A Close Call with Lightning on Mt Whitney
I have always loved thunderstorms. When I was a little boy visiting family in Florida, I would sneak onto the back porch late at night any time I heard the clap of thunder. I would sometimes stay up for hours watching for bolts, counting the seconds before the thunder came and dividing by five to calculate how far away it was. Storms in general have always fascinated me, and as a lifelong bay area resident, storms tended to disappoint. I wanted thunder and lightning. I wanted torrential rain. It made me feel alive, even as a little kid. On July 18, 2022 in the high Sierra, I would finally answer for a lifetime of manifesting storms.
Storms weren’t on my mind when we arrived at the Whitney Portal trail in the pitch black. I had never summited a 14er before, and the prospect of doing so was just the adventure I was needing. Although Mt Whitney is the highest 14er in the lower 48, it is also one of California’s more approachable peaks above the 14,000 foot threshold. The trail presents no technical challenges, and with my outdoor experience, coupled with a perfect weather forecast, I was almost certain I would summit.
Our group was a celebration; my mom preferred to celebrate her birthday with a day in the mountains, bringing 3 friends and myself along to a peak she had already summited several times previously. It became clear early on that our group would separate into two; my mom and I would push at a quicker clip while the rest of the group would go at their own pace.
The trail slowly winded back and forth up a glacially carved canyon, with sheer granite faces rising hundreds of feet on either side. Thousands of feet below, I could make out the distant sandy landscape of the Owens Valley. The temperatures would certainly be above 100 in the afternoon there, but I made sure to be prepared for colder conditions on the mountain as best I could. Having spent most of my mountain time in the northern Sierras, I was stunned at the contrast of these southern Sierras on their eastern slope. The intensity of the landscape could be both seen and felt; a certain hostility seeped through the rock as the sun began to peak over the Keynot Peak and the drier looking Inyo Range to the East.
As we climbed, the distant, saw-like spires of Whitney’s southern ridge became illuminated in the dawn’s fluorescent glow. Dawn in the mountains is always sacred; the first beam of light bouncing off the peaks always seems especially bright before it sweeps downwards, bathing the whole landscape in gold. We turned off our headlamps and took in our new world in color before continuing our march towards the summit, which suddenly felt a little bit less important to reach.
As we walked, my mind drifted to the weather. I imagined all of the giant winter storms blowing in from the Pacific and raking through the peaks and valleys of this part of the range, no doubt with a savagery one must be present for to fully understand. In mid July, thunderstorms were a concern; the previous day, clouds surrounded Whitney like massive billowing curtains before dissipating in the softer evening climate. What a sight it must be to see a raging thunderstorm over the lower 48’s highest peak.
We hiked through the morning’s temperature swing, the desert heat chasing us upward before giving way to the drier, cooler air that clung to the peaks. The last of the trees faded behind us, meaning we were likely well above 11,000 feet by now. The most difficult part of the trail was still ahead of us; a series of 99 switchbacks that lifted the trail up a nearly vertical section of granite. Our pace slowed as the altitude and the grade of the trail made their presence known. I felt my heartbeat pound in my head, but our slower pace was still covering ground. We zigzagged up the face, closing on our first look over the ridge line towards Kings Canyon and the rest of the Sierras.
My mom, attempting the hike in what she called “terrible” shape, grew stronger as our ascent wore on. I expected nothing less; for as long as I have known her, it has been difficult to keep up with her relentless pace on the trails. Now at 23, in the best shape of my own life, I felt comfortable and strong alongside her in the thin air. I thought about the statistic I read before the hike, that 65 percent of people who attempt Whitney in a day fail to summit. Both of us seemed poised to make it, but I knew that I couldn’t be sure until I was standing on the peak.
At 13,600 feet of elevation, roughly 1,000 vertical feet from the summit, we emerged at the top of the ridge before making a northern turn towards Whitney. The new western facing viewpoint left me speechless. There isn’t an easy way to convey the beauty of a view so vast without a single manmade object in site. Part of me wished I could disappear down the John Muir Trail and trace it all the way to Yosemite. Truly immersing myself in the wild has always been a romantic dream of mine, especially in the part of my brain that ignores the physical and mental misery that such an adventure would involve. Unfortunately, as I would find out, this part of my brain was taking the reins as I rounded the turn north towards the summit.
