My Pinnacle Moment: Climbing Mount Whitney and What It Taught Me
- Jessy Raspiller
- Mar 24
- 5 min read
In 2018, I found myself deep in a journey that would become my greatest teacher—a “lost to get found” kind of experience. I drove until I learned to listen, to trust my intuition, and to surrender to the unknown. But there was one piece of this journey that had both a destination and a deadline.
Earlier that year, before selling my belongings and moving into my Jeep Grand Cherokee, a longtime friend won the lottery for four permits to hike Mount Whitney. I told her, “If you get them, count me in.” And when she did, I was terrified. My life was spinning in a direction I couldn’t control. I didn’t even know where I’d be in a month, let alone by September.
Yet, as I hit the road that summer, I knew I had one milestone I couldn’t outrun.
Meeting the Mountain
I arrived to the Eastern Sierras from Nevada, and the sight took my breath away. I’d only seen these mountains once before, on a snowy Thanksgiving trip, but nothing could have prepared me for their sheer magnitude.
I met up with my friend and two new hiking companions she had “adopted” (aka met on Instagram through a local sober hiking group in LA). Hugs and introductions were exchanged before we hit the trails in Mammoth, CA, to acclimate our lungs to the 10,000-foot elevation. After a couple of days at altitude, we drove down to Lone Pine, checked into a motel, and picked up Subway sandwiches for our “day trip” the following morning. (For the record, this would be my last Subway sandwich ever—I do not recommend it as hiking fuel.)
We got a short night’s sleep before packing the car around 2 a.m. and driving to the Whitney Portal for an early, dark start.
Stepping Into the Unknown
Let’s talk emotions… I was nervous.
The other women had spent their summer training, hiking the “Six-Pack of Peaks” in the LA Basin, a popular prep route for this experience. Meanwhile, I had been driving around the western U.S., with little more than a mountainside stint in Telluride under my belt. While I considered myself an avid hiker, I quickly realized how unprepared I was. I hadn’t read any prep guides or packed beyond my usual Sespe River day hike essentials.
So, here goes nothing.
Stats:
• Elevation: 14,505 feet (highest peak in the continental U.S.)
• Distance: 22 miles round trip (many people camp, but we were doing it in a day)
• Anticipated timeline: 12–14 hours
• Gear: One Subway footlong, hydration, snacks (chocolate, of course), and some serious prayers
By 3:30 a.m., we were on the trail. Four headlamps bouncing off the darkness, giggling at the anticipation, filling the silence with rambling nonsense to keep the nerves at bay.
At 6 a.m., the first light crested the eastern valley we’d been hiking through. As the sun gathered its strength, it illuminated our destination, and I could feel my own energy rising with it.
The Ascent
By 9 a.m., we lost a hiker to altitude sickness—dizziness, nausea, and confusion set in. Altitude is no joke, and you don’t mess around with it. Since she was the only one in our group who had previously hiked the trail, we made the tough but necessary decision to let her make her way down and meet at the trailhead later.
By 10 a.m., we hit the legendary 99 Switchbacks—and let me tell you, they live up to their reputation. I think we were a little loopy (pun intended) by the time we lost count of which one we were on.
By 11 a.m., we reached Trail Crest, the moment where the narrow path unfolds into breathtaking views of the western Sierras, with the deep blue waters of Guitar Lake below. But from here, the hardest part began—two vertigo-inducing miles to the summit, a thin rocky trail and hovering at 13,000–14,000 feet.
My mantra became simple:
Left foot. Right foot. Stop. Breathe.
I have never met something as physically + mentally enduring as those final two miles.
Conversation ceased. Our group naturally drifted apart, each of us battling our own inner dialogue.
I had been deeply immersed in meditation for a year at this point. But nothing tested my practice like this climb. That last mile, I had never felt more alive.
Fear of the ragged cliff edge and unsteady footing dissolved.
My breath and my mantra became the only reality.
Senses heightened, an electric pulse carried me forward.
12:45 p.m. – The Summit
"I am here. Here I am."
That’s what I wrote in the summit log.
While my friends joked that I had done zero physical training yet somehow led the way, I knew the truth—I had spent the last year training my mind and emotions. And in this moment, I witnessed just how powerful meditation could be.
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The Descent
We lingered at the top, soaking in the views, eating our sandwiches (again, never eating Subway again). By 1:30 p.m., we began our descent—grateful, energized, and ready for an easy walk down.
Except…
At 5 p.m., we realized the Garmin we’d been using was way off. We thought we had one mile left, but a hiker ascending confirmed we were still three miles out.
Spirits crushed.
Exhausted, I picked up the pace, desperate to be off the trail. As darkness settled around 6 p.m., my headlamp began dying, and fear started creeping in—bears, exhaustion, getting lost. I transitioned from a weary walk to a skip… then to a jog… then to an all-out sprint.
At 7:30 p.m., just as the last light faded from the valley, I ran into the Whitney Portal parking lot. I collapsed in exhaustion, emotions washing over me in waves.
And then to conclude this journey… let’s just say, that Subway had its final surrender with me as well.
Aftermath
The next morning, I woke up in our Mammoth Airbnb to the sound of excited voices recounting our adventure. My body ached, I was physically and emotionally exhausted; my first thought was:
I WILL NEVER DO THAT AGAIN.
I rolled out my yoga mat to ground myself, still processing the enormity of what had happened. My friends smiled and greeted me, asking how I felt.
Without thinking, I blurted out:
“I think I’m going to do that again.”
And then I burst into tears.
If you don’t know me, I cry when I’m high on life. I cry when a slight breeze hits me just right. I cry when I’m emptied— by exhaustion, by sheer joy.
Hiking Mount Whitney emptied me.
Not from depletion.
But from completion.
I had faced a dream I never truly believed I’d achieve. And when you reach the pinnacle of completion, there’s this moment where you feel… empty. A surreal stillness, as if you’re in a dream state, where there’s nothing more to do.
I hope each of you dream a dream so big that you, too, get to stand in that quiet space—witnessing the wonder of this life.
About Jessy Raspiller
Jessy Raspiller is a guide in the art of sacred self-care, weaving together aromatherapy, somatics, and nature-based rituals to support deep nourishment and vitality. With a passion for seasonal living and plant medicine, she helps others align with the rhythms of life through intentional practices. Explore more of her work and join her in reconnecting to the wisdom of the natural world. [Learn more →]
This is so beautiful! And so fun to hear from your perspective all these years later. I didn't realize you had such a negative reaction to Subway. On the contrary, I remember thinking that mine was the best sandwich I'd ever eaten, to the point that I mythologized it for the next four years. I made sure to stop at Subway for another foot long before my next ascent in 2022. Unfortunately, that did not live up to my memory of the first one, and it was likely the last Subway sandwich I've ever had. 😀 On a more serious note, it absolutely WAS a meditation to get up (and down) that mountain, as much if not more mental as…