Oct/110
Errett Allen: “Nature’s Power”
A selection from the new book, Yosemite Epics: Tales of Adventure from America’s Greatest Playground, compiled by ASJ contributor Matt Johanson. Back in the late ‘70s, backpacker-turned-climber Erret Allen and partner Mike Corbett rolled the weather dice and ventured onto the granite face of El Cap in late fall for a 29-pitch, week-long adventure. Their luck held out, for a while.
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Illustration by Christopher Hampson
Backpacker Errett Allen hiked north on the Pacific Crest Trail from Southern California in the spring of 1974. Six weeks and 550 miles later, he detoured into Yosemite Valley to rest an injured knee. The visit transformed the “weekend warrior” who moved into Camp 4 for most of the next six years to test himself against Sierra granite. In later years, Allen prolifically established first ascents, many on difficult and rarely-repeated Tuolumne Meadows routes like Voyager, Breaking Wind and Blue Moon.
None of the climber’s adventures tested him more severely than El Capitan’s New Dawn line (5.9/A4). A worthy 29-pitch challenge in good conditions, the route becomes a nearly-unclimbable waterfall in rain and a deathtrap in snow. Falling rock and ice added still more peril to the life-and-death struggle which Allen, 27, and partner Mike Corbett faced in November of 1978. —Matt Johanson
I had no particular desire to suffer in wintertime, but fall was coming to a close and Mike Corbett and I wanted to squeeze in a wall climb. We really wanted to climb El Cap, which is such an immense challenge and takes so much preparation. New Dawn itself is a beautiful line, with a blank dihedral section that’s quite impressive, and Mike and I both had admiration for Warren Harding, who’d climbed it before.
The fact that we attempted it in November required extra planning and preparation. Short days, long cold nights and the possibility of a winter storm all had to be accounted for in our scheme. In addition, an aspect of the climb added to our potential problems. The route makes a long traverse to the right involving roped pendulums from bolts. This places climbers directly above a huge, steeply overhanging section of rock. Without the placement of many additional bolts that we didn’t have, the pendulums would be difficult if not impossible to reverse. Any retreat would be difficult even for experienced and healthy climbers. With either of us injured, it would be impossible. And if a winter storm caught us above this point, we would be forced to sit it out.
Our gear included rain suits, one down sleeping bag, a synthetic half bag, down jackets, bivvy sacs and enough layers of wool to swath 30 sheep. We also acquired (ahem) a primitive steel and canvas portable ledge; metal cots bolted to the walls in Housekeeping Camp served that purpose before climbers could buy a commercial portaledge. A two-man tube tent was rigged with duct tape as a rain fly. With the usual ton of iron, food and water for six days, our gear easily exceeded 200 pounds. For good measure I threw in my camera and a copy of “Atlas Shrugged” to read during those long winter nights.
We fixed ropes on the first three pitches and took forever doing all the borrowing, buying, organizing and packing that was necessary. This also helped delay the day of reckoning. We decided to fix one more pitch to boost our morale. Finally out of excuses, we blasted off Nov. 28 on a clear day with nothing but sun in the forecast.
Neither of us were early risers and it was nearly dark by the time we ascended our fixed lines and climbed the next three pitches. This was just as well since we were on Lay Lady Ledge – a large, comfortable place to camp. The climbing was easy so far and the weather was cold but clear. We knew at this time of year there are only a few hours of warm weather on this side of El Cap. Even when sunny, the mornings were cold, and just as things warmed up, the sun set behind The Nose and we would get cold again. The entire time we were on the route, temperatures on the Valley floor dipped into the low 20s at night.
The next day dawned clear and sunny and we were soon in the groove, smoothly sailing upward. I had one minor mishap on the day’s third pitch. The belay at the top is the ledge atop El Cap Towers – a narrow but long, flat and comfortable ledge. The anchors there at the time were three old bolts, probably placed by Harding 20 years earlier, none of which inspired confidence. I selected one which looked strongest to haul our bags on. As I strained to move them over a difficult section, the bolt suddenly pulled out. I flew back and found myself dangling in space, pulled down by the weight of the bags but held up by my tether to another bolt. After finishing the haul from this difficult position, we set up camp on the ledge. We fixed the next two and a half pitches before dark and then settled down for a comfortable night on El Cap Towers.
Another clear cold morning found us involved on the pendulum traverse and we were soon swinging like yoyos on a steep and exposed wall. After the traverse we were in a series of barely discernable and very shallow thin cracks that shoot up for several hundred feet. The climbing here is easy aid, but tenuous, involving many moves on Harding’s rivets that only penetrate the rock one-quarter inch. We knew from word of mouth around Camp 4 that we had to thread small wired stoppers over the heads of these rivets to clip our aid ladders in, but discovered to our chagrin that only the tiniest wired stoppers would work. We only had two of those. So we had to leapfrog our carabiners without leaving anything clipped in for protection behind us. Fully stimulated, we arrived at our next bivvy site called Wino Towers.
A few empty wine bottles we found here attested to the low moral character of our predecessors and we promptly broke out our own bottle. The ledge here is small, uneven and uncomfortable so our portaledge came into play for the first time. Though the sky was clear we set up the rain fly to shelter
us. All day long as we climbed we were showered by steadily increasing marble- sized drops from a waterfall on the rim. Unnoticed in the morning, the sun would slowly increase melting on top until by mid- afternoon there would be a steady stream.
The shower hit us sporadically up to this point and depended on how the wind was blowing. We relaxed that night listening to the pitter-patter of drops hitting our rain fly, oblivious to the danger awaiting us.
Again the sun greeted us in the morning. We packed our gear slowly with stiff limbs and sore hands and began climbing. Wind had picked up overnight and drops hit us early. After I led the day’s first pitch, Mike began the second under an increasing barrage of water. As I started cleaning
the pitch, the wind grew stronger and the shower got serious. Reaching the belay, I found Mike shivering uncontrollably and fumbling in the bags for our rain gear. I was still warm from cleaning the pitch but quickly I began to shiver, too. The drenching became worse by the minute and the sun took this opportunity to set behind The Nose.
We were in dire straits and would soon be hypothermic. About 30 feet above us was a bulge of rock that afforded protection from the shower so we climbed up there, hauled our gear up and quickly set up our portaledge and rain fly. To our dismay we discovered that all of our bivvy gear was soaking wet! We had been careless about packing it that morning. Plus, the practice at that time was to put bivvy gear in garbage bags to keep it dry, but in the course of packing and unpacking, holes had torn in the plastic. Everything had become soaked.
