Feb/120
Dale Bard: “In the dead of winter”
A selection from the new book, Yosemite Epics: Tales of Adventure from America’s Greatest Playground, compiled by ASJ contributor Matt Johanson.
In the mid-70s, renowned “dirtbag” climber Dale Bard decided to take his first backcountry ski trip — a big one, some 250 miles along the Sierra Crest, in mid-winter with friend and wilderness ranger Nadim Melkonian.
Over the next 44 days, they were pummeled by heavy snowstorms, narrowly escaped avalanche burial and courted starvation. But it was all part of a grand adventure, according Bard.
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A fixture of Yosemite in the 1970s, Dale Bard became famous for both his bold climbing and his frugal lifestyle. Bard lived in a converted bakery van and sustained himself on peanut butter and potatoes for weeks at a time, earning kudos from Climbing Magazine for perfecting the “dirtbag” lifestyle. Though with first ascents of Half Dome’s Bushido and El Capitan’s Sea of Dreams and Sunkist routes to his credit, the climber wrote his name indelibly in the record book.
Bard describes in glowing terms a formidable ski trek that most would consider a grueling ordeal. With companion Nadim Melkonian, the 23-year-old outdoorsman set out to trace the John Muir Trail in January of 1976. Expecting good weather and fast conditions, the pair planned to finish in three weeks. But storms repeatedly pounded the skiers who survived multiple avalanches and dire food shortages on a journey more than twice as long as expected. —Matt Johanson
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“We kept skiing, but all hell broke loose at Muir Pass. A huge storm nailed us and pinned us down for three days.”
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When I was young and foolish, Nadim Melkonian and I took a fairly extensive ski trip through the mountains, about 250 miles. We had planned to go in the dead of winter, because I was a knucklehead and wanted a true winter ski tour. We did the High Route from Sequoia National Park to Yosemite Valley. We came in on the west from an area called Panther Gap, over the Sierra to Mt. Whitney, and then we grabbed the John Muir Trail, sort of, because of course you can’t see it in winter.
I wasn’t supposed to ski with Nadim, but his partner bailed out on him. Nadim was bummed and moping around. He had already cached all this food along the route. So on a lark I decided to go with him. I had no gear, so I went down to the mountain shop and bought everything I needed. At that time, I had an alpine skiing background, not any cross country skiing experience per se. The only downside was the equipment was so different. But once you know how to ski, you just go skiing. I got on a pair of Atomics, truly skinny, metal-edged skis I had to repair multiple times on the trip. We left on Jan. 20 and planned to take 21 days. We were gone 44.
At the time, Nadim was the Snow Creek Cabin ranger, which was most helpful. We got to use a lot of the wilderness rangers’ cabins along the way to stash our food. Every once in a while, we actually got to spend a night in a cabin, which was cool. We had one the first night, and one by Charlotte Dome, and another by University Peak. So for a while it was almost like hut skiing, and we got spoiled.
We made it over Forester Pass before we got nailed by the first storm. We were on schedule, moving fast. We thought it would be no problem to make 15 or 20 miles per day. Then once we got over Forester, four feet of snow dumped on us. We kept skiing, but all hell broke loose at Muir Pass. A huge storm nailed us and pinned us down for three days. We pitched our tent inside the John Muir Hut, a stone structure there which kept us out of the whiteout. But we were running out of food and had to get to our next cache.
More than 12 feet of snow came down in two days. We were breaking trail chest-deep. This is pre-GPS and we got totally disoriented in Goddard Canyon. It got dark and we were still in whiteout conditions. We set up our dome tent in a grove of trees. You could just hear the avalanches kicking down all around us. We heard this one come down pretty loud and the walls of our tent started getting spattered. An avalanche produces quite a gust of wind.
Later, Nadim looks at his watch. Even though it’s pitch black, he says, “Dale, it’s 8 in the morning.”
I say, “That’s ridiculous!”
We unzipped the door of the tent and there’s a wall of snow there.
What happened was the avalanche broke up as it hit the trees but still buried our tent under five feet of snow. We had to shovel the snow into the tent to dig out, and then we had to dig the snow back out of the tent again. We had just one small snow shovel so that took a couple of hours.
It was really hilarious and we kept laughing at each other. We were totally lucky and dodged a bullet. We were just far enough out of the avalanche’s path. As I look back on it, we should have died. Obviously we were idiots as far as avalanche awareness goes. The next day a second avalanche buried us up to our knees.
