours of riding. I had filled a tall bottle of water and a couple of extras in the car and was pre-hydrating before I got out.

Finally, after about two hours of driving, I arrived at the location from which I planned to attempt the summit from. Because of limited time and resources, we stopped at the aptly named patriarch grove, where the oldest trees on the planet slowly grow at an incredible altitude and in almost otherworldly  conditions. The trees are so old, even individual needle leaves can live up to 45 years. It’s almost like a forest of giant Bonsai trees growing out of mostly bare dolomite rock. When one dies after living for a few millennia, the environment is so harsh that even dead trees will often stand for an additional several thousand years. As such, researchers have been able to create a highly detailed picture of the region’s climate which goes back almost 10,000 years.

Thusly, after peeing behind a dead tree that was probably older than the pyramids, I got onto my bike, and started to make my way from 11,000 feet to the summit.

I vividly remember being shocked by the number of marmots I saw on my ascent. Rounding the turn towards the Barcroft Station gate, I thought I saw dogs chasing each other down the road. I’ve had close calls with mean dogs out in the boonies before, so while I wasn’t exactly freaking out but I was certainly concerned I might have to take defensive measures. The closer I got, I realized that the “dogs” were in fact large yellow-bellied marmots (Marmota flaviventris) erratically chasing one another across the alpine meadows. Relieved that I wasn’t about to have to use the metal on my cleats for anything other than clipping into my pedals, I happily continued on my way.

I can’t say that riding up in and of itself was pure bliss. My legs had been given a little extra kick ‘cause I was so happy, but there’s only so much one’s lungs can do as altitude increases. As I’d been acclimated to 8,000 feet, everything was totally fine for the first hour. However, as I hit 13,000 feet, I started to acutely feel the altitude. I was beginning to hate myself for selecting a large racing chainring because my muscles were starting to burn for lack of oxygen at that point.

At 13,200 feet, there’s a 300 foot dip before the final pitch to the top. Here, the route went from smooth doubletrack into sharp, fist-sized rocks (colloquially known as babyheads). Perhaps my line choice wasn’t the best, but descending into this dip was rather difficult. To my recollection, there were many obtruding rocks and even a few small drops I had to navigate to get to the bottom.

Once I dropped into the bottom of the dip, I looked up to see the final ascent. What lay in front of me was a 1300 foot tall pile of scree I had to somehow ride up.

I wish I could say I took a deep breath, clipped back into my pedals, and motored right up the steep, crumbling rock. But I didn’t. I sure as hell gave it my all to do so, though. I made it up about 100 vertical feet, but I totally ran out of breath, and was reduced to carrying my bike up the “trail” (basically just an indentation in the massive pile of loose rocks) for 20 feet. This sort of on-again/off-again continued until I hit the last 200 feet to the top.

Perhaps it was the numb dizziness from being at 14,000 feet for the first time in my life, or perhaps it’s because I was so happy I acquired a second wind, but I rode right up the last 200 feet of the mountain and only put a foot down one time.

At the top, I felt like I was on a jet. I was two vertical miles above the valleys on either side. I could see Mammoth, Bishop, Mt. Whitney, Mono Lake, and far into Nevada. I signed my name in the summit ledger and started walking around to take it all in. Perhaps I’m biased in that I haven’t been atop big mountains in other parts of the world, but I had my mind blown a little bit. It wasn’t just the view, but also the size of the landscape, and the fact that it was even better than I ever thought it would be.

I sat down on the rocks and looked west to the eastern face of the Sierra. The mountains spread out toward both ends of the horizon, like players on a stage in some great amphitheatre. Fields of alfalfa and other crops looked like small green dots in the valleys below me. Bishop looked like a smear of green in the brown sagebrush of the Owens Valley.

For the first time in a long time, I was genuinely happy.

After 20 minutes of standing around, mouth agape at my surroundings, I started to feel a little dizzy. I had drunk a little under half of my bottle of water (yes, I only took one bottle) and had eaten half of my ride food, so I figured it was time to head back before I died of exposure, got struck by lightning, or kidnapped for ransom by marmots.

Going down the mountain to the aforementioned dip was crazy. It was hard to maintain control on the rocks and there were several close calls where I was almost hit in the face by large rocks kicked up by my wheels. Climbing out of the dip was worse than getting to the summit. At this point, I found it was impossible to ride up the steep rocks with the racing chainring, and I was reduced to carrying my bike again.

One step at a time, I extricated myself out of the 300 foot dip.

Finally back on the trail, I checked the time and I was beginning to run out of time for riding. I’d already burned through about 2 hours and 30 minutes between ascending and summit time, so I had to book it back to patriarch grove.

I was mentally preparing myself for having to gas it uphill at 12,000 feet, but instead I got a wonderful surprise and to rest my legs.

After bombing down the road to the Barcroft research station, I spotted my mom waiting with the car at the gate. I gave her a big hug, tossed my bike in the back, quickly changed, and we were off (but not after checking for marmots around the car, as they have a tendency to sit on warm tires and engine blocks).

We drove back down into the Owens Valley just in time to avoid a couple of thunderstorms passing into the mountains. I ended a day feeling truly satisfied watching the sun slowly set on the Eastern Sierra, Mono Lake, and Western Nevada as we drove north. And ever since that day, I’ve been dreaming about the White Mountains.