Fortunately we had lots of wool garments and after wringing them out as much as we could, we donned all of them. Facing each other on the narrow portaledge, we rubbed our hands and each other’s completely numb feet. Slowly and painfully, warmth returned to our extremities and we assessed our situation.
My sleeping bag, Mike’s half bag and our down jackets were no longer soaking wet. They were now frozen lumps of ice, completely useless. The wool we wore was slowly drying out, however, and we were warming up in our shelter. Retreat was completely impractical but we felt that our situation was not desperate and decided to sit out the afternoon and night. Hopefully with good weather we could continue to the top. That night was the longest and coldest bivouac of my life. With nothing but our wool to keep us from freezing, we spent the whole night rubbing what little warmth we could into our hands, feet and limbs. Sleep was impossible.
The sun rising bright and clear the next morning was a most beautiful sight. The waterfall abated overnight as the temperature dropped, freezing everything but us. We wasted no time packing and hurried to climb while we could do it dry and warm. Fortunately the next two pitches angled away from the waterfall. The climbing was slow, though, as four days of climbing and a cold, sleepless bivvy took a toll on our stamina. At every belay, we broke out some frozen pieces of bivvy gear and hung them from a rope clothesline, making El Cap look like an inner city slum. We must have been a sight from El Cap Meadow especially since we were the only guys stupid enough to be up there. Our down items never thawed in the cold weather, and we never got to use them the rest of the climb. That day we only completed three and a half pitches before nightfall – our slowest day so far. The one thing that lifted our spirits somewhat was that Mike’s half bag did thaw out enough to use for our next bivvy. So that night saw us ensconced on our portaledge with all four legs in one small half bag, not warm but better off than the night before. We were now 23 pitches off the deck and only five from the top.
High winds and whipping snow woke us the next morning before dawn. Snow was already piling up on our rain fly and gear and we wondered why we had ever taken up this stupid sport. We were about 100 feet below a small roof which was further protected by a huge roof 30 feet higher. Without even packing our bags, we climbed up under the first roof, hauled our junk and set up a new camp much more protected from the storm. Snow fell heavily and continuously throughout the day. Under the roof we were well protected with only an occasional gust of wind strong enough to blow snow over us. If it wasn’t for our exposed position and dwindling food, it would have been a pleasure to take a rest day. We had brought enough food for six days and this was our sixth day. We worried the storm might last several days so we tried to eat as little as possible. With strict rationing, we could stretch our supply for another couple days. The problem was the cold – it was more difficult to stay warm with no calories to burn. But for the moment we were protected, warm and safe.
I had read over half of my book by this time and tore it in half to give Mike something to relieve the boredom. Some of our friends came down to the meadow that day to ask if we were all right and yell encouragement. We shouted back that we were okay and didn’t want a rescue. Satisfied, they went back to the restaurants, bars and other amenities in the Valley. We spent the day as couch potatoes, reading, sleeping and daydreaming of warm beds and sumptuous feasts. An occasional foray outside the rain fly for nature’s call had to suffice to stretch stiff and sore muscles.
Though it snowed all day and most of the night, towards dawn it began to clear. To our delight, the sun rose and began to work its magic on our cold bodies. Our lighthearted attitude soon turned to dread as the sun also worked its magic on the thick snow and ice plastered to El Cap’s rim. A few hail-sized chunks fell past us. Soon larger chunks followed. We thought we would be safe under our small roof until a new phenomenon began. Blocks of ice two to four feet thick and as long and wide as railroad boxcars began to peel off the rim. They would flip over and over like playing cards, making an incredibly loud and dreadful whoosh with each flip. They fell in huge spirals that tracked far out from the wall and then tracked back in. More often than not, they smashed into the wall with great force breaking into thousands of pieces which showered the forest below. We quickly packed up and climbed the remaining 30 feet to the huge roof above us where we had much better protection from the falling ice. There we watched the most amazing show of nature’s power I have ever seen. To poke our heads out above the roof would have been suicide. Some ice slabs tracked halfway out to the meadow and crashed into the forest hundreds of feet from the wall. Some blocks tracked directly past us, unseen and unheard until suddenly they shot by with a terrifying whoosh that sent shivers up my spine. Around noon the ice fall abated. Since half the day was already gone, we resigned to spending another night on the wall.
The pitch above the roof provided more entertainment. It was aid climbing in a thin crack in a shallow dihedral. Near the top of the pitch, a spring gushed water which fell down the dihedral. Quickly freezing, the water filled the crack and covered the wall with a thick coating of hard ice. Mike took this lead and I could tell from many falling chunks of ice and his loud cursing that things weren’t pleasant. In order to get gear placements in that crack, Mike had to continually chip out the ice with a hammer and piton.
A long time later I heard his distant “off belay” and now it was time for my fun. I put my ascenders on the rope and when I turned the corner of the roof, I was presented with a nasty sight. The rope and all of our gear was frozen to the dihedral under a layer of ice up most of the pitch. Old-style jumars were famous back then for not working well on frozen ropes. The teeth on the jumars’ cams that normally grip the rope will quickly jam up with ice. Normally in any scary situation when following an aid pitch with jumars, climbers will “tie in short.” This means you tie directly into the rope every so often so that if your jumars fail, you will not fall all the way to the end of the rope. In this situation the rope was frozen so hard that it was a major effort, but I took the time to tie those knots.
For every placement of the jumars I had to first scrape off as much ice as I could with my fingernails, place the jumar and gingerly test it before committing full weight to it. I frequently had to remove a jumar from the rope to chip ice. Chipping the rope and the gear out of the frozen dihedral and crack wasn’t much fun either. All the time I cleaned this pitch, the spring soaked me just as it had soaked Mike. At least we were still in the sun. We could wring the water out of our clothes and continue climbing. We reached a small bivvy ledge and set up camp for another night, three pitches from the top.
The sun rose on our eighth day on the wall and it was very hard to coax our tired, sore, cold and hungry bodies off the ledge. We only had a few crumbs of bread for breakfast but the thought of the top so close spurred us on. The second pitch required aid with pitons behind a thin flake. Leading the pitch, Mike was about 25 feet directly above me hammering a piton when I heard a crunching sound. I looked up just in time for a 20-pound rock to slam me in the face. A chunk of the flake Mike had been nailing broke off. The right side of my face from forehead to chin became a bleeding and bruised mess as I learned what it’s like to be hit by a baseball bat.
