I've always been drawn to journeys that sound slightly insane when you explain them to normal people. The Lowest to Highest route definitely qualifies. It's a 135-ish mile trek connecting Badwater Basin in Death Valley (282 feet below sea level) to the summit of Mt. Whitney (14,505 feet above it). That's from the lowest point in the contiguous US to the highest, all on foot. My first introduction to the route was following some badass hiker women on Instagram that did the route in about a week the year before I attempted it. Seeing the same trip from 3 separate viewpoints, all well-documented and fully epic, might be one of the most inspiring things I've ever watched unfold. I knew I had to at least give it a go. Finding the right time to attempt the L2H is tricky. Try it in summer, and Death Valley will happily cook you at 120°F+ temperatures. Wait until winter, and Whitney transforms into a technical mountaineering challenge with serious avalanche risk. I settled on early October, hoping to thread the needle between death by heat stroke and death by freezing. Adventure planning at its finest! A major "disclaimer": this route is no joke. Even as someone that loves this type of stuff. I ended up being swallowed up and spit out by this route my first attempt, hiking over 100 miles just to be shut down by an early season snowstorm that blanketed the Sierra in multiple feet of snow. Fortunately, the route was such a perfect-sized challenge for me and was enjoyable enough the first time that I went back for the whole thing again. ## Day One: Welcome to the Oven You'd think the trip would start at Badwater Basin, the starting trailhead for the hike, but that's truly in the middle of nowhere and not an easy place to get to. I've traveled around solo in the Eastern Sierra enough to have needed rides before and luckily me and my wallet were able to convince someone that had given me a ride before to do an out and back all the way to Death Valley. The ride was extremely appreciated, but the SUV we took had no A/C and all of the water I had was for my initial hike across Badwater Basin. It ended up all being just fine, but nothing like some extra stress at the beginning of an epic adventure! The trip began for real at the famous Badwater Basin sign where tourists take quick photos before rushing back to air-conditioned cars. I took my obligatory picture, then watched those same tourists give me concerned looks as I shouldered my pack and started walking away from civilization. Even in October, Death Valley doesn't mess around with the heat. It was around 4pm when I started and temps were still in the triple digits. I had a sun umbrella keeping me as cool as possible, but heat was also radiating from the dried lake bed at my feet. A fishy smell would pop up any time my feet went through the initial salty crust of the basin, a lovely new experience for me. The flats were mesmerizing though. From a distance, they look like a flat white nothing. Up close, they're a landscape of intricate crystal formations that crunch beneath your feet. It's beautiful in an alien, hostile sort of way. You also have an insane amount of peripheral vision, being able to see from horizon to horizon across the flats with a giant 11,000ft mountain range (Telescope Peak) in front of you. By the end of that first day and 7.5 hours of hiking, I'd covered 22 miles across the valley floor and started the climb up Hanaupah Canyon. It was close to 11pm at night, but I was still able to find the one and only water source for miles around and fill up. I brought a sleeping bag, but on this night I just laid on top of it because it was so warm. ## Day Two: Big Whoops The second day brought the first major challenge: climbing out of Death Valley via Hanaupah Canyon. This isn't your regular national park experience with nicely maintained trails and helpful signs. This is a 10,000-foot climb with absolutely no established path. Luckily, I had gotten some elevation in the night before after the sun set, so I was already at about 4,000ft. I had to mostly just suck it up, knowing that this really is one of the most difficult climbs I've ever encountered. The climb starts as a sandy ascent just straight up the side of a mountain, then mostly follows a ridge until you make it to the top. Navigation is important, both so you don't get lost in literally the middle of nowhere, but also so you don't waste any elevation gained. Things were going as well as they can with such a tough climb, at least until I bent over at one point and my water bladder I had stuffed in my side pocket fell out, right onto a cactus. The bladder popped instantly and my water disappeared into the dry ground. I was in complete shock. The day went from "this is hard, but we're doing it" to "uh oh" really quick. I had a bit more water in a different bottle, but wasn't planning on refilling water until mid-day the next day (there were no water sources nearby). I knew I was in for a long night. I reached the trail that goes to Telescope Peak from a nearby canyon without any other issues, but it was already after 6pm and I still had further to go. I knew there was a campground nearby but wasn't sure if it was even open. In maybe the luckiest moment in my career of hiking, I met some lovely Canadians on their way to Sedona for some mountain biking that happened to have a ton of water and some extra beers. They happily traded me beer for my epic story of my journey so far. ## Day Three: Must Go Down to Go Up After descending from the Panamint Range early in the morning and having to turn down rides from passing cars, I was able to make it to Wildrose Campground. I took a nice break and filled up all of my water again knowing that I faced the crossing of Panamint Valley next. If Death Valley has a slightly less famous sibling, this is it. Not quite as below sea level, not quite as hot, but just as empty. I basically followed "roads" for a huge part of the day. I use quotes because they were closed roads from multiple wash outs and places where the road just didn't exist anymore. It made navigation easy and I had done a different route through