Mt. Williamson from the Symmes Saddle on the trail to Shepherd Pass.
As my hiking partners and I were returning to the trailhead after my third
failed attempt to summit Mt. Williamson and Mt. Tyndall (the only California
14ers that I have not summited) the question was raised whether these two
mountains are my white whale. It’s a fair question.
I haven’t read the Herman Melville classic Moby-Dick, but I vaguely recall snippets of discussion about it, perhaps in a long-ago high school English class?
Fortunately, it’s easy to artificially boost my limited intelligence on this matter. Google AI identifies three core themes in Moby-Dick, which centers on a sailor named Ishmael who joins the crew of a whaling boat commanded by Captain Ahab. Unbeknownst to Ishmael, Ahab isn’t interested in the 19th century business of hunting whales for profit but rather is obsessed with killing a particular white sperm whale that had bitten off his leg in an earlier encounter between the two.
As most of us who were able to stay awake in high school English class vaguely recall, the white whale wins, destroys the ship, and kills Ahab and the entire crew, with the exception of Ishmael who floats away on a coffin (I don’t remember that part, is AI hallucinating?) and is later rescued by another ship.
One theme of the book, according to Google AI, is that Captain Ahab’s obsession with the white whale is so intense that it boils into an anger and a desire for revenge that ends up destroying Ahab’s mind and costs him and his crew their lives.
A second theme, according to Google AI, is the inherent foolishness of humans attempting to conquer the raw power of the natural world.
Thirdly, according to Google AI, the white whale is a symbolic prop that substitutes for many different concepts, including God, evil, and the unknown mysteries of life.
So, after artificially refreshing my scant memory of long-ago discussions about a book I’ve never read, I’ve concluded that my fellow hikers had asked a good and pertinent question about my white whales, but not the underlying and more important existential question underpinning the pursuit of the white whale.
There’s no doubt that Mt. Williamson and Mt. Tyndall (and the trail to Shepherd Pass) are my white whales. But the more important question, the existential question, is, am I Ishmael or am I Captain Ahab? Whose path do I follow?
But first, the history.
Before we get to the existential questions, let's do a recap of my history with Mt. Williamson and Mt. Tyndall. If you are really interested (and have a lot of spare time) you can read an account of my first failed attempt at these two mountains by clicking here and scrolling down to the post dated June 7, 2018, which is prophetically titled “Will aborted quest for 14ers abort 14er quest?”.
For even more background, you could also read my May 19, 2018, post about my climb of Mt. Shasta, which was successful but also a bit unnerving and contributed to my angst about the snow conditions on Williamson, Tyndall and Shepherd Pass a month later. To read that post click here and scroll down to the May 19 post.
My second failed attempt is a lot simpler. Last year, much like this year, I had a guided trip to Williamson and Tyndall scheduled for August and I was in California, ready and raring to go. However, the guide service made the disappointing but correct call to cancel the trip at the last minute due to stormy weather. You can read about that failure to launch in my August 22, 2025 post titled “I’m two mountains closer, but still two mountains short, in my quest for the summits of California’s 15 14ers”. Click here for that one, no need to scroll down.
And now, in August 2026 I discover that (surprise, surprise) the third time is not the charm.
With all of that background out of the way, here’s my detailed account of what happened on August 6, 2026.
For at least a week prior to the scheduled attempt to climb Williamson and Tyndall, with a guide and two other clients, I had been self-marinating in a toxic stew of angst, guilt, anxiety and self-doubt. I was on edge and slept poorly. The hike into Shepherd Pass is grueling. Was I up to the task? Am I too old for this? Betsy was back in Texas getting scans, shouldn’t I be there with her instead of, once again, chasing California 14ers? These questions and self-doubts were still rattling around in my brain when I had a pre-trip meeting with the guide and one of the other clients at the guide service office in Bishop, CA early in the evening of May 5.
That meeting didn’t make me feel any better in part because we were told the third client was going to drive in from the LA area (Burbank, about 300 miles) to meet us at the trailhead. Also, I found out I was the only one with a vehicle capable of negotiating the final mile or so of the road to the trailhead. So, I’d be ferrying people up the road. Things just seemed sketchy and poorly planned. This trip is going to be a disaster I thought to myself.