I put a good scare into Mike. He told me later that he thought I had been knocked out or even killed. I determined I didn’t have any broken bones and reassured Mike I was okay. He continued the pitch. It was a really good thing I had looked up when I did or I would have been hit squarely on the top of my head, perhaps receiving a concussion or skull fracture. As it was I wore an attractive mask of scabs and scars for a while. One more sore spot on my body just blended in with the rest.
Mike graciously offered to lead the last pitch. With blood still running into my eyes, I concurred. Before long we pulled on top of the Captain at 11 a.m. on our eighth day. Though tired, sore, hungry and weak, we were completely elated at having survived and accomplished our goal through so much adversity. Having forgotten how to walk in the last eight days, we stumbled around and fumbled to pack our bags. We bantered about eating in a restaurant, sipping a drink in the bar and sleeping in a dry, warm bed in the evening to come. We thought our hardships were over and in just a few hours we would be surrounded by our friends and the comforts of the Valley. Such are the delusions of starved and confused minds.
We did have enough brain cells left to recognize we would have to be careful getting back to the Valley. Any experienced climber knows the climb ends only when you are safely back down where it started. The storm turned the East Ledges descent into an icy deathtrap. The alternative was to hike four miles to the Yosemite Falls Trail and then another four miles down to the Valley. While sorting our gear, we decided to leave most behind to carry as little as possible. Our heavy portaledge that had done so much to keep us alive, we tossed off the edge and watched as it flipped over and over, arcing in a spiral as it fell and reminding us of the ice from a few days before.
At first the hiking was on easy level ground, but two feet of fresh snow made it difficult in our exhausted state. After a mile or so, we faced an uphill section that rises to the shoulder of Eagle Peak. We soon found ourselves in a field of manzanita hidden under the snow. Mike sank to his knees most steps, and I would often plunge further even when using his tracks. Our feet become tangled in the manzanita, making progress excruciatingly slow. We got soaked from head to foot once again. Utterly exhausted, I stopped to rest and Mike was soon far ahead and out of sight. Eventually I crested the hill and followed on a spit over the fire, we managed to dry it out. Living to a ripe old age felt a real possibility again. I intended to stay awake all night tending the fire but exhaustion got the best of us and we awoke shivering at dawn.
Within ten minutes of starting out we encountered Yosemite Creek and turned downstream to follow the trail to the Valley. We were only about a hundred yards above the falls and soon stumbled down the switchbacks on frozen feet. Halfway down, we ran into Mike’s girlfriend Lisa who
was very concerned that we hadn’t shown up the day before. There had been talk of mobilizing a search for us. Before long we were back in Camp 4, surrounded by friends eager to hear our tale.
For several years, I suffered from poor circulation in my toes but my face healed nicely and fortunately I turned out no uglier than before. Did I mention that this was my first El Cap route?
I learned some valuable lessons on this climb. We could have been better prepared with waterproof gear and a stove, and we could have packed better so our stuff didn’t become soaked and frozen. I didn’t learn the most important lesson, as I went on to climb El Cap several more times. But I never did another winter ascent. From then on, I climbed The Captain only in warm, sunny weather.
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Editor’s Note: Errett Allen, now 60, lives with his wife near Estes Park, CO, near Rocky Mountain National Park, and works as an engineer in the software business. He remains an active climber, though he hasn’t climbed in California for a few years. Though he has a “love-hate relationship with the Valley,” he misses summers in Tuolumne Meadows, where he was on the Yosemite Search & Rescue team for many years and guided for the Yosemite Mountaineering School in the late ‘80s. Co- author with Alan Bartlett of the 1988 book “Rock Climbs of the Sierra East Side,” Allen wrote this story about five years after the climb. It was never published, until book author Matt Johanson called after hearing about the tale. “I dug it up out of the garage,” says Allen. All these years later, he still hasn’t done another winter ascent. “One was enough,” he says. —PG
Jun/110
Royal Robbins: “The Best Medicine”
Illustration by Christopher Hampson
A selection from the new book,
Yosemite Epics: Tales of Adventure from America’s Greatest Playground, compiled by ASJ contributor Matt Johanson.
Suffering from arthritis, famed climber Royal Robbins recalls taking a break from making first ascents of Yosemite’s big walls in 1980 to make the first descent by kayak of the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin with Reg Lake and Doug Tompkins.
Royal Robbins left his mark on Yosemite by leaving as few marks as possible. While achieving historic first ascents including Half Dome’s Northwest Face and El Capitan’s Salathé Wall, the pioneer promoted an ethic of clean climbing, shunning the overuse of bolts and pitons. Climbers now enjoy scaling Yosemite classics free of excessive alterations thanks largely to the efforts of Robbins and his like-minded contemporaries, though the onset of arthritis led him to redirect his energy toward kayaking in the late 1970s.
Today the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River carries a rating of Class V+ for extreme danger, dropping nearly 5,000 feet over 32 harrowing miles. Robbins, 45, and companions Doug Tompkins and Reg Lake attempted the first descent over five days in September of 1980. The wild mountain river that plunges over waterfalls and carves through giant boulders in narrow canyons provided the adventure of a lifetime, and the whitewater journey also helped Robbins discover an even greater reward. —Matt Johanson
Climbing was my number one pursuit, but I got into river running because I developed arthritis. My wrists and ankles started hurting and when I went climbing they would hurt even more. I had been pretty lucky up until then in that I had done a lot and avoided any nasty injuries like broken bones, though it was obvious I couldn’t continue climbing like I had been. But I could still boat and paddle, even though it was painful. Kayaking offered an outlet for my energies and my drive to do new things in the outdoors.
The Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River, a trans-Sierra traverse, was a virgin route. Doug Tompkins had a small plane and we flew over the area to look at the river in June of 1981. Clearly it was a serious gorge, very impressive with big walls. In the spring it’s just crazy down there, whitewater from beginning to end. You don’t want water that big where the drop is so steep. So I went up to take another look with Reg Lake in August from the highest possible put-in. We boated about six miles of the upper part below Shadow Lake down to Devil’s Postpile National Monument. A week later, we came back with Doug and committed ourselves to the rest of the experience.
As a team we were balanced. Reg was the kayaking expert. Doug, with his intense drive, was the engine. I was the brakeman, to keep the pace leisurely and avoid mistakes. I’d been kayaking somewhat, but I didn’t consider myself an expert by any means. It’s a good thing we didn’t know what we were doing, because a shrewder evaluation of the situation might have led us to say no. Our advantage was that we didn’t know enough about it to be as terrified as we should have been.
