Driving up the road to Glacier Lodge last March, looming Mt. Alice looked huge. Flipping open a topo map and my
tattered copy of Paul Ritchens’ 50 Classic Backcountry Ski and Snowboard Summits in California, I measured
up Mt. Alice and our intended route. Scoffing past the, “Snowboards: Not Recommended” bit, I sought
words of encouragement, and read aloud to my two partners, Nick Sovner and his dog, Max, “The circumnavigation of the Palisades is an arduous ski mountaineering MINI expedition through some of the most rugged alpine terrain in the Sierra Nevada.” I got no reply. I could tell they were both looking at Mt. Alice and the surrounding
terrain. Mouths open, they stared at the vast landscape.
There was nothing “mini” about it.
Arriving at an empty trailhead around 1 p.m., the air
was dank. The dripping pines glistened as the sun shown
through onto the fresh snow. I stretched out my pesky
leg cramps and watched Max casually sniff at a pine
bough in a snow drift. Perched with precision, Max shook
off a drip from his coat and radiated his veteran snow
demeanor. I turned back to the truck, eager to begin
gearing up. Nick had already unloaded the boards and
was elbow deep loading his pack. Game On!
A
recent crossover from snowboarding, Nick was touring
on telemark skis. True to my roots, I was piloting
a splitboard. A splitboard is a hybrid snowboard
that can split in half to become skis (see product
review page 42). The splitboard allows the dual
reality of efficient skiing on the way up and blissful
snowboarding on the way down. As I had already
skied about 150 total miles on my 170cm Burton
with few issues, I was ecstatic about challenging
my schizophrenic chariot to a true epic in the
Sierras. Finessing this expedition would finally
give me the ammunition I needed to crush two-planker
naysayers who spout about a snowboard’s limitations
in the backcountry. As far as I knew, no one had ever
attempted a Palisade circumnavigation on a splitboard.
…And so the journey began. Three Donner Summit snow
warriors, poised for an extended journey into a massive
winter Valhalla. We had all seen many nights under the
winter stars, but such a journey around the Palisades
would be our most committing adventure yet. Inspired
by the write up in Paul Ritchen’s guide book,
I had convinced Nick that this expedition was THE adventure
to fill his spring break from Humboldt State. Without
requiring any car shuttling, the 30 mile trip would
take us up the North fork of Big Pine Creek, around
the remote Western flank of the Palisade Range, and
back down the South fork of Big Pine Creek. The route
began at 7800 ft and climbed five 12,000+ ft passes,
crossing the Sierra Crest twice in the process. I reasoned
we would spend five nights in the snow.
Prepared,
and giddy with energy, we hid the car key, and
began mounting our skis. Max was already down the
trail. The first six miles of the journey followed
the North Fork trail up Big Pine Creek. Slogging
through 18 inches of fresh snow and pesky manzanita,
we camped in the trees just above First Lake in
the shadow of beloved Temple Crag. Watching the
sunset on Temple’s gothic
aretes and massive pillars, we dug in our Mega-Mid
tent, humbled to have just entered what we knew
to be holy land.
The next day Max had us up and charging at first
light. We ditched the trail and took a high traversing
line above Second and Third Lakes dropping back
to the valley floor at Fourth Lake. Arriving aside
Fifth Lake around noon, we found what would be
our last open water source. Everyone guzzled the
icy melt water and recharged. The first sustained
steep push lay just ahead. Matching each other
step for step, Nick’s telemarks and
my splitboard both worked flawlessly as we switchbacked
up the massive headwall that guarded the drainage below
Jigsaw Pass. Stoic in the face of deadly exposure,
Max scurried on top of the crust as Nick and I busted
steps one at a time.
Upon
reaching 11,700 ft. at 3:30 p.m. we dug in for
the night. Sleeping in the trees at 9000 ft had
been comfortable, so we figured digging our shelter
into a four foot deep hole next to a rock might
help recreate that warmth 2500 ft. higher. Two
hours effort paid off, and we slept relatively
warm despite Max’s attempts to steal
my sleeping pad. Awoken to bluebird skies, Nick led
the rally to the Crest. The final 400 feet of climbing
gave us a chilling reminder of the committing conditions
that guard the Sierra Crest mid-winter. We clung to
our edges and perched on our poles, as steep icy crust
led us through broken exposed rock. Nick’s telemarks
gripped a bit better than my splitboard initially, but
upon engaging my crampons and tightening my skins I
gained the crest just behind him. Looking off of Jigsaw
Pass at the glorious peaks of King’s Canyon,
we took a reverent break and stood in awe of the snowy
serenity awash around us.