At roughly 10am, a rather violent gust of southern wind slammed into my back before sustaining into a steady breeze. There were no storms on the forecast today, but as I knew, mountain forecasts can only act as a guide for more educated decision making. Never can they be accepted as 100 percent fact, especially when our crystal clear mountain day began morphing into one of scattered cloud cover and consistent winds.
As we walked, my vantage point to the East became completely shrouded by the tall spires of the ridge line, making me want to pick up the pace and reach the summit before any storm blew in. It made me increasingly nervous not being able to see an entire direction; a mass of black clouds could be incoming and I wouldn’t know. The weather was suddenly feeling inclement, and I was worried my summit goals were being taken out of my hands.
At around 10:30 am, the solitary, unassuming cloud I had been keeping my eye on began to lightly hail onto the trail. I never would have guessed that a cloud so little would produce weather to be concerned about, but hail is always a warning sign in the mountains. At this point, we were at 14,000 feet of elevation, and probably only 1,000 yards from the summit. We were torn on what to do; although the cloud looked small and unimposing, the prospect of being caught in a severe storm at this elevation was truly frightening. As if to aid in our decision, the sky suddenly flashed directly above us, followed immediately by a violent crack of thunder that rumbled and echoed into the valley below.
We immediately rushed for cover under an overhanging rock off the trail as another bolt flashed directly overhead. The hail began to hammer down on the wet rock, growing larger and larger in size as clouds from the east converged with what was once the least threatening cloud you could imagine. Wedged tightly under the rocks, I was too cramped to put on my rain jacket, and was quickly soaked as hail piled up in my hair and down my shirt.
After only a few minutes of intensity, the storm moved west, and sun streamed down through the fragmented clouds once again. We emerged from underneath the rock, a dusting of hail coating the ground and changing the landscape dramatically. To an intelligent human being, the trip would have been over. Lightning so close at such a high elevation was certainly cause to abandon the summit.
I, in the current moment, was no such human being. For an unexplainable reason I was hell bent on summiting, despite knowing the risks at hand. It seemed like there might be a weather window. The hail appeared to have subsided and the clouds were thinning to both the south and the north. My mom, soaking wet and cold, made the decision to turn back, as she had already summited Whitney 3 times and wasn’t optimistic about the weather. I stared at the peak for what seemed like several minutes. This seems stupid. But I’m going.
I took off running through the boulder field leading to the summit, the hail turning to slush underneath my feet. As I ran, a voice in my head told me this was a mistake, that all the mountain stories I’ve ever read have taught me to fear and respect weather at this elevation and exposure. I was also leaving behind my hiking partner, another taboo. All the while, my legs kept me moving towards the summit.
Somewhere along my jog, the weather had shifted from mostly sunny back to cloudy. It was happening all around me; a mountain of Whitney’s height creates its own weather, and it does so very quickly. Clouds can double in size in a matter of minutes, drawing from and combining with other, smaller clouds to create something that would have seemed impossible 10 minutes prior. My heart pounding in my head, I pushed myself over one final incline, afraid of slowing down for risk of getting caught in another storm. There was no joy when I reached the summit sign, but only relief that I could begin making my return journey. I was far from being out of danger.
As I caught my breath, my hands on my head, I walked a little closer to the viewpoint looking east. The sunlight beaming through the clouds had vanished altogether, and the wind began to whistle in from the north with more ferocity than before. With a few more steps towards the overlook, I could see that the valley had become completely obscured by a dark mass of clouds that were moving with visible speed towards the Whitney ridge line, already enshrouding the northern part of the summit. I had seen enough.
I turned and began jogging down the empty trail, carefully navigating the hail and loose rock that lined my descent. I was already kicking myself for continuing to the summit. I had a 2 mile jog back to Ridgecrest, the part of the trail that leaves the danger of the ridge line and drops into the valley below. The icy breeze whipping at my back brought with it that sinking feeling in my stomach when I make a critical mistake outdoors. It had happened only once before, when I came too close to drowning after attempting a surf session in conditions way out of my league in Half Moon Bay. I tried to kick some belated sense into myself as I jogged. You could die out here. Remember that. You aren’t super human.