At this point, we were getting very close to not making it. We survived on one tea bag and half a stick of butter for three days. We were way off course and finally we had to break into this dude ranch. We were so hungry and when we broke in there was a jar of peanut butter on the table. Neither one of us could open it because our cold hands didn’t work. So we sat in the hot springs there and salivated over the jar until we had the strength and the coordination to open it.
Inside the ranch there was a 55-gallon drum full of food sealed up for the fall. We opened it up and resupplied and that enabled us to get to our next food cache. If we hadn’t made it to the dude ranch, I think it would have been pretty critical. I left a note with my address saying what we had done and to contact me for damages. I left $10 I had with me. They saved our asses so I figured it was the least I could do.
Ten more feet of snow dumped while we were there. Finally the weather cleared and we left the ranch. Then this helicopter came cruising by us. There were a lot of rescues going on in the mountains at that time because the storm caught a lot of folks unprepared. The pilot held a hover and asked, did we want a rescue? We said, “Hell no, we’re fine!” By that point we were absolutely determined.
And so we went on to our next food cache, which was 20 feet down in the snow. We dug down and got that and kept on skiing. In a way, I hated it when we got to a food cache. It bummed me out because I’d have a beautiful light pack, and then when we got the food, I’d have to carry 45 pounds again. But every cache had a little treat, like Oreos or M&Ms, so we knew we’d get something special and that made us happy.
On a tour that long, you get used to it, kind of like big wall climbing. You get up in the morning and ski until dark. At the end of the day, you make camp and do your chores and go to bed. Then you get up and go again. It’s like a 9 to 5 job.
We were caught in more storms and whiteouts after that. It was a pretty epic year. We ran out of food again. We managed to come in behind Mammoth Lakes. There was another hot springs area that had a cabin, and we broke into that and got more food. There was a pay phone there and though we had no money, I called collect and luckily reached my girlfriend Janet. By this time we were 20 days late and everybody thought we were dead. So she was glad to hear from me although she was mad at first.
We got nailed by a horrendous storm on the back side of Mammoth and contemplated skiing out. I looked at Nadim and said, “We’ve been fighting for this trip the whole time, and there’s maybe 45 miles to go.” He looked at me and we agreed to keep on going. We wanted it and by that time we had skied almost 200 miles. What’s another 45? It seemed like a mere pittance. We were just three days from Tuolumne even with the trail breaking we had to do.
The weather broke and we had some blue bird days. Finally we hit Tuolumne Meadows. We were out of food again but knew of the wilderness post up there. We really surprised the rangers there when we pulled up. “Where are you coming from?” they asked. When we told them, they looked at us like we were nuts. Anne Macquarie and her husband Chas took such good care of us. They made us this wonderful meal with fresh bread. We stayed two days there. We were in heaven and didn’t want to leave.
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“At this point, we were getting very close to not making it. We survived on one tea bag and half a stick of butter for three days.”
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Then we just skied back into the Valley. It was very surreal when we got a little bit below Snow Creek Cabin. When we put our skis on our packs and hiked on dirt, that was a very interesting thing after so long in the snow. And it was just weird to see people again. I went to see Janet at the restaurant in the Valley where she worked as a waitress. By this time I was sub-100 pounds. Everyone looked at us like we were ghosts or something. Janet dropped everything and ran over and put a wet one on me in front of the entire restaurant. Then she sat me down and fed me. I had a craving for hot chocolate and whipped cream. I must have had ten cups of that stuff in a row!
Next spring, I’m in Yosemite and I got a letter in the mail from the dude ranch people. The note said they were glad to help out and they returned my $10!
I never looked at it as life-threatening. It was something where we persevered. Nadim was a good partner to hang with, real solid. I learned a lot about skiing and became a better skier. I was such a knucklehead back then. I thought I was invincible, so I did stupid tricks all the way through the trip in steep, scary bowls. I look at those bowls today and there’s no way I would do that again.
As I’ve told many people, I don’t plan an epic. I didn’t plan this to be an epic. Sometimes you’ve just got to work through it. It was just a good adventure and fun to be out there.
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Ironically enough, Dale Bard, the one-time self-described “idiot of avalanche awareness,” is now the chief operating officer for Ortovox USA, a leading maker of avalanche transceivers, shovels, probes and backpacks. Though known mostly for his impressive rock-climbing exploits, Bard is also a talented skier who ticked some fearsome first descents in the Eastern Sierra, including the classic Cocaine Chutes above Tioga Pass. And yes, he’s the brother of the late Allan Bard, a well-known mountain guide who died while climbing the Grand Teton in 1997.
