Not Today: Frostbite and Survival on the PCT’s Most Dangerous Pass

High Sierra Traverse — May 2025

I’m still rattled. Shell-shocked, really. Trying to unravel what we just lived through.

We knew the High Sierra would be intense this year. We studied the conditions, waited for a window, debated our readiness. But knowing and experiencing are two entirely different things.

I’m safe. I’m alive. And I feel like I’ve touched both ends of the human spectrum—superhuman and utterly fragile. I want to try to try to put words to the last four days.

The Beginning

On May 8th we left Kennedy Meadows South and entered the Sierra Nevada backcountry. By May 10th, we were post holing for hours, plunging with each step into deep snow. That night, we reached Chicken Spring Lake, exhausted and overwhelmed.

When the snowpack is this deep, every step becomes a gamble. You fall, sink, bruise, bleed. And it wears you down fast. It’s not just inconvenient—it’s dangerous. You never know if you’re stepping onto a rock, into a stream, or through a hollow pocket that might collapse beneath you.

We knew we had to adapt. The only way to move safely through this terrain was to start in the dark, while the snow was still frozen solid. Icy mornings would give our microspikes a chance to grip and let us walk on the snow instead of through it.

May 11th— First Light in the Icy Tundra

At 3 a.m., alarms went off. By 4, we were hiking—headlamps piercing the cold, dark world around us, spikes digging into the icy crust. Moonlight cast shadows across the jagged peaks, and when sunrise hit, it painted the granite gold, just as we reached our first summit. It was magical.

For a moment, it felt like we were exactly where we were meant to be— five hikers alone in the vast wilderness, witnessing a side of the Sierras few ever see.

But by 8 a.m., the spell had broken. We were postholing again. Sharp ice clawed at our legs, leaving them torn and bruised. The snow laughed at us—reminding us we were visitors here. The day stretched into fifteen hours. Fifteen miles of navigating buried trail, false boot tracks, and dangerous terrain.

Some post holes buried us. If you didn’t pull your leg out fast enough, body heat would melt the surrounding snow into ice, freezing you in place. We took turns digging each other out. Still, we laughed. Checked in often. Carried one other, one joke at a time.

And then there were the rivers. Fed by snowmelt, they roared. Sometimes there were logs. Sometimes you just had to wade through, soaked and freezing. That evening I walked through the last one of the day, arriving at the base of Mount Whitney.

Turning Back from Whitney

Mount Whitney—14,505 feet. The highest point in the lower 48. A 16-mile detour from the PCT, but a common and iconic side trip.

We had dreamed of summiting it. But our bodies were wrecked. Our gear soaked. It had taken 15 hours to move 15 miles.

At camp, we met another hiker—our first in days—who’d summited the day before. He was likely the season’s first. His words were sobering: three steep traverses where he was unable to cut a reliable boot track, one recent avalanche, multiple fatal fall zones. And even he, a seasoned mountaineer, called it “dicey.”

None of us had mountaineering experience and we hadn’t even used our ice axes yet. We weren’t ready. Humbled and frozen to the bone, we made the call: Whitney could wait.

May 12th—The Approach to Forester Past: training day

That night, it took hours to warm my toes. My wet shoes were frozen solid by morning— I nearly snapped my laces tying them.

We slept in until 5:30 a.m. and only aimed for 8.2 miles—to rest and prep for Forester Pass, the highest point on the PCT. At 8 a.m., we found a hill to practice self-arrest. We threw ourselves down in different orientations, practicing how to swing our axes, regain traction, and stop a fall.

It felt good to prepare. But by afternoon, the snow softened again. Another slog. We reached camp, the base of forester pass, knowing what lay ahead would be the most technical and dangerous climb of the trail.

May 13th – Forester Pass – The Gateway and the Gauntlet

700 miles on trail had trained our bodies and minds. But nothing prepared us for the High Sierra in full winter mode.

Forester Pass loomed ahead— 13,153 feet of steep traverses, corniced ridge lines and zero room for error. It was a mountain that demanded respect.

We woke at 1:00 a.m. to a moonless sky and temperatures reading 5°F. Our breath froze in the air as we moved fast to stay warm. The only sound was the crunch of our spikes cutting into the ice. This felt like a real expedition. By 4:00 a.m., we reached the approach—right into a blizzard.

