In January of 1996, my Father Galen invited me to join him on a winter ascent of Mount Whitney. Mount Whitney is located near Lone Pine, Calif. at an elevation of 14,496 feet. It is the highest peak in the contiguous United States.

When we reached the trailhead, my jaw dropped when I saw how much gear I had to carry up the mountain. In addition to a 40-pound pack, I also had to carry a pair of mountaineering skis. After eight hours of scrambling up icy boulders, crossing creeks and hiking in snow up to our knees, we made it to our camp at 11,000 feet.

I was completely fatigued, but our work was not over yet. We still had to put up our tent and cook our high-altitude meal before we could relax.

Later that evening, I wandered around camp and enjoyed a beautiful scene that resembled my father’s image of his moonlit camp on K2 in the Himalayas. It was truly amazing to view the majestic peaks illuminated by a full moon under a sky filled with endless stars.

The next morning, my father and I got up before sunrise and I decided to photograph my father lighting up the tent with the majestic crags of Mount Whitney in the background. Later that morning, still sick with the cold I’d had for several days, I was having second thoughts about climbing the east face.

“How many ice axes did you bring, Dad?” I asked.

“I’ve got one ice axe and a ten-foot piece of rope, and I’ll just pull you up the last pitch of the climb,” he said.

After a few minutes of gazing at the icy face and still feeling very under the weather from my cold, I decided to ski back down and try it another time when the rock was easier to climb.

Photo © Galen Rowell

A few hours later, after telemarking down hill thousands of feet, we reached the trailhead. It had been my first time skiing virgin powder, carrying my skis as high as any resort could–but without the benefit of a ski lift.

I later regretted not making it to the top with my father, as he passed away before we had a chance to try it again. But on October 7, 2003, my father’s friend, climbing guide Don Lauria and I ascended the mountaineer’s route to 12,000 feet on Mount Whitney. Taking off our 40-pound packs and setting up camp was a relief to me. But to Don, it was just another day’s work at the Bardini Foundation.

After a gourmet meal and some fine wine, we retired. We got up at 4:00 a.m. and had a light breakfast before hiking in the dark by flashlight. By the time we reached Iceberg Lake, the first rays of the sun were starting to hit the boulders in the foreground of the east face. The first frames I shot of the boulder had strong diagonal lines that led my eye to the lower right corner of my image. The sun was rising fast. With seconds to spare, I asked Don to climb to the top of the boulder and then remain still. His shadow cast to the bottom of the diagonal line in the boulder. I opted to underexpose the image minus 1/3 of an ƒ-stop for richer color on the face of the peak.

A few hours later we reached the notch, which was the start of our climb. We made it to the summit unroped and were greeted by hikers that had walked the trail from the other side. They were amazed as we descended unroped back down the east face. About 30 minutes later, I nervously asked Don how much further down it was to the notch.

“We are almost done with the climbing,” he said.

I then realized that I had been looking at a notch much further down the mountain, and was relieved that the hardest part of the expedition was over. After sleeping another night on the mountain, we made it to the trailhead by noon the next day. I was exhausted, yet I felt a sense of accomplishment at completing the journey my father and I started so long ago.