It was August 2013, and we were clambering up the majestic and regal unrealness that is Mt. Whitney, a mountain both inviting and unforgiving in its margin for errors.

That was the first time we’d done it — my buddy Jesus, my buddy Fernando and me. They’re childhood friends of mine, and we were excited to try to bag the tallest mountain in the continental United States.

Between a Rock is a Los Angeles Times series that shares survival stories from the California wilderness.

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We got into hiking in our early 20s. On weekends, we had nothing to do, so we started hiking bigger and longer. Eventually, we started thru-hiking, taking long-distance backpacking trips. We do a lot of international travel as well in terms of hiking.

We did a lot of conditioning hikes beforehand: Mt. Baldy, Gorgonio, Mt. Wilson, pretty much all the major peaks in Southern California. It’s hardly training, but we tried to condition our bodies to make sure they would be able to take the dramatic altitude climb and the cold temperatures.

Jesus got one of those Mt. Whitney books, and he was very well-read about the perils of Whitney. We were mindful to rest up beforehand and not stay up too late and also to carb load beforehand. A minor misstep or bout of ill-preparation comes with dire consequences, from the slightest of ankle sprains to bygone absent frostbitten fingers. It’s a no-nonsense endeavor up those 99 switchbacks.

We camped at Trail Camp, which has an approximate altitude of 12,000 feet. We didn’t do that single-day thing where you have to get up at 10 p.m. to begin to go to the summit.

When you get to a certain altitude at Whitney, there are little microclimates, so it’s really hard to anticipate what it’s going to be like. All you have to do is be a Boy Scout and plan for the worst, which we did. Everything was waterproof, and we had emergency supplies. We even planned in case we were stranded up there, which luckily we weren’t.

The weather was bad, so there was a good chance of your tent being washed away. We were approached by two hikers who were — teeth clattering incessantly and clothes soaked — ill-equipped for the evening.

When we set up our tent, we had to do it on a boulder and high up, high ground. They didn’t, and their tent was washed away, which was why they had to share our tent. It was really the most dangerous part of that trip.

Tommy Vinh Bui with friends Fernando, left, and Jesus, right, at the Mt. Whitney summit.

(Tommy Vinh Bui)

We brought a tent for three people, but because their tent had washed away and all their supplies were soaked, we invited them in — really, to save their lives.

There are no strangers in the great outdoors. I’ve learned over the years that what’s mine is yours and usually likewise in the spirit of hiker comity. We look out for one another — we give water if someone is low on water, granola bars if someone is low. There’s a lot of plenitude on the trail.

So it was five grown adults in a tent made for three people, the polyester fabric straining and holding its shape by a thread. It was like a head-to-toe situation, kind of like sleepaway camp. We were in a very intimate situation.

It was hailing. Not huge softball-size hail, but good enough to have you running for cover. An icy gale blew incessantly in concert with a torrential deluge. If we had wind chimes, it would’ve been a Lollapalooza monsoon of surly zephyrs all the livelong night.

We saw tons of lightning strikes. Whitney is notorious for lightning. That’s a big part of why you have to get off the mountain before noon. Lightning becomes more frequent. You can see the atmospheric pressure drop pretty quick before noon.

With the braggadocio of youth, I was probably too dumb to be scared. Looking back on it now, under the circumstances, I should have been.

One of the strangers had a Garmin, and he was pretty close to pressing that SOS button just to get off the mountain. We had headlamps and we were able to keep spirits up. I remember one guy was particularly not feeling great. He was a newlywed, and his new wife was going to kill him because of the situation.

It wasn’t super comfortable inside. My friends and I had alpine winter bags that were thick and insulated. But things were wet just from walking around and having the water build up inside our shoes and then by taking them off. We had waterproof jackets on, so the water beaded off.

My friends and I brought books, which we thought we’d be able to read at night. We tried to keep spirits up and enjoy ourselves. We knew it was perilous, but we also knew it was a unique experience.

By morning, the clouds parted, and we found we survived the meteorological maelstrom relatively intact. Our little makeshift ark hadn’t washed away in the night lagoon, much to our collective relief.

We were under-slept, over-fatigued and waterlogged. I guess we were so miserable that my group and the other hikers didn’t make attempts to give each other contact information. They were like, “We’re gonna hike back down” and wished us the best of luck.

I want to say they weren’t from L.A., but maybe from Arizona. This was their first go at the mountain as well. They must have had some hiking experience but they may have just found themselves in over their heads. It would suck to make an attempt at Whitney and have to turn back because of weather. We’re only a couple miles from the summit.

We were able to get to the top before noon. And when you’re at the top, you’re above the clouds. You can see out to Badwater Basin in Death Valley. It looks like a Windows screensaver. It looks Photoshopped, like AI made it. It’s a beautiful tableau — panoramic, sublime, transcendent.

That’s why we go out there, to commune with nature. I don’t want to use the word “spiritual,” but it’s something akin to that. If the outdoors can be a religion, then hiking is Sunday service.