I had made it 800 yards from the summit, almost back to where I had been hiding from the initial storm alongside my mom. Even more promising, I hadn’t heard any recent thunder. As I ran, I felt something crawling on my knee, maybe a spider? That didn’t make sense. I smacked my leg and looked down, finding a complete lack of insects. Instead, I noticed that my leg hair was sticking completely straight out, charged with electricity from the storm above. I leapt off the trail and slid under more rocky cover, scraping my knees and elbows in the process. This time, I watched as a narrow beam of electricity flashed from the sky directly above, filling the air with a horrifying hissing as the bolt flickered off the ground beneath the trail. The thunder cracked simultaneously, rattling my eardrums with a boom so loud I had trouble thinking clearly. I was within 10 yards of a lightning strike hitting the ground. I had to find a way down.
My hiding place wasn’t sufficient; I still had parts of my body showing, and was high up in the thick of the storm, which only seemed to get worse. I needed to make a move for lower ground in case lightning started peppering the ridge. As the hail began to fall once again, I took off running as fast as I could while still maintaining control on the slippery terrain. Snow mixed in with the hail, burning my eyes and bringing the visibility down to zero. I continued to race down the trail, somehow avoiding falls on several occasions. I couldn’t believe I had been so reckless, that I had fought my own instincts that were trying to keep me safe. It felt like I had stepped into a nightmare; I was totally alone in the mountains while a thunderstorm raged all around me. I had never felt like I was in serious danger of a lightning strike before, and now this frightening prospect felt more likely than not.
Out of nowhere, lightning struck the trail directly in front of me, completely whiting out my vision. I leapt off the exposed trail once again, jamming my body into a cramped rock overhang. There was no escaping the sound of the thunder; it interrupted my every coherent thought, the thoughts that were trying to get me out of there. Right away, it was clear I would have to hunker down for a more extended period this time around. The thunder and lightning rarely subsided for longer than 15 second intervals, with literal sheets of hail hammering my hiding place. I looked West towards Kings Canyon; I could now see nothing but the dull gray of the storm that had enveloped the beautiful granite vista I was enamored with earlier.
The storm raged with an almost mystical power, drubbing the mountain with such intensity it inspired in me a moment of short lived awe. I couldn’t get over the commotion it was making, not just the thunder, but the hammering of the hail against rock and the shrieking whistle of the wind between the spires. All of the new ski resorts and mountain towns chewing up ground in the Sierras hadn’t beaten from the range the same ancient savageness that one can always feel in wilderness of consequence. I just so happened to decide to walk up here one day, on the same granite that has been here for thousands of weather systems over thousands of years. A true feeling of insignificance set in as I continued to wait out the storm.
My thoughts shifted from panic to solutions and back again. It was still relatively early in the day, and since thunderstorms are often a mid afternoon affair, I knew it would be foolish to think that this would be over soon. I didn’t have the gear for several more hours of this, at least not without the potential for hypothermia. I had already started to shiver, and my chest was completely soaked with water. It was getting close to time for another mad dash.
The minutes continued to pass, the crackling of electricity moving invisibly in the clouds. I was inside the storm and it appeared it was going to stay that way. Twice, I made a mad dash for the trail and was turned away by more bolts that were all too close. At times, it felt like the storm was intentionally targeting me, where moments of calm would only be interrupted when I rushed to escape. It all seemed uncalled for; I have always loved thunderstorms.
After about an hour of cover, I heard a strange commotion further down the trail that sounded like falling rocks. Was the storm causing a landslide? As I listened, the falling rock sounds weren’t trailing off into the distance, they were coming closer. I had no idea what to expect as the sound grew louder, beginning to sound like it was from above as it bore down on my position. As it passed over me, the rock I was under flickered yellow around its edges, shocked by some sort of electricity in the air. I wasn’t sure if it was an actual lightning strike or just a ball of electricity. Either way, it was something to research if I lived.