By the time I walked up to the guide’s camper van at a roadside park in the tiny town of Independence CA at 5:30 a.m. Thursday August 6 I was ready to bail on the trip. But, before I could say anything other than good morning, the first words out of the guide’s mouth were: “The guy from Burbank called and he’s bailing on the trip.” That was a bit of good news because it’s always better to have a lower ratio of clients to guide. Then the guide pointed out a reasonably clean park bathroom with a flush toilet and toilet paper. Also, good news. By the time I got back from the bathroom the second client had arrived, the sun was rising and it was time to go. My thoughts of bailing on the trip faded.
It was surprisingly easy to get the three of us and our gear in my tiny Jeep for the final mile or so to the trailhead and we soon had our packs on and were underway. The pace was comfortable and I felt surprisingly good. As detailed (and photo’d) in my June 7, 2018 post this is probably the most difficult approach hike for any 14er in the lower 48, in part because it’s blazing hot, there is precious little shade and it’s the lowest elevation 14er trailhead (6,326) in the country. Throw in the 11-mile trail’s many ups and downs and it requires nearly 7,000 feet of gain just to reach the summit of Shepherd Pass (12,005). I’d gotten worked into such a lather of worry about the approach hike that I arranged for the guide service to hire a porter to schlep the bulk of my gear to a clump of trees called Anvil Camp at about mile 9.
Chad, Dave and Tristan at the Shepherd Pass trailhead. Mt. Williamson is in the background.
So, the guide, Chad, and the other client, Tristan, had fully
loaded packs to carry while the porter, who had left later than us but hikes a
lot faster, was coming up the trail behind us with most of my heavier gear
(sleeping bag, tent, etc.). No wonder I was doing so (relatively speaking) well! 
The plan was for me to transfer my gear from the porter’s pack to my pack at Anvil Camp, a spot with water and some welcome shade.
The plan was that porter would return home and the three of us would push on to the top of Shepherd Pass where there is a lake and the two mountains are visible and (relatively speaking) accessible. We'd set up a base camp at the lake.
Everything seemed to be on track for all of that to happen. We were about a mile from Anvil Camp at over 9,000 feet elevation, grinding up a steep, straight section of trail. Chad, the guide, was in the lead followed by Tristan and then me. This is a probably a good place to mention that Chad is probably about 6’ tall and Tristan maybe 5’8”. I am, of course, 6’5”. We’d gotten to know one another a bit and had settled into, from my perspective, a really good pace. In my younger days I liked to attack steep grades, both running and hiking. But these days it’s all about rhythm, regulating my breathing and using my trekking poles and upper body strength to help my legs and lungs get me up the hills with a synchronized motion.
I had a buff and sweat band on my head to try to keep, to the extent possible, the sweat from pouring down into my eyes and sunglasses. I also had the hood of my lightweight sun shirt pulled up to protect my neck and head from the blazing sun that was now pretty much straight overhead. Thus, my head and gaze were angled down at the trail and my feet. My range of vision was also limited by the hood.
I was in a good rhythm and keeping pace with Tristan in front of me when – WHAM. Something hit the top of my head and knocked me back a step or two. It came out of the blue, like a sucker punch. I was momentarily stunned, baffled, and uncertain about what had happened. Expletives were no doubt uttered, but I’m not sure exactly which ones.
After several seconds I realized that I had walked directly into a tree branch that extended perpendicularly over the trail. Tristan, a few yards in front of me and nearly a foot shorter, had easily walked underneath the same branch. The pine trees that manage to survive in the rain shadow on the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada are not very big but they are tough, resilient and opportunistic. This particular tree had somehow managed to grow on the steep rocky slope next to the trail and had, for some reason, shot a long branch out over the trail. Not a big branch, maybe the circumference of my wrist, but a sturdy one.
I wish I'd had had the presence of mind to get a photo of the tree and the branch, or at least looked at it more closely, but I was preoccupied with the blood that was soon running down my face.