Sep/110
New Half Dome Hike App
Former ASJ contributor Rick Deutsch, just released a free iPhone and Android phone app as a companion to his popular book “One Best Hike: Yosemite’s Half Dome.”
The app provides users with info on the interesting things to see on the Half Dome hike. Included are a trail map and 19 points of interest, with detailed text and narration of key spots on the hike, along with vintage and current photos to help interpret the history of Yosemite’s signature landmark.
The app also includes a video of ascending the cables and an interview with Royal Robbins, the first person to climb the 2,000- foot vertical face of Half Dome in 1957. Additional narratives and other clips will help motivate you to do the hike.
To download the new free Half Dome Hike Guide:
1. Search for “EveryTrail” in the Apple App Store or Android Market as appropriate. Click on the FREE> slider. (The Pro version provides enhanced map features for a fee.)
2. Create an account within the EveryTrail app on your device.
3. Search for the “Half Dome Hike” GUIDE in the app and click download.
Aug/110
Leave Your Burdens Behind: Fastpacking in Yosemite
The author feeling unburdened in the Yosemite backcountry. Photo by Meghan M. Hicks.
With a small pack and willing feet, it’s easy to escape Yosemite’s summer crowds
Story and photos by Meghan M. Hicks
On this hot August afternoon, Yosemite National Park tourists course like a herd of sweating turtles on the paved path leading to iconic 2,425-foot tall Yosemite Falls. Scanning the faces of this streaming tableau of vacationers, I see it all — joy and awe, discomfort and heat exhaustion, feigned happiness and teenage boredom.
I work as an outdoor educator and it’s my job to provide these folks with opportunities to get up close and personal with the park’s natural features. With games and activities, I try to pique the crowd’s interest in learning about the waterfalls they’re about to visit. These visitors want little more from me than a drink of water, someone else to entertain their child, or to not lose their spot in the moving mass.
I don’t blame them, can’t blame them. They are among the 4,047,881 people who will visit Yosemite in 2010, what will become the most-visited year in recent history. I struggle to enjoy moments like these, too. When my work shift ends, I shrug out of my uniform, grab my friend and coworker, 21-year old Bekah Henderson, and a little backpack, and make fast for the wilderness. I will seek refuge and renewal out there.
Though I carry a backpack into Yosemite’s backcountry, it’s light and lean in comparison to the average backpacker’s burden. We turn our toes up the trail into a welcome evening chill settling around our skin. Bekah and I, two friends with wild hearts and muscled legs, begin a three-day, 50-mile fastpacking journey in the Yosemite backcountry.
Fastpacking, the art of traveling light and fast through wild spaces, is backpacking’s skinny cousin. By carrying lighter gear and less of it, fastpackers move speedily and with generally less duress than a heavily-provisioned backpacker.
Our packs are so light that we’re able to run up the trail for a few hours and a few thousand feet until it’s just us and our headlamp beams. When we call it a night, absolute darkness has dropped into every corner of the sky. We pitch an ultralight tent on a rocky platform above 10,000 feet near Parker Pass, southeast of Tuolumne Meadows. We level our heads to our foam sleeping mats, then watch stars blaze like lighthouse beacons until sleep overtakes us.
In theory, Yosemite has room for almost everyone in its granite-and-evergreen girth of more than 760,000 acres, a land area about the size of Rhode Island. But most visitors spend their time in the park’s developed areas, and more specifically, the seven square miles of Yosemite Valley. A super-sized majority centers its vacation around this tiny corner of this huge park, an admittedly spectacular divot in the earth but one that suffers from all the ills associated with a concentrated over-abundance of humans and their vehicles.
Summer, of course, only exacerbates the problem. Last year, 60 percent of Yosemite’s tourists visited from June through September, just a third of a year. On a typical August day, more than 20,000 people wander the valley, putting its population density on par with some major American cities. Welcome to the wild, America. File along now.
Meanwhile, most of the park’s land area is true wilderness, devoid of human influence besides the occasional trail. Virtually no one goes there, though. Yosemite National Park reports that only three percent of park visitors spend a night in the backcountry.
If the night sky was lit up with dreamy wonder, then the morning view of the red-rock amphitheater in which we unknowingly camped is a visual revelation. When Bekah catches a glimpse, she jumps from her sleeping bag and runs around on the rocks, pumping her fist like an excited sports fanatic. Under the morning sun, I see and feel that both of us have recovered from the harried pace of the humanity we left behind.
