Such Great Heights

As I thought about what to write about (of the many things on my mind I could write about), I noticed the date today.
August 11, 2011. Well now its the 12th, but it's still the same day to me.

Exactly 4 years ago, on August 11, 2007, my dad and I reached the top of Mt. Whitney, the highest point in the contiguous United States. (Contiguous meaning, excluding Alaska, from which the great Denali hails.) Yeah, I know, when I talk about mountains, they sound epic.

At 14,497 feet about sea level, Mt. Whitney was quite the climb. Over an 8 day backpacking trek across the John Muir Trail, the pops and I crossed 5 passes (including the dreaded Forester Pass), and finally set camp at Guitar Lake before ascending at 5 a.m. the next morning. My pops recently asked me on a car ride back home from Santa Barbara, "Son, what is your greatest memory of you and your father?"-- I quickly replied, "Mt. Whitney, without a doubt."

That trek was a test of endurance and loyalty. Though the hills were steep and the weather unforgiving, we finally made it to the top. I shared about 10 minutes up at the top with my dad, and looking back on it, I'm so glad we did it. I know the time I have with my father is limited, especially going to college now, so I'm going to make the best of it. For now, thank you pops, there no one else I would have rather had raise me.