Eager
to make our first turns in three days, Nick and
I clamored over the rocky crest and looked down
the western escarpment hoping for a powdery chute
to descend. Instead we looked off into nearly 500
feet of nasty steep rock mixed with narrow tongues
of loose snow. A tattered bamboo wand marked a
narrow rocky entrance. The downclimbing that ensued
was by far the crux of our trip. The steep snow
made for sketchy kick stepping and the loose rock
made for horrible down climbing. More in touch
with the rock, I zig zagged my way down intermittent
rock steps. Nick’s
plastic tele boots allowed him to kickstep through the
crust so he moved snow patch to snow patch. Max charged
down head first, running laps around us both. A stressful
hour later we reached terra firma—a 500 ft. snowfield
that dropped to the basin at Bishop Pass. Assembling
my splitboard for the first time in three days, I took
a deep breath and launched into some of the most rewarding
turns I have ever made. Ripping through the shin deep,
wind blown powder I felt unconscious. Nick and I milked
that sweet pitch for every vertical inch. Catching a
hidden rock, Nick took an unexpected fall, but even
a tweaked ankle couldn’t rip off his plastered
smile.
The
rest of the afternoon we crossed 12,000 ft. Bishop
Pass and blasted a bit further, setting camp in
a drift directly below Thunderbolt Peak. The dawn
of day four found us a bit cold, but still energetic.
Setting a preliminary goal of a camp below Norman
Clyde Peak, we had three 1500 ft. passes to climb
and descend. Tackling Thunderbolt Pass with ease,
we plotted our line to Potluck Pass, and dropped
in for our second helping of turns. Returning to
our skis and skins we traversed below North Palisade
and made good time ascending Potluck Pass. Nick’s
telemarks and my split skis handled the variable
snow with grace.
From
the top of Potluck we spied our final pass for the day,
the inconspicuous Cirque Pass. Cirque Pass is a narrow
break in a major ridge jutting away from Mt. Sill and
gaining its threshold proved to be quite intimidating.
Peering over the southern edge at almost 4 p.m. we quickly
stowed the skins, and dropped into a technical descent
through fall lines that fell off into jutting cliffbands.
Nick proved himself the worthy partner and photographer
as he passed on a few dream-like exposed lines to safely
guide himself rock band to rock band while shooting
pictures. More at ease with my bulky pack, I hucked
and played with every drop and constriction on my splitboard.
Arriving at the basin below Norman Clyde Peak, an eerie
fog rolled in and we dug out a home for our last night
west of the Sierra Crest.
That
night below Norman Clyde Peak was miserable. Icy condensation
rained from our tent walls with every gust of wind,
leaving me no choice but to cover my face with my jacket
to escape the frost. Sleeping with a jacket over my
face at 11,000 ft. quickly led to hypoxia and I would
awaken tearing the jacket away to gasp for breath. Everyone
slept horribly. The wind died with the dawn and we finally
got some decent sleep as the sun hit the shelter.
The
final day west of the crest we contoured above beautiful
Palisade Lakes. Traversing the rolling slopes far above
the lakes put my split ski skills to the test. Spooked
about slipping on the split skis, it was my turn to
make the cautious traverse lines and take the pictures.
Nick casually made the turns as Max chased us both.
Hooking around to the east, we arrived at the base of
Southfork Pass around 1 p.m. We inhaled some lunch and
began our final climb. Steep switchbacking on exposed
slopes gained us a narrow tongue of loose talus on which
we scraped our way up the final 300 ft. to the top of
the Sierra Crest.
Gaining
the 12,560 ft. Southfork Pass, my eyes lit up.
What lay to the east is what backcountry dreams
are made of. A 500 ft. funneling chute of soft
wind pack that emptied out into the massive southern
drainage of Big Pine Creek. After negotiating the
narrow chute exit, a descent of over 3000 vertical
feet still awaited us. Before dropping into the
chute we checked that our transcievers were beeping,
and dug a hasty pit to get an idea as to the stability
of the snowpack in the chute. The snowpack seemed
nicely consolidated, so we geared up for the descent.
Nursing his tweaked ankle, Nick chose a lower point
to drop from. I made off with the glory turns,
punching several tight slashes right off the crest,
before pointing the hole shot. Screaming out into
the massive snowfield below, I once again found
religion. Floating through the countless gullies
and small headwalls of the Big Pine drainage, we
rode and skied for over two and a half miles. Choosing
lines picture perfect for our respective styles,
Nick and I frolicked as Max chased our tracks.
Although we could have easily descended all the
way to the trailhead that day, we stopped short
and camped one last night at Willow Lake. Legs
weary and souls aflame, we celebrated our achievement
and slept womb-like under the shadows of the Palisades.
The next morning, we loaded up, and pushed on to
the final descent. What we expected to be a no-brainer
down the main drainage ended up coercing us into
very committing territory. Riding tree to tree
next to exposed rushing water made for a fitting
ending to the adventure. Snowline forced us to
give up the now tic-tac descending and we hiked
out the last half mile in the snow and dirt to
the trailhead. The truck held clean socks, cold
beers, and offered our first interaction with other
people in six days. Questioned as to our journey,
we spoke in tongues still unintelligible to anyone
but ourselves. No one asked us a second question
and we sought no more answers. The Palisades had
pushed us hard, but all worry and suspicion were
now gone. No technology, no guidebook, and no physical
or mental limitations could take back our success.
A snowboarder, a telemarker, and a dog had completed
the journey of a lifetime.