We make coffee and clink plastic mugs to the mountains encircling us. Our breakfast is brownies, dense and hearty, which we consume while giggling like kids with a secret. Once we’ve packed camp, we shoulder our 15-pound packs and hoof it uphill. The trail dips momentarily into a series of ponds and a creek. Here we purify a liter of water each to hydrate us as we cross Koip Pass.
At the top of this 12,500-foot pass, we’re well above treeline and can’t find much of anything resembling life. Instead, we’re surrounded by a sea of softball-sized rocks and a view so far we can see the curvature of the earth. The air is thin enough to breed headaches, but the view so good that we debate whether or not this is the most amazing spot we have ever stood upon. Neither of us picks favorites well, so we dive-bomb the descent from the pass at a good runner’s clip.
Below us, the broad valley containing the strung-out series of Alger Lakes is filled with waves of colored wildflowers, like a smeared painter’s palette. The faster we run, the stronger we feel, and so we are among the flowers in no time. Lunching next to Waugh Lake, we fire up the stove for hot food and wade thigh-deep in the water.
Refueled and refreshed, we run and hike until early evening, mostly on trails, with a few off-trail exploratory miles here and there.
Our second night’s camp perches roughly 100 feet from a cliff face in a vertical world. A thousand feet below the cliff, the upper reaches of the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River makes its gravity-driven voyage. I know this not because I see it, but because the rumble of its tumbling waters echoes off the cliffs.
After dinner, I survey our campsite: a tiny tent, two small backpacks, two pairs of running shoes, and little Bekah saluting the sunset with some yoga. In this last light, the world turns rusty red and Bekah says what I am thinking, “We have nothing, yet, everything.” Gentle human companionship, immersion in a beautiful place, and some tasty food are, it seems, all it takes to put us in a state of bliss.
Despite the fact that only a smidge of Yosemite’s millions of visitors spend a night in the backcountry, due to their shear numbers some of them are bound to hemorrhage into select wild places. Indeed, some of Yosemite’s higher profile backcountry areas are seeing traffic like never before.
Faith Hershiser, a 60-year old Yosemite lover from Bellaire, MI, has visited the park dozens of times. “Back in the day, we would see no one on a hike from the Glacier Point Road to Taft Point (a famous viewpoint into Yosemite Valley). Not anymore. It gets more crowded each year.”
Jeff Halsey, a 26-year old Fresno resident and Yosemite frequenter, concurs. Of the park’s Mist Trail, one of the routes leading from eastern Yosemite Valley into the park’s deep wilderness, he says, “It can be unpleasant when sharing it with too many people who don’t show respect for wilderness.”
The third day of our wilderness journey dawns with pink sunrise light on Mount Ritter and the other jagged peaks west of our campsite. We wait for it to arrive to our cold cliff top by scooting around like epileptic inchworms inside our sleeping bags. Our movements are awkward but effective, and we manage to eat breakfast in cozy warmth.
When the sun reaches our camp, its radiant heat feels like a miracle as it heats us from the outside in. Powered by the sun, we stuff gear into our packs and hit the trail. Waist-high wildflowers lean into the path, and their dew on our thighs serves as a second wake-up call.
Our journey winds down in Devil’s Postpile National Monument on the backside of Mammoth Lakes. The monument’s trails are thick with tourists, from fly fishermen headed to their lucky holes to football-sized dogs on purple leashes. Humanity, once again, lays a heavy hand on us. We come to rest next to a lazy eddy of the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River, where we reflect upon our experience.
“Fastpacking should, inherently, be hard,” Bekah says.
She’s right, any trip in which one travels a long, wild way necessitates physical and mental endurance. Yet we feel more refreshed and invigorated by our journey than worn down. We agree that the throngs of tourists at Yosemite and here at Devil’s Postpile deplete us more than the endurance requisites of our trip. In this moment, I’m starting to understand that less somehow means more.
Over the last 50 years, visitation to Yosemite National Park has essentially quadrupled. Visitation first hit the one million mark in 1954, two million in 1967, and three million in 1987.
Last year marked Yosemite’s first year since 1996 — the year the park achieved it highest level of visitation with nearly 4.2 million visitors — that visitation crested four million.
The park has developed some decent coping mechanisms for dealing with its wicked popularity. Of note in Yosemite Valley is a free shuttle bus system, about two-dozen miles of paved paths for pedestrians and cyclists, and rangers who direct traffic through the valley’s most congested intersections.