Tuber Canyon before that while shorter really cranked up the remoteness and difficulty finding water, so it was a welcome little stretch. I stayed at the Panamint Campground and was able to inhale a burger and onion rings at the restaurant. It was a bit weird to be shoved back into civilization after 3 very remote-feeling days, but I was very glad for the refreshment. ## Days Four and Five: Trippy Trees After crossing Panamint Valley and climbing straight up from Darwin Falls (another adventure in creative route-finding), I reached the Darwin Plateau. This is where the trip started feeling more like a normal backpacking route and less like a survival exercise. The plateau sits at around 5,000-7,000 feet, and the temperature was finally reasonable. I could see back toward Death Valley and forward to the Sierra Nevada. I could hear and sometimes see fighter jets from the nearby base doing their practice runs while being surrounded by an alien landscape of Joshua trees and volcanic looking rocks. Another day of road and dirt road walking brought me to the back side of the Inyo range. Days 3 and 4 were back to back 29 mile days, and I was really starting to feel it. Day 5 wouldn't be any easier, taking me up to over 9,000 feet again, through the Cerro Gordo ghost town, and along the crest of the Inyo range, and down into the Owens Valley. An even more epic 32 mile day that took me to Lone Pine after a wild descent down Long John Canyon at least ended with some pizza. I booked a motel room and took what might have been the longest shower of my life. ## Day Six and Seven: All For This The final push was all about Mt. Whitney. After resupplying in Lone Pine and getting a proper night's sleep, I headed up to Whitney Portal at 8,374 feet. This is where the maintained trail begins for the thousands of hikers who summit Whitney each year. I grabbed a spot at the crowded campground and waited for nightfall, I wanted to get some sleep but was also planning a pre-dawn start. The Whitney Trail is 11 miles one-way with over 6,100 feet of elevation gain. On any normal day, that would be a serious challenge. Coming at the end of a 100+ mile journey through the desert, it felt truly daunting. It was also a bit of a new experience for me on this trip as I had completed the route up until this point last year. I had climbed Mt Whitney as a day hike before, so at least I knew what I was in for. Also for the first time on the trip, I was surrounded by other hikers. Most were doing just Whitney as a day hike or overnight trip, looking fresh and energetic. I found a hiker going about my pace in the dark as we climbed past treeline and we teamed up to make the summit push together. The trail climbs relentlessly through forests, past alpine lakes, and eventually gets well above treeline. The air gets noticeably thinner above 12,000 feet, turning each step into a small negotiation with your lungs. The final stretch of intense climbing includes the famous "96 switchbacks" and Trail Crest at 13,600 feet, where you get your first view of the western Sierra—a completely different world of lakes and forests (and bears!) compared to the desert I'd crossed. ## Standing on Top of the Lower 48 I reached Whitney's summit at about 8:30am after a 3am start. The temperature was in the 30s with winds gusting—about 65 degrees colder than where I'd started less than a week earlier. The summit is marked with a simple stone hut and a plaque, along with views that stretch for what feels like forever in every direction. It hit me all at once: I had walked from the lowest point in the continental US to the highest. My legs had carried me across salt flats, up unmarked canyons, over multiple mountain ranges, and finally to this wind-whipped summit at 14,505 feet. Death Valley was somewhere out there in the haze of distance, impossible to see but permanently etched in my memory and maybe my DNA at this point. There's a summit register where hikers sign their names. Most entries were from day hikers or backpackers doing just Whitney. I wrote "L2H" next to my name, and it felt like joining a secret club. I didn't stay long at the summit—the cold and wind made sure of that—but those few minutes standing at the highest point after starting at the lowest created a sense of completion I've rarely felt in other adventures. ## But Why People often ask why anyone would willingly subject themselves to something like the L2H route. It's a fair question. It's not a famous trail with social media cachet, you're not likely to meet other hikers along the way. There's no medal or certificate at the end. Most of it isn't even on established paths or places people want to visit. The best answer I can give is that the L2H offers something increasingly rare: a genuine adventure that you have to figure out as you go. The route takes you through five distinct ecological zones, from the salt-encrusted basin of Death Valley to the alpine environment of Whitney. You experience firsthand how dramatically landscapes can change over relatively short distances. One day you're desperately seeking shade; a few days later, you're adding layers against the cold. There's also something profound about experiencing such extremes under your own power. You can drive from Death Valley to Whitney Portal in a couple of hours, but you miss everything that happens in between—the subtle transitions in plant life, the changing geology, the way the light hits the mountains differently throughout the day. If you're considering this route, I can't emphasize enough the importance of preparation. Know your water sources, cache supplies ahead of time, have solid navigation skills, and respect the extreme environments you'll be traveling through. It will humble you (and steal your water!) if you're not careful. But for those willing to put in the preparation, the L2H offers something special—a journey that connects two extreme points on the American landscape through pure human effort. In a world where adventures are increasingly packaged and commercialized, there's something refreshingly raw about this 135-mile trek from the absolute bottom to the very top.