In the summer of 1976 a small band of Caltech astronomy grad
students arrive at the base of Mount Whitney, the highest peak
in the 48 contiguous United States. These kids are rock
climbers, with ropes, harnesses, pitons, carabiners, and lots of
other mysterious gear. I come along to take photos of them and
help carry their stuff. Mount Whitney rises in the Sierra
Nevada, its summit just short of 14,500 feet, on the edge of
Sequoia National Park. To get there we drive from Pasadena in
southern California, over the San Gabriel mountains that bound
the Los Angeles basin, and up the central valley. The land is
dry; clouds from the Pacific have already dropped most of their
moisture before they arrive. Much of what remains plus
groundwater goes south to the thirsty big city via the L.A.
Aqueduct. Big white dishes of the Owens Valley Radio Observatory
stand in line to the east. We turn left from the arrow-straight
highway at the town of Lone Pine and begin driving up a series
of switchbacks into the foothills. We c