Whitney is not a mountain to be trifled with, and a lot of people lack respect for it and find themselves in dangerous situations. My advice? Perform meticulous research and try to have a contingency for all possible scenarios. Check the weather forecasts, download all the maps on your Garmin, notify people of your plans, pack enough food and water and have emergency supplies at the ready.

Be receptive to the restorative powers of the wilderness, and let it be a catalyst for your journey toward wellness and oneness with the great outdoors.

Solvitur ambulando, amigos. Let the sky slather your spirit with serenity.

Tommy Vinh Bui is an L.A. County librarian and avid hiker and runner. He has competed in marathons around the world, including a recent race in Antarctica. He recently became a father to twins, a boy and a girl. This retelling has been edited and condensed for length and clarity.

Do you have a California wilderness survival story? We’d love to hear from you. Share your close encounter here.

The midlife crisis remains a rich vein for novelists, even as its sufferers skew ever older.

In Ben Markovits’ 12th novel,The Rest of Our Lives — which was a finalist for this year’s Booker Prize — the narrator, 55-year-old Tom Layward, is trying to figure out what to do with his remaining time on this mortal coil. With his youngest child headed off to college, his health faltering, and both his marriage and law school teaching position on the rocks, he feels blocked by “undigested emotional material.”

So, what does he do? In the great American tradition, Markovits’ wayward Layward hits the road. After dropping off his daughter at college, he heads west into his past and what may be his sunset.

America’s literary highways are not quite bumper-to-bumper, but they are plenty crowded with middle-aged runaways fleeing lives that increasingly feel like a bad fit. Many are women, including the heroines of Anne Tyler’s Ladder of Years  and Miranda July’s All Fours. But there are men, too, like the hero of John Updike’s Rabbit, Run — the granddaddy of midlife crisis novels — which serves as a sort of template for Markovits’ novel (and, tellingly, is the subject of his narrator’s abandoned doctoral dissertation, which he tossed aside for the more dependable employment prospects of a law degree after meeting his “unusually beautiful” future wife, Amy.)

We meet Tom and Amy on the cusp of empty nesting. This is not a happy prospect. Tom has been biding his time for the last dozen years, since he learned of Amy’s affair with a guy she knew from synagogue. This happened back when their daughter, Miriam, was six, and her older brother, Michael, was 12.

Their marriage has not improved in the intervening years. The early pages of this novel, a countdown of the Laywards’ last few days as a family unit before Miri matriculates, recalls an old magazine feature: “Can this marriage be saved?” One would think not. Amy, forever trying to provoke a reaction from her impassive husband, jabs repeatedly, “You really don’t care about anything, do you?”

Tom observes that staying in a long marriage requires acceptance of reduced expectations. He notes wryly: “It’s like being a Knicks fan.” (Like Markovits and Updike’s Rabbit Angstrom, Tom is a former basketball player. Amusingly, his description of each character includes a height estimate.)

Driving west, Tom has plenty of time to ponder his disappointments, and Amy’s. He notes that she had hoped he’d be more ambitious; she wanted him to accept a lucrative offer from a top litigation firm that would have paid for private school for their kids. Instead, Amy says, he chose to stay in his “dead end” job at Fordham Law, where he teaches a controversial class on hate crime. He is currently in hot water for his legal input for the defense in a case against an NBA owner for racial allegations. Amy’s take: “Tom loves to stand up for racists.”

Tom’s road trip takes him on a desultory odyssey visiting old friends and family. He finds their lives disheartening. In Pittsburgh, a grad school friend who became an English professor teaches “dead white men” and is having an affair with a graduate student. In South Bend, his younger brother is distressed over limited access to his kids after a divorce. In Denver, a college teammate urges him to see a guy at UCLA who wants to bring a case about systemic discrimination against white American basketball players.

His old high school girlfriend, who leads a busy life in Las Vegas as a single, late-life parent, urges him to steer clear of the case. When she also tries to talk about his alarming health symptoms (puffiness, breathlessness), he stonewalls her. “I forgot what you’re like,” she tells him, eerily echoing Amy. “You don’t really care about anything.”

At each stop, Tom tries to put a good face on his trip by telling his hosts that he’s thinking of writing a book about pickup basketball across the country. He also confesses, “I may have left Amy.” “You may?” his brother says.

Tom exacerbates Amy’s longtime presentiment of abandonment by ignoring most of her calls. Periodically, he checks in late at night, and they circle around what’s going on. “God, you’re cold,” she says when his explanations leave her wanting. His response? “Okay.” When he confides that he’s feeling “a little adrift…I can’t seem to get a grip on anything,” she surprises him by responding, “Me neither.” It’s a start.

In a 2006 interview with Yale Daily News, Markovits’ alma mater, he said, “I like to write about what it is like to become happier, although no one has ever been able to spot happiness in my books.”

You don’t have to look too hard to spot glimmers of happiness behind the missteps and misconnects in this ultimately moving probe of life, love, family and marriage across years and miles.

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This Racing Enthusiast Is!

Published
December 26, 2025
7:00 AM PST