I suspect earlier hikers might have snagged small branches jutting out from the larger perpendicular branch breaking them off and leaving some sharp, pointed stubs that my head eventually banged into. That’s just a guess. Whatever it was it sliced into my scalp near the top of my head. The cut turned out to be fairly short, maybe a couple of inches and it only took two staples to close it. A good sized gash to be sure, but not an especially big one.
As a professional guide Chad of course had first aid training. Also, in the rituals unique to American males, we had revealed selective details about ourselves as we walked single file along the trail, without looking at each other of course. Thus, I knew that Chad’s wife is a U.S. Navy nurse who works in the emergency room at the Marine Corps base hospital in Twentynine Palms, CA. More importantly, Tristan revealed that he is a primary care physician in the LA suburb of Riverside, CA.
After my confrontation with the tree limb and subsequent bleeding, both of them quickly pulled out their water bottles and irrigated the wound. That distressed me because water is scarce on the east slopes of the Sierra and we had a mile to go before we could filter more water at Anvil Camp. It seemed imprudent, but it was the correct and very generous response. They both looked at the cut and Tristan used my buff to press down hard on the wound. It took only a few minutes of that pressure to stop the bleeding and the pain was minimal. Basically, other than the cut, I was fine.
Then a long discussion ensued about what to do next. I wanted to press on. Chad of course was worried about liability and constrained by the guide company’s policies. I was not only worried about my white whales escaping me once again, I was also worried about how it would impact Tristan. I tried to convince Chad I was okay (which I was) and we could proceed. Alternatively, I offered to walk back with the porter (who was quickly catching up with us) so that Chad and Tristan could proceed with the hike and the mountain summits.
The thing that convinced me that maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea for me to abort and turn around was when I asked Dr. Tristan about the potential risks of me proceeding without medical attention to clean and close the wound. He replied that the main risk was getting a fairly significant infection on my head, because the wound would be sweat soaked and uncleaned for several days. He said there was a possibility the infection could get into my blood stream and make me seriously ill. What are the chances of that happening I asked? His response, maybe about 20 percent.
That got my attention and I eased up a little bit on the pressing ahead without treatment idea. I think that, had Dr. Tristan not been there and described the possibilities and the odds I would have pushed harder on Chad to keep going even though he had already made up his mind to turn back.
Soon there was a grudging consensus that we all needed to turn around and hike out because Chad was unwilling to let me hike out alone and/or with the porter.
This was, of course, my fault and there was no one to blame but me. I don’t think Chad was all that disappointed about it and Tristan, whose trip was ruined by me through no fault of his own, was incredibly gracious and remarkably sanguine about the turn of events.
We got back to the trailhead around 5 p.m. after roughly 11 hours, 16.2 miles and nearly 5,000 feet of elevation gained hiking in 100-degree heat to accomplish absolutely nothing.
Only two staples needed.
I drove the 50 miles or so from Independence to Bishop CA, hooked up with the
porter to retrieve my gear, drove through a McDonalds for a Big Mac and then
over to the Northern Inyo County Hospital emergency room to get the wound
cleaned and closed with a couple of staples (note: Inyo County has less than
20,000 residents spread over an area larger than Vermont. About half of them
live in or near Bishop).
The staff in the busy emergency department at the little hospital were incredibly nice and efficient. I had low expectations and they were greatly exceeded. I’m sure the staples will help with healing the wound but probably the most important thing was getting the wound cleaned out and getting a tetanus shot.
I’d left my Air BnB in Mammoth Lakes CA (a ski resort town sort of like Vail CO in a beautiful, relatively cool, mountain setting at 10,000 feet elevation about 40 miles north of Bishop) at 3 a.m. and I got back there about 10 p.m. So it was, to say the least, a full day.
And now, once again, I find myself sitting here in beautiful California contemplating existential questions.
Am I Ishmael or Captain Ahab? Has the time finally come for me to let my white whales swim free?
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| Mt. Williamson taunts me in the Shepherd Pass TH parking area. |
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