Using satellite phones, digital cameras, old-fashioned pencil and paper, and packs sometimes weighing 50 pounds, the journalists hiked the trail and brought us along. Their stories and photos brought to life a part of the country many people will never get to see.

Choose how you'd like to start your adventure:
* Stories from the printed Bee
* Blogs from Diana, Christina, Mark and Marek
* Photos and slideshows from the trail
* Videos of preparing for the journey
* Wallpaper for your computer

During all those nights the Mount Whitney High Country trail map lay open on my dining room table, I spent hours studying the jagged contour lines of Tyndall and Williamson. Tawny Point never once grabbed my attention.

Guess I had to be there.

When I first saw Tawny Point on the afternoon of Sept. 1, after a 10-mile hike over Forester Pass, I couldn't help but notice how perfectly the husky 12,322-foot mountain reflected in the placid water of the Tyndall Frog Ponds. When the sun dropped, I marveled as its crumbling cliffs turned from white to glowing yellow. After darkness enveloped the sky, I sat alone in the forest, gazed at its brooding outline illuminated by a perfect half moon, and felt pure exhilaration.

The rest of our hikers blogged, too. Check out their pages as well as videos and slide shows. And don't forget to grab a wallpaper for your desktop. To see a list of what's available here, go to the "Categories" list at the top right of the blog page.

Cancer had just killed him. He died five days before I arrived here.

I am in my early 50s, but I was feeling like a 7-year-old without my dad. I had come to the High Sierra to hike and write about a section of the John Muir Trail. The trip would become a rite of mourning in a breathtaking outdoor cathedral.

When my father was diagnosed in late June with an advanced case of colon cancer, I was already scheduled to hike as part of The Bee's four-leg trek along the 211 miles of this trail.

I think the John Muir Trail reminds me how to be myself. How to play. That I'm not God. That beauty can surprise you.

And, the trout up there make grown men crazy.

Believe it or not, after 28 days of walking the John Muir Trail, neither Jim nor I ever did "smell the barn." We both got a kick out of the fact that we were completely content with taking our sweet time hiking the John Muir Trail.

Throughout my years of backpacking, avid backpackers have described the JMT as being "too crowded" and scoffed at what they termed the "Interstate-5" of Sierra trails. This reputation has given me apprehension about hiking the JMT because I have enjoyed and grown accustomed to some of the isolated trails of Kings and Sequoia National Parks. However, during my journey along the JMT, I discovered that, while heavily used, the JMT is not overly used, and hikers are afforded opportunities to find at least moments of isolation. Additionally, I realized the pessimistic comments about the JMT failed to address the unique communal bond among hikers and how this sense of community enhances and intensifies the trail experience.

I'm sitting in my carpeted living room, staring at my empty backpack. For seven days it has been my constant companion. My burden. My shell. My home away from home. Now it sits alone by the wall, empty and dirty.
And I feel strange about that.

I'm answering the doorbell, forking over a $20 bill and not bothering with the change. The aroma from the flat cardboard box tantalizes my nostrils and waters my mouth. After seven days of oatmeal, trail mix and dehydrated gruel, I offer silent thanks to whoever invented delivery pizza.

I rambled about the wonders of my mini espresso maker and then failed to say whether it was worth lugging the gadget into the wilderness.

There's a simple answer to that question: Yes. Yes, it was.