I resumed my cramped position under the rock. A very real fear of dying started to creep in. I began to realize that the more dangerous course of action would be to continue staying put in the storm, where the cold was already beginning to seep into my bones. I scanned the horizon, looking for any sign that the storm was breaking up. Thunder continued to rumble above me, but the wind from the south began to blow in my face with more force. The next flash of lightning flashed further up the ridge towards the summit, and blue skies were starting to shine through in the distant south. It was time to make another break for it.
I took off again down the trail, leaving behind the last good places for cover. To my left, the ridge was too steep for any rock hiding places, and to the right, there was a dizzying 1,000 foot drop into the canyon. I was still very much in danger of a lightning strike, with one particular flash casting a wide glimmer of yellow light on the trail in front of me. With hail and ice coating the ground, the trail became too precarious for my pace, my feet briefly losing traction on several occasions. I forced myself to keep going; I knew that as soon as I rounded the trailcrest corner, I would be off the most dangerous section of the trail. It began to hail torrentially once again as I made the final push up a small hill and around the trailcrest corner. There was no pausing for victory; the feeling of vulnerability would stick with me until I could reach the part of the valley that wasn’t in the storm's shadow.
At this point, I was completely exhausted; running at this elevation made my heartbeat pound in my head, my vision temporarily showing stars. I was toeing the line between passing out and staying in the danger zone. With each passing minute, however, I felt my stress slowly ease. I was losing elevation fast, finally putting the truly dangerous part of the ridge line behind me. The trail below was racing with water at least 6 inches deep, with some sections precarious enough to warrant real caution. I just wanted to get in the flat ground of the valley so I could start running again and find my mom.
I hadn’t seen her in close to 3 hours as I continued my way down the trail. I was shocked that she had made it as far as she had down the trail without me catching her. A horrible thought crossed my mind: what if she had been hiding on the mountain like I had been, and I had run right past her? The storm could’ve been too loud to hear her voice. I put the thought out of my mind and continued to race down the trail, passing groups of rattled hikers who had wisely left the ridge well before I had.
At this point, I was completely frozen. The hail had melted in my hair and soaked my head, and no amount of running could bring my core temperature back up. Before I could worry about that, I had to find my mom. I tried not to panic. She wouldn’t still be up there; there were a few people still on the trail when she began her descent, so she likely was able to make it down safely. I continued through the streams lining the trail, debating if I should pause and look for her turquoise jacket descending on the trail behind me. Instead, I pressed on, each corner I rounded showing no sign of her.
Finally, From 100 yards away, I spotted a flash of turquoise on the trail below me. There she was, gazing back up the trail behind her, surely looking for me. Overcome with relief, I threw my hands in the air so she could see me. My stress finally began to subside as I closed the distance between us. I was overwhelmed with gratitude that my mistakes hadn’t led to anyone’s death. A twinge of guilt followed as I hugged her. I had cashed in on my allotment of luck for the year, maybe longer, and I knew that others who had made my mistake in the past hadn’t always been so lucky.
Emotionally and physically drained, we made our way down the empty and rain swelled trail. The next couple of hours were a cold blur, but I remember never being happier to put my feet on the pavement and get in a heated car. The fatigue that comes after a life threatening experience soon followed as my temperature finally rose to a comfortable level. I was certainly relieved to be alive, but I had made all of the classic outdoor mistakes. The part that bothered me the most was that I knew I was making them in real time, but I pressed on anyway, like someone else was controlling my actions. I have always considered myself to be a calculated adventurer, but that’s a title that I clearly need to work towards earning again.
The next morning, as I was leaving town, I pulled over on the side of Highway 395 for one last look at Whitney. I couldn’t think of a scarier place to be during a thunderstorm than the exposed, jagged ridge line of the lower 48’s highest peak. My actions the previous day were still a mystery to me; if I had read this story in a magazine, my first instinct would probably be to call that guy an idiot. Maybe it was my love of storms, and the boy in me that wanted to be close to a good one. I think that’s as close as I ever want to get.