We put in at Devil’s Postpile. The San Joaquin begins as a small river, high in the mountains amid pines and firs. We weren’t used to that, because in kayaking most of your boating is in the foothills where there’s brush. The water started at about 300 cubic feet per second, pretty small but it was big enough to float our boats and give us thrills. The first day got us partway down the gorge past the Postpile and below Rainbow Falls, around which we portaged. When the gradient got too steep, we’d get out of the boats, cross slabs, lower our boats into the river and rappel down, using rock climbing skills. Frankly, we were surprised to get so far without carrying the kayaks more. The grade was steep but forgiving, allowing us to stay on the river in our boats in places where we didn’t think we could do that, based on the map. So it was a gift.
On the second day we approached Waterslide Fall, which was a serious section because if you screw it up, you’re liable to go over an 80-foot waterfall. We would have carried our boats past it, but there were steep walls on either side. Doug went first and came within five feet of the falls, but you have to come that close to reach an eddy where you can stop. He was hard to scare. I was much easier to frighten. I was terrified of that run. It was really something I would have avoided if I could have, but we didn’t have any choice. We had to run it. My heart was pounding, but we each reached the eddy where we could get out and carry our boats around the falls to put in again.
The next big question was the Great Corridor, where the river drops past Balloon Dome into a section called the Granite Crucible. At the beginning of this, we rappelled from a piton past First Falls. Then we had to stop at a drop called Double Chute because we couldn’t see all of it from above. We thought it was probably okay, and it probably was, but if it isn’t, you’re liable to die. That gets your attention. Taking a chance like that is not the way I was raised! We had brought climbing equipment, so if necessary we could have tried to escape the canyon that way, though the walls were thousands of feet high. Finally Reg saved the day by climbing out of his kayak onto a boulder right at the big drop. He looked over the other side and said, “It’ll go!” Those were good words to hear. Otherwise one of us probably would have gone anyway, sooner or later. We would have got tired of paddling around in circles in the pool above.
In the beautiful San Joaquin River gorge, we saw things that we never saw anywhere else before or since. We kayaked under a giant chock stone. The river actually ran under a boulder in the canyon. That was the first time I’d ever seen that. We stopped each night next to the river wherever we could see places for sleeping bags and slept under the stars. We packed light, very much like on a climb, and took just nuts, gorp and salami to eat. You feel lucky to have whatever is in your hands, and there’s always steak waiting for you at the end.
We descended a series of pool-drop rapids on the last day. You go over a drop, reach a quiet pool where you can recover, then you go for a ways until another drop, and another quiet pool. That was pretty nice, compared to a continuous flow with no pools and no place to recover. We ran into the mouth of Mammoth Pool Reservoir and paddled a few miles on the beautiful blue water to the takeout.
I thought the gorge would be a trade route. I’m surprised it hasn’t become more popular. That speaks of its difficulty and challenge. I compare it to the Salathé Wall of El Capitan.That was a great adventure too. This was an adventure like that in that we didn’t know what was coming for sure, and there was some risk. If I had to give up all the climbs I’ve done except for one, it would be Salathé Wall. If I had one river to keep, I would choose the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin, because of the scenery, the adventure, the friendship, the beauty and everything it involved. To us, it was a privilege to be in such a place.
My specialist was pretty pessimistic and didn’t say anything about the prospect of my arthritis healing. I was missing my Eskimo roll because of pain in my wrists, and I wondered if it would get worse and force me to stop kayaking, too. But luckily my arthritis went away after a few years and I returned to climbing classic moderates. These days I enjoy both climbing and kayaking. I love the sense of freedom that these sports provide. Every time I climb or paddle, I think I’m lucky to be able to do this. I appreciate these things so much more than I would have if I’d never lost them.
I can’t say I have the cure, but I do know that my improvement coincided with my decision not to let arthritis rule my life. I think laughter is the best medicine and we laughed a lot on that trip. I’m a deep believer that the more optimistic you are, the better things go for you. I’ve been able to achieve things most people consider extraordinary by the power of that principle. If you live with an adventurous, positive attitude, you’re happier, you make more friends and you’re healthier.
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Royal Robbins, now 76, lives in Modesto with his wife Liz.
“Yosemite Epics: Tales of Adventure from America’s Greatest Playground” is published by Dreamcatcher Publishing. Author-signed copies are available at their website, www.dreamcatch- erpublishing.com, for $16.95.
Oct/090
Swingin’ in Yosemite
The Postcard Thrills of Lost Arrow Spire’s Famous Tyrolean Traverse
By Matt Johanson • Photos by Chris Falkenstein
Getting back to the main cliff after climbing the Spire.
A striking pinnacle just east of Yosemite Falls draws adventurers from around the world. Reaching the summit of Lost Arrow Spire affords an awesome view of the park’s glacier-carved valley and takes no small amount of technical skill. But for once in this renowned climbing mecca, the climbing isn’t the story.
Lost Arrow Spire’s unique attraction is the maneuver climbers use to depart from the pointy granite peak: the celebrated “Tyrolean Traverse.”
To return to relatively flat earth, climbers anchor ropes to bolts atop the spire and also to a trusted pine tree 80 feet away on the valley rim. Locking themselves securely to the rope with carabiners, they step into the abyss and pull themselves hand over hand along the rope to the pine, a dramatic scene pictured on many Yosemite postcards.
Leaving the security of solid rock for the thin air of the chasm makes even hardened climbers cringe. Alternatively, a handful leave Lost Arrow by simply rappelling back to the spire’s notch and rock climbing up to the tree, a slower return that employs more common skills.
“But the Tyrolean is just so cool,” said one climber, explaining the traverse’s popularity.
Some scale the spire from the valley floor as an all-day or overnight effort, but most climbers hike up the Yosemite Falls Trail to the valley rim and rope up at the pine tree. That’s the route my partners and I took when climbing Lost Arrow on two occasions. The hike gains several thousand feet and takes at least two hours in each direction, so an early start to the outing is advisable.
A small island in space looking west from the Spire.
The climb begins with a 275-foot rappel into the spire’s notch. Descending this distance requires either two climbing ropes tied together or one exceptionally long rope.
From the notch, climbers use a second rope to ascend the spire, dragging the first line from the pine tree in tow. This first pitch features climbing rated at 5.10d, a level many gym climbers attain but which carries an entirely different meaning when leading 3,000 feet above the valley floor.
Atop the first pitch is the Salathe Ledge, named for pioneer climber John Salathe, who first climbed the spire with his partner Ax Nelson in 1947. The ledge is commodious enough to allow several climbers to sit comfortably. With its grand sweeping valley views, this is one of the world’s most spectacular lunch spots.