Visibility vanished. Boot tracks erased. We were five glowing headlamps in a swirling white void.

We huddled beneath a ground cloth, shivering, waiting for moonlight or a break in the snow. Forty minutes passed. The temperature dropped. We pressed against each other in silence.

Then, finally, the snow eased. The moon broke through.

It was time to go.

The Wrong Climb

We knew the general direction but couldn’t see the trail. Two teammates began cutting fresh switchbacks.

Soon, the terrain steepened. Then steepened some more. We weren’t traversing anymore; we were climbing. Ice climbing. Vertically. Toes kicked into crust, ice axes swung high, we hauled ourselves upward. One breath, one movement at a time.

One step. Two step. Hook ice axe. Breathe.

Something wasn’t right. This was too vertical. Too exposed. I looked down—and saw the valley floor, a thousand feet below.

My hands stopped working. I couldn’t grip my axe. I shook them violently, pain stabbing through them like fire.

My husband, Abhi, called up to a teammate who had frozen on the wall: “You’re okay. Breathe.” Slowly, we all kept climbing.

Then came the rocks—loose shale under the snow, crumbling with every step. I couldn’t find secure footing. I started to panic.

Then I looked down at Abhi. “I don’t want to die,” I said.

He looked up at me with knowing in his eyes. “I don’t want to die either. And we’re not going to. We’re going to live a long, beautiful life together. This is not how we go. Not today.”

Tears welled. I nodded. We climbed.

The Rockfall

Suddenly—

“ROCK!!”

A shout from above. A scatter of stones tumbling down. One large rock hurdled straight for my head. No time to move. Instinct took over—I ripped my axe from the slope and swung it like a bat, deflecting the rock just inches from impact. It kept falling—straight toward Abhi. He did the same, knocking it away.

We were alive. Barely.

But we had to get off this face.

Just a few more steps. And then—finally—we saw it. The trail. The real trail. Switchbacks we had missed completely. We had been climbing straight up the snow chute known as the couloir.

Fueled by adrenaline and sheer will, I climbed the final stretch and hauled myself over the ridge.

Forester Pass.

We had made it. All five of us. Stunned, shaking, smiling. Flooded with relief. 13,153 feet. The highest point on the PCT and the heart of the High Sierra. It was one of the most beautiful sites I had ever seen.

Rewarming, Frostbite & Escape

But I was in trouble. I knew I needed to get my wet shoes and socks off—my feet were in bad shape. Abhi broke out our quilt for us to get under. I peeled off my layers and immediately started rewarming my toes against my bare stomach. The pain was excruciating and I had to stifle a scream. I have Reynauds and am used to the painful rewarming effect, but this was different. Deeper. Meaner.

Eventually, we had to keep moving. Weather can shift fast in the Sierra. We descended towards the base of Kearsarge Pass, our exit point.

At the base, I warmed in the sun. I touched my toes. I could feel panic rise in my throat.

Five were completely numb.

Disconnected. Silent.

I had frostbite.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The pain in my toes felt like fire—sharp, stabbing, then numb again. I lay awake, silently negotiating with my body.

May 14th— The Last Push

We left at 4 a.m. for Kearsarge Pass.

It wasn’t easy. More snow, more climbing, more hidden trail. But the snow held and spared us from postholing.

And then—dirt. I’ve never loved dirt so much in my life.

We dropped down to the road, headed toward the town of Bishop, into the warmth and out of the snow.

Bishop: Safety, Silence, and Gratitude

By the time we reached town, I was quiet. My body intact. But something inside me had shifted.

I wasn’t just tired. I was changed.

I’m still unpacking what this week meant. We walked through fear and fire and frost—and came out the other side. I feel closer to myself. To life.

This was the hardest stretch of trail we’ve ever faced. But also the most beautiful. I’ve never laughed harder with friends, even while bleeding and frozen. We were tested—and we carried each other through.

My doctor said I’m lucky. The frostbite is superficial. But the tissue damage is real. My toes are fragile now. He warned me: more cold, more risk. I couldn’t imagine getting off trail—but I also couldn’t risk losing my toes. We needed a new plan.

There’s more Sierra ahead. But for now, I’m in awe—of my body, my spirit, my community, and this wild, brutal world that keeps reminding me how deeply alive I truly am.