Like most national parks, Yosemite uses a backcountry permit system to control the number of people venturing into the wilderness. Last year, the park instituted a day-use permit system for Half Dome, an abundantly popular chunk of what some might consider backcountry.
And this summer, they’re experimenting with a park-and-ride bus from the tiny town of El Portal outside the park’s west entrance.
Nothing’s perfect, though, including the way humanity is managed in Yosemite. I’ve seen traffic jams, collisions among cars, cyclists, and pedestrians, overworked and stressed employees, wildlife clobbered by speeding drivers, nasty cases of road rage, and tourists just plain struggling to enjoy themselves.
“It’s not uncommon to be gridlocked for 30 to 45 minutes in Yosemite Valley,” says Jeff Halsey. “This overcrowding can be frustrating and prohibitive of the right we all have to experience the park.”
Faith Hershiser hasn’t let the crowds detract from her visits. “Attitude is everything,” she says. “I’ve adopted tunnel vision. I just see Yosemite, not all the people, and I almost feel alone.”
I can’t help but think that Faith’s optimism would benefit almost everyone who visits the park, including me.
After returning home from our fastpacking trip, I read the words of famed explorer and conservationist John Muir. He made epic-distance forays through the Sierra Nevada with only a wool jacket, a loaf of bread, some tea leaves, and his journal. He was a fastpacker long before the sport had a name. About these trips, he said, “Only by going … without baggage, can one truly get into the heart of the wilderness.”
I’m confident that Muir was referring to leaving behind both literal and figurative baggage. As I read his words, I also understand that this is precisely why some four million folks visit Yosemite every year: for a few days, we all want to leave our burdens behind.
In spite of the efforts that Yosemite’s administration has made to reduce overcrowding in the park’s frontcountry and select areas of its backcountry, the problem remains. Just ask Faith, Jeff, and the folks with whom I shared that jam-packed path to Yosemite Falls. Nearly everyone who’s visited Yosemite during the summer in the last 20 years has a story about people, too many people.
When the National Park Service was established by Congress in 1916, it was endowed with the mission “… to conserve the scenery and the natural and historic objects and the wild life therein and to provide for the enjoyment of the same in such manner and by such means as will leave them unimpaired for the enjoyment of future generations.”
That is, the National Park Service’s job is to protect the natural resources of parks like Yosemite so that visitors of the past, present, and future can enjoy them similarly.
Whether the Park Service will continue to be able to achieve that mission with the crush of visitors Yosemite attracts is debatable.
But if you’re willing to carry a small pack into Yosemite’s wilderness, there’s little doubt you can find the same sort of respite about which Muir wrote.
Meghan M. Hicks is a writer and outdoor educator who now calls Park City, Utah home. From 2008 to 2010, Meghan worked in Yosemite Valley and spent much her free time exploring the 800 miles of trails in Yosemite National Park.
Navigating Yosemite’s Crowds
When it comes down to it, Yosemite is a must-see national park. It will wow you with its granite topography and, at certain times, its waterfalls. When you do go, follow these tips for navigating the crowds:
- Start early. Hit the hot spots before Yosemite Valley gets cooking around 10 or 11 a.m.
- Pack a day pack and wear good walking shoes for self-contained sightseeing. Include food, water, a rain jacket and a camera.
- Go straight to the valley’s Day Use Parking Areas, then use the free shuttle bus system.
- Use the middle hours of the day to visit the valley’s secret spots, like the cemetery and the unpaved trail connecting Mirror Lake and The Ahwahnee.
- Venture to the park’s other natural attractions beyond Yosemite Valley.
- Bring your patience and a low-key attitude.
A well-stocked bear canister. Photo by Meghan M. Hicks.
My Fastpack
In fastpacking, bring what you need to be comfortable, and not much more. For example, I can wear the same clothes every day for a week, but I’m an unhappy camper when cold and hungry. In exchange for extra clothes, I bring a warm sleeping bag and lots of food.
For every trip, the composition of my fastpack varies based upon terrain, climate, and what I share with my traveling companions. Here are the main components of my Sierra fastpack:
- Inov-8 Race Pro 22 pack with included hydration bladder
- Big Agnes Copper Spur UL2 tent
- Western Mountaineering Highlite sleeping bag
- Small square of foam sleeping pad long enough to pad my hips and shoulders
- Jetboil stove
- Aquamira water purification chemicals
- Cloudveil wind jacket
- Moonstone ultralight down jacket
- Under Armor tights
Note: Bekah carried our bear canister, a required piece of gear for the Sierra Nevada.
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.