If you go, take advantage of it. You’ll need a good lunch because the next pitch is a killer 5.12d. The altitude and exposure magnify the difficulty, so everyone besides world-class climbers had better just forget climbing this without aid.
I lead this section on my second ascent, and though it’s fairly tame for good aid climbers, I found it airy and scary. Aid climbing is not my forte. Placing my weight entirely on my gear and the occasional bolt, I nervously pushed upward. On lead at that height, the slightest breeze felt like a gale, and every squeak produced by the bolts, gear and my shifting weight stopped my heart cold. “Super scary exposure,” I wrote in my guidebook that night.
After I reached the top, I secured the line for my partner Sean to follow. In no time at all, we stood together atop the spire, the first party of the day to summit. But what about the second team of four climbers following us? The sun was setting and they were nowhere in sight.
“We’re the only ones who will make it today,” Sean said. “That other party behind us just popped a bolt.”
Some fierce free climbing (or somewhat easy aid climbing) leads to the top.
Though a rusty bolt had held for me, the next climber’s weight ripped it from the rock, dropping him into a 20-foot fall. He wasn’t hurt, but their team had to retreat back the way they came. Until somebody replaced that bolt, climbing the featureless rock face it protected would be much harder and more dangerous.
Thankfully, seven bolts were available atop the spire to secure our ropes for the traverse back to the tree. Taking no chances, we utilized them all as we departed the spire and crossed the chasm using a variation of the Tyrolean technique. We reached the rim in time to see the alpenglow on the snowy peaks fade to darkness.
We donned our headlamps for the long walk back to camp, still glimmering with our own internal alpenglow from our day of postcard thrills.
Oct/091
Ice, Wind, Cold, and Sierra Cement
A little hardship makes for a ‘best ever’ Yosemite-to-Mammoth ski traverse
By Matt Johanson
Andy Padlo skis near Thousand Island Lake.
Photo by Matt Johanson
Four days into a 50-mile winter trek, our team reached a steep and formidable icy slope. We quickly recognized that this grade was our most hazardous obstacle so far, because to climb it we would have to risk a wild slide down an incline that would drop a skier several hundred feet below, and not at all gently.
Our four-man group – myself, my cousin Andy Padlo, our buddy Cliff DeYoung and his father Richard – was skiing from Yosemite National Park to the town of Mammoth Lakes, a trek we planned to complete in about six days.
Under a clear March sky on our fourth day, we approached 11,056-foot Donohue Pass, the highest point of our route. Once we reached it, a long, gentle descent would take us within striking distance of Thousand Island Lake. From there, we thought, one long day would take us to hot showers and a feast in Mammoth Lakes.
The icy slope was steep, but every other route to the pass was steeper, so there was little choice but to attempt it. Andy led the way toward safer ground, leaving only scratches on the hard ice that resisted every effort to gain solid footing on it. The rest of us cautiously followed, leaning into the incline, wishing we’d brought the ice axes and ropes that we left behind to save weight. That mistake could lead to a dangerous epic if a falling skier slammed into a tree or a rock in a high-speed heap.
Hut Full of Food and Beer
Mistakes and epic survival scenarios constantly occupy the minds of mountain travelers, especially in winter. Everyone makes mistakes, but nobody likes epics – except when they’re over, you’re still in one piece and you’ve got a riveting story to tell about a crisis averted. So the idea is to keep mistakes small, learn from them, and not let them spiral into trouble of epic proportions. We felt we had the experience (i.e. we’d learned from enough mistakes) to make the trek to Mammoth, the toughest winter outing any of us had attempted.
Cliff and Richard started the trip from Yosemite Valley, hiking and then skiing two tough days to reach Tuolumne via the Snow Creek Trail. This grunt of an approach features abundant trail breaking and an elevation gain of 4,500 feet. The DeYoungs and I skied this route in reverse on our first trans-Sierra trek three years earlier, but I found the uphill direction very unappealing.
Andy and I chose a slightly faster route to the hut from the east, starting near Lee Vining and skiing up Highway 108 over Tioga Pass. Skiers can make good time on this snow-covered ribbon of asphalt, but the 17-mile trek from the road closure to the Tuolumne Hut is no cheapie. After eight hours of hard labor, we arrived ready for a hot meal and a warm fire.
The DeYoungs reached the hut first and staked out our territory. The hut has ten beds and is available all winter at no charge on a first-come, first-serve basis. Another benefit of the shelter is the food cache area. Visitors can store food in the hut’s adjacent bin each fall for hearty meals in the winter. So besides the stove, lights and beds, we enjoyed a dinner of ground beef, mashed potatoes, cookies and very cold beer.
Members of the Yosemite-Mammoth team enjoy the view from the top of Donahue Pass.
Photo by Matt Johanson
‘Get Your Fat Ass on Skis’
Our schedule called for rest and recreation around the hut on the following day, and then a final weather assessment before we committed to ski to Mammoth. That leg of the trip worried me; the same route had denied Andy and me the year before.
We started from Mammoth Lakes that time. Our progress across San Joaquin Mountain was painfully slow. It was mid-April after a light winter and extended patches of bare earth forced us to hike in our clunky ski boots. We took our skis off time after time to hike through bushes and over talus, sapping our energy as well as our momentum. The conditions held us to a glacial pace for two days, until we called it quits and turned our blistered feet around. This aborted outing didn’t quite rate as epic, but it was no fun either.
A year later, a week of day trips from Tuolumne Hut sounded more attractive to me than another run on San Joaquin Mountain. Tuolumne has plenty of peaks to bag and there was little chance of an epic that way. The forecast we got via the hut’s pay phone predicted clear skies for several days. I also found some words of motivation in the hut’s log book, written by a visitor the previous year.
“Get out of your gas-guzzling SUVs and get your fat ass on a pair of skis, you average American,” the skier scolded his readers. “You can do better.” When I saw the author of this get-tough prose was none other than my longtime friend Cliff, I knew I’d have a hard time backing out of the Mammoth run. I could only hope that attempting the punishing terrain of San Joaquin Mountain again, not to mention the other as yet unknown challenges of the route, wouldn’t be a mistake we would all regret.
Stuck in ‘Cement’
Skiing south down Lyell Canyon along the John Muir Trail was supposed to be flat, easy and scenic. We had to settle for one out of three, as clouds obscured our view, and the heavy, sticky snow made progress slow and difficult. They call it “Sierra cement” for a reason. Did we bring enough wax? Fearing we hadn’t, we tried to stretch our supply as far as possible, though that meant dragging pounds of clumping wet snow beneath our skis for miles. This mistake, which became apparent as we committed to reaching Mammoth, did not fill me with confidence.
Camping in the low point of a canyon, which traps cold air like a pool of ice water, is a mistake we had made before, so we intended to climb part of the way toward Donohue and pitch our tents in warmer climes. But we underestimated the Sierra cement clinging to our ski bottoms. We might as well have been dragging anchors. The setting sun forced us to stop for the night just before beginning the climb to Donohue Pass, at more or less the exact cold spot we had planned to avoid. So we flattened the powder and dug in as best we could, climbing into our sleeping bags before the temperature plummeted.
A blue sky greeted us the next morning with the promise of a sunny day, but before the sun arrived, clear skies meant frigid air. Our thermometer read 0 degrees Fahrenheit. Tearing down camp and gearing up as quickly as possible, we raced against the numbness creeping into our hands and feet. We skipped breakfast, frenzied as we were to get moving and generate body heat, though Andy heated up some dried milk that we eagerly gulped down.
“Right now, I think I’d drink a cup of warm yak piss,” Cliff remarked through chattering teeth.
Snow clumps continued to grow beneath our skis, but we eventually reached Donohue’s final approach (only four or five hours behind schedule) and turned our attention to the icy slope.
Richard DeYoung powers his way toward higher ground and snow.
Photo by Matt Johanson
Under heavy packs, we kicked our skis down hard with every step to gain as much traction as possible and allowed extra space between each other on the dicey ascent. The last thing we wanted was one falling skier to knock down or injure two or three others.
Before long, we all reached the pass without incident. An exciting view of nearby Mt. Lyell and Banner Peak greeted us. To our amazement, so did hundreds of butterflies, the first living things (besides trees and each other’s stinky bods) we had seen in several days.
After snapping a few victory shots, we shoved off on the long downhill run that reminded me why we had come. I don’t mind climbing hills and hard work, but after averaging one mile per hour for the previous day and a half, I was ready for something fun, like gliding effortlessly down a three-mile slope. Instead of more cement, we found much faster snow. Completing the crux of the trek lifted the spirits of the entire team.
Deadman Blowing
A few additional challenges marked the trek’s last two days. Richard skied cautiously after a fall left him with a strained hamstring; we should all have such problems when we’re 64. Then, after camping near Thousand Island Lake, we negotiated a steep slope beyond its east shore that caused some anxiety but no avalanche slides.
Our return to San Joaquin Mountain was as grinding as I’d feared. The icy southwest slope is hard and slow to traverse; it defeated our hopes of reaching town on the fifth day. Instead, we built our last camp within sight of Mammoth’s lights and ski lifts, and Andy made the team a soup flavored with all our leftovers: chicken broth, garlic, tuna, cranberries, rice and buckwheat. “Here’s your ration, sailors,” he said, as he filled our cups. Ravenously, we licked them clean.
Three miles from town, the last obstacle is Deadman Pass, known for winds that are frequently strong enough to blow a dead man right off it, and perhaps even a live one. We estimated the gale blew into our faces at about 60 mph. Even keeping our feet was a challenge here, and forcing our way through it took much of our remaining strength.
But an hour later, we glided into the Mammoth Mountain Ski Resort, bursting with pride even as downhill skiers regarded our motley crew with gaping mouths. “Where did you say you came from?” asked one in disbelief. Before long, we sat around a table at a hofbrau, eating cheeseburgers, drinking beer and laughing.
Not Too Shabby
In the final box score, we had to record a few mistakes. But since they didn’t cause any epic trails, they didn’t bother us. Actually, we did quite a bit more right than wrong, like planning, route finding, and judging conditions correctly. Enough to get us to our destination, at least.
Toughness has to count for something, too. In all my years of skiing, mountaineering, rock climbing and distance running, I don’t think I’ve ever attempted anything more physically demanding than this trip. Yet better snow and more wax could cut the duration and difficulty in half. To better skiers, this trek is a warm-up for more challenging trans-Sierra crossings.
“It was the conditions that made it tough,” Andy said. “We had both ice and clumpy snow, and neither one is conducive to moving fast.”
Finally, we took a strong team, for which I was grateful, since it encouraged me to push my limits on this occasion.
“I think this was my best-ever trip in the Sierra,” Richard announced. Coming from a man who’s explored the mountains his whole life and named his son Cliff after a rock formation, that’s saying something.
Sep/092
Bachar Lived With Risks Shared By Many
Legendary free-solo climber talked about his near misses in interview just weeks before he fell to his death
By Matt Johanson
Bachar climbing in winter sunshine in the Owen's Valley River Gorge last January. Photo by Bruce Willey.
Ascending a sea of knobs on the steep west face of Yosemite’s Fairview Dome, John Bachar was enjoying a fine autumn day, cool and quiet without another climber in sight. As usual, he was free soloing, climbing without a partner, rope or protective gear.
His contentment quickly became alarm when, about 100 feet up, he spotted a terrifying flaw on his new route, which no one had ever climbed before: a knob of rock which looked too fragile to trust with his weight, but which he absolutely needed to complete his ascent.
“From the bottom, it looked really good. Then I got there, and after I stood up, I could see that it had this crack in it,” Bachar recalled. “It just looked like it was going to break. You might stand on it if you’ve got a rope, but soloing, you would never want to stand on it.
“The problem with knobs in Tuolumne is sometimes they break,” he said. “You never can tell. It can look totally good and then it will just pop right off. Soloing that stuff, it’s crazy. It’s dicey as hell. But I soloed a lot of it.”
In such a situation, Bachar normally would have exercised discretion as the better part of valor and simply climbed back down again. But on this occasion, he had made a difficult and irreversible high-step move just moments before. Climbing up was a life-threatening gamble. Climbing down was not an option at all. On the route Bachar later named “Solitary Confinement,” he felt trapped as if in jail.
“There was nobody out there, just nobody around. I could scream all I wanted and no one would ever have heard me,” Bachar said. “I wanted to just undo the high step and go back down, but I couldn’t. I was probably there for 15 minutes. It seemed like an hour. How can I get around this move? There’s no way. Finally I just had to gingerly step on the crappy knob, and reach the next knob.”
The dubious knob held, Bachar moved past it quickly, and completed the easier climbing above with the overwhelming relief and adrenaline rush of a man who narrowly cheated death.
“Normally when you solo and you conquer the rock, you feel good about it,” he said. “I didn’t feel good about this. I felt like I got away with something.”
Bachar described this scare at my request when I met him in June. I was collecting material for a book of Yosemite adventure stories, and though we had never met, he kindly shared a few when I called him out of the blue. But close calls were the exception, not the rule, for this world-class athlete. Bachar trained exhaustively and routinely shocked the climbing community with ropeless ascents of such routes as New Dimensions, the first 5.11 in Yosemite, the Nabisco Wall (5.11C), and the East Buttress of Lower Cathedral Rock, a “gnarly” 12-pitch affair more than 1,000 feet tall.
For more than 30 years, Bachar embraced the rewards and perils of free solo climbing, a controversial approach he defended when we met for coffee in Mammoth Lakes, which the Los Angeles native called home.
“On the one hand, there’s this incredible danger. If you fall, you’re dead after you’re 50 feet off the ground. But on the other hand, you’re completely safe,” he said, in reference to climbs within his ability range. “And there’s the feeling that you’re doing something that you shouldn’t be doing, or you’re in a place that most people never go, like being on the moon maybe … Free soloing has that sort of intrigue.”
“The other benefit is that you can do tons of climbing,” he said. “There’s no stopping for belaying. You don’t have stop to place protection. You don’t have a giant rack of gear with you. You don’t need a partner. You just walk up and climb.”
As a climber with just a fraction of Bachar’s ability and experience, I didn’t presume to debate him. Though part of me wished I had when, two weeks later, on July 5, Bachar fell to his death while free soloing at Dike Wall near Mammoth Lakes, where he had climbed countless times before. Because no one witnessed the accident, the exact cause of the fall isn’t known. He was 52, and left behind a 12-year-old son, Tyrus.
In wake of the tragedy, it’s tempting to conclude that free soloing is a reckless practice and unacceptably dangerous under any circumstances. With the consequences of a single mistake so severe and irrevocable, why would anyone take the risk? These thoughts certainly came to me when I read the awful news, accompanied by guilt for not challenging the bold position my new friend had expressed.
But upon further reflection, I realized that stark line of black-and-white reasoning doesn’t address the issue’s subtle complexity. Free soloists are a rare breed, but who in the outdoors community hasn’t assumed some risk? Skied a steep run? Biked without a helmet? Ran out a pitch?
Since I began the sport in 1994, the vast majority of my climbing has been in traditional, roped style. I’m cautious perhaps to a fault, with only a handful of leader falls in 16 years. Yet I’m sure that in my limited exposure, I’ve taken greater risks than Bachar assumed on Dike Wall during his final hour. So have countless others who have climbed, hiked, swam, crossed the street without looking, drove in excess of the speed limit or texted while driving. The fact that we walked away from these hazards shows that we got lucky, not that we’re any smarter or fitter than those who suffered accidents.
Climbing and other outdoor pursuits are central to the lives of many. These activities change for the better the lives of even those who sample them only occasionally. But without some danger, outdoor recreation as we know it could not exist. We need it to make us who we are. Defining acceptable risk is an essential and critical assessment that no one can make for another.
Bachar understood that. While the climbing legend extolled free soloing for himself, he knew it wasn’t right for most, and didn’t encourage others to emulate him. “Don’t scare yourself, and know your limits,” he said. “You’ve got to be really honest about it with yourself, or you’re going to get bit, big time.”
The heartbreaking fact that Bachar made a mistake and paid the ultimate price for it doesn’t make his thinking about these matters wrong.
—————————————
Matt Johanson is an East Bay high school teacher, freelance writer and author of “Game of My Life: Memorable Stories of Giants Baseball.” He enjoys hiking, climbing and skiing in the Sierra. Johanson welcomes contacts and suggestions for his upcoming book, “Yosemite Epics,” a collection of adventure stories involving climbers, skiers and others. matt.johanson@sbcglobal.net
Editor’s Note:
John’s friends and family have set up a living trust for Tyrus Bachar’s education and well being. Donations can be made via Pay Pal at tbacharlivingtrust@gmail.com or via check to:
The Tyrus Bachar Living Trust
Acopa USA/TBLT
2328 Jeanne Drive
Sep/090
John Bachar’s last interview?
Bachar climbing in winter sunshine in the Owen's River Gorge last January. Photo by Bruce Willey
“On the one hand, there’s this incredible danger. If you fall, you’re dead after you’re 50 feet off the ground. But on the other hand, you’re completely safe …
“The other benefit is that you can do tons of climbing. There’s no stopping for belaying. You don’t have to stop to place protection. You don’t have a giant rack of gear with you. You don’t need a partner. You just walk up and climb.”
Those are the words of John Bachar explaining the allure and logistical advantages of free soloing – climbing without a rope, a partner, or any protection other than your own ability.
They were spoken in an interview with ASJ contributor Matt Johanson just a couple weeks before Bachar, 52, died while soloing near his home in Mammoth on July 5.
Bachar was legendary for his ropeless exploits and the training he put in to accomplish them. In 1980, he was profiled on the TV show “That’s Incredible!” (the segment is available on YouTube), and he authored many first ascents both free solo and with gear in Yosemite and beyond.
“Don’t scare yourself and know your limits,” he told Johanson in late June. “You’ve got to be really honest about it with yourself, or you’re going to get bit, big time.”
Read Johanson’s article on page 20 in our Sept/Oct 2009 issue, or view it online. http://adventuresportsjournal.com/content/?p=66
Jan/040
Trans-Sierra Winter Trek
by Matt Johanson
As we gazed over Tuolumne Meadows and countless snow-covered pinnacles on the horizon, we saw not a soul and scarcely a sign that people had ever been there. It was hard to believe we were in one of the world’s most famous and popular parks, visited by more than 4 million people every year. To reach the 9,450-foot summit of Lembert Dome in summer involves an easy hike, but to earn that same view in winter we had to ski for two days to even get close, and then trudge upwards through several hundred feet of deep powder. We had carefully hiked the final steps over rock and ice to reach a patch of bare granite atop the mountain of snow . The amazing view from the peak was our reward. The whole point of visiting Tuolumne Meadows in winter is to be one of the few to enjoy the perfect tranquility and spectacular snow covered landscape. The amenities that summer visitors enjoy are scarce.
Crossing the mountains on cross country skis from east to west was our goal, starting in Lee Vining and finishing in Yosemite Valley. We spent five days in early April to cover 35 miles plus side trips. Our three-man team consisted of me, my friend Cliff DeYoung (both in our early thirties), and Cliff’s father Richard DeYoung, the fittest and toughest 61-year-old I know. We are all experienced if not expert skiers. We took many preparation trips, both in Yosemite and the Lake Tahoe area. On one trip, after a surprise storm buried our tent at night near Lassen Peak, I figured we were ready for anything.
Tioga Pass was our destination the first night—eight uphill miles from the winter gate east of Lee Vining on Highway 120. To our surprise, a crowd of people waited at the road closure for a ride from one of the few motorists with winter access: a driver for Tioga Pass Resort. Tioga Pass Resort, a privately-owned cluster of cabins just two miles west of Yosemite’s Tioga entrance is a convenient first stop for skiers crossing the mountains. Dinner, breakfast and a pick-up ride to the snow line are all included with TPR’s package, and we watched the truck’s driver take a pack of tourists up the mountain. We chose to forego commercial assistance and trek in alpine style, so we set off on foot under heavy packs, scoffing at the “softness” of the resort guests. Privately, though, I found little satisfaction in plodding up a paved highway in ski boots. Within two miles, Cliff felt blisters forming. An hour later, the pick-up approached on its final run.
“You guys wanna ride?” asked TPR’s driver Stacy Lewis. “You talked us into it,” I said. Stacy took us about two miles, from 7,800 feet to the snow line at 8,800 feet, and even offered to haul our packs in the snowcat the next two miles to the resort. That was going too far, we decided, and politely declined. We had four miles and about 1,100 feet of elevation gain between us and Tioga Pass. “We should make it to the pass tonight, shouldn’t we?” Richard asked. “If you don’t, you’ve got no business doing the trans-Sierra,” Stacy replied.
How Did You Get That Up Here? Skiing on good snow, we reached Tioga Pass Resort in an hour. A friendly crowd, warm fire, and the promise of a hot dinner tested our resolve, but we pushed on towards the pass, reaching
it in an hour. Normally, camping at the 9,943-foot pass would be inadvisable due to high winds, but the warm and calm conditions were inviting. For better or worse, this meant we would have access to a nearby pay phone,
half buried but operational. We spent a peaceful evening in our four-season tent, dining on soup, rice and leftover steak which we ate with bare hands right out of tin foil. Big, bright and countless stars filled the clear
sky, until a moon rose so bright it seemed to turn night into day.
It was only eight downhill miles from Tioga Pass to the next common destination, Tuolumne Ski Hut, a public cabin that serves as a campground office in summer. Near a host of exciting winter attractions such as Cathedral and Unicorn peaks, the hut provides shelter and modest comfort to up to ten skiers on a first-come, first-serve basis, at no cost . We arrived at 1 p.m. on our second day, claiming three of the four open beds. That evening, our fellow cabin guests put our meal of rice and noodles to shame with their dinner menu: beer, wine, salad, a hearty stew, and cheesecake. How had they carried such a backbreaking load? They took advantage of a large food locker provided by the park service. Many winter visitors cache non-perishable food during the fall, and we earnestly wished we had done so, though one friendly skier offered us his surplus pickles, olives, cheese
and salami.
Together the nine of us passed a pleasant evening. I called my wife on the pay phone and checked on the Giants, who had just swept three games from the Dodgers behind a barrage of Barry Bonds’ home runs. Women teased the men about snoring, and men stoked the fire hot enough to make a sauna of the cabin, trying to entice the women to disrobe. Sweating like a pig, I stripped down to my shorts. The women held tough.
“I can’t believe you can come here for free,” laughed Dave, chief fire-tender and an accomplished skier. Only a handful of people visited the hut in December, January and February, according to the guest book. On most nights, it was vacant. Many more came in March and April, and the cabin actually overflowed on our second night. Ten skiers slept inside and a family of four camped nearby. They did not seem pleased to spend a long night in their tent away from our warm stove.
Shall We Tell Them How Easy It Was? We relished the waterfalls and snowy granite domes of the trek’s fourth and longest day. We had grunted up many long hills by this point, but here I found the first technically
challenging skiing comprised of runs down long, shady ice slopes. We skied about two hours from the hut to an amazingly turquoise, frozen Tenaya Lake, where we paused to eat and refill our water bottles. We considered it important to rest and hydrate before Olmstead Point, a notorious avalanche hazard and the most serious obstacle of the trip.
The avalanche danger of Olmstead Point became clear as we approached. Facing into the sun, its steep slope seemed to be 40 to 45 degrees—a perfect combination to encourage snow slides. Sure enough, the trail of a previous avalanche crossed our route directly. A cause for concern, it had motivated me to attend a basic avalanche safety seminar prior to our trip. On the bright side, fresh snow had not fallen for more than ten days. Still, we took basic precautions. Before entering the hazard area, each of us tied on an avalanche “tail,” a thin, 50-foot length of rope. Should an unexpected snow slide bury one of us, the others could quickly find him as long as they could find any part of the tail. Resolving to move quickly, I led at double time, followed by Richard and Cliff. As we crossed the hazard, I wondered what I would do if the slope were to suddenly slide. Turn downhill and try to escape the avalanche? I doubted the plan would work, but the alternative of being buried alive was even less appealing. Five breathless minutes later, we reached more level terrain, where we relaxed and admired the view of Tenaya Peak, Tenaya Lake and Polly Dome. Olmstead Point also boasts an awesome view down Tenaya Canyon and a unique perspective of Half Dome. From a short distance past Olmstead Point, skiers must leave Tioga Road for the first time and either follow Snow Creek Trail or devise another route to Yosemite Valley. After camping near Mount Watkins, we started this descent in earnest on the fifth and final day. Though mostly downhill, this leg of the trip can be the most difficult because of inconsistent snow and the challenge of route finding. We took our
first falls on snow that was sometimes icy and fast, and other times slushy and slow. After a few aggravating hours of trudging over downed logs, boulders and snow patches on a steep grade while trying to reacquire the trail, we reached bare earth again and hiked down the switchbacks near North Dome. Despite fatigue, our spirits rose as we completed the last leg of the journey back to civilization.
“Are we going to tell everyone how easy it was?” Richard asked. The Trans Sierra is not always easy, though. Conditions for us in early spring had been nearly perfect, but good weather and snow are never guaranteed. A foot of fresh powder would have made our work twice as hard, and every one of our warm-up trips had been far more difficult. Only strong and experienced skiers should even consider a trip like this. Help in an emergency will be unlikely. If you’re ready for it, though, there’s no finer backcountry skiing in California. “My only regret,” Cliff said, “is that we didn’t do this a long time ago.” Catching the bus at Mirror Lake, we enjoyed our trip across the valley like a victory lap.
