Eastern Sierras
I find the concept of an entirely human powered, self sufficient trip into the mountains to be incredibly seductive in a world overrun by instant gratification and ease of access. To burn my own energy and engage in the succinctly subversive act of dragging myself up mountains and sliding down them. I like to tell myself that I am learning and growing with each day spent chasing the uncomfortable, surrendering to external elements, but there is something inherently useless about it all. I summit a mountain, conquer a goal, ski a couloir, but the world is none the wiser. How am I making a difference? With each day spent in the mountains, I learn something new, bettering myself, which in theory, I am able to implement in my day to day. Although the act in question is not outwardly beneficial, and can be perceived as innately selfish, I am thoroughly convinced that pushing myself allows me to grow as a person and be more effective and mature in the “real world”.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I make my way up an unmarked road in the Eastern Sierras. The early spring sun illuminates the expansive basin, and I cast a long, alien shadow on the hill in front of me. Skis strapped to my bike, I mash down on my pedals, navigating the rock garden some call a road winding toward the ever looming mountains. My ski binding rubs on my inner thigh, drawing blood, but I am not in the mood to rearrange my load. Riding until I can’t, hiking until I can ride, I make my way up to the late season snow line. Accompanied by an eclectic duo, Landon and Simon add the perfect light humor to an otherwise heinous morning.
Exchanging bike shoes for ski boots, I feel as if I am in my element again, relieved that I can finally physically see the task at hand. The skinning is relatively easy in the morning chill. My ski crampons crunch into the bulletproof layer of snow, allowing me to traverse the hillside with relative ease. We eventually arrive in the couloir, kick turning our way up until it seems more efficient to boot. The sun is completely up now, and the snowpack is rapidly warming. As am I. I strip down to just a sun shirt and unzipped pants, put my head down and set the booter up to the summit.
The monotony of booting at altitude plays games with you. I quickly resort to counting my steps: an incredibly inefficient and mentally taxing approach. I start with a fifty step goal prior to resting. This eventually diminishes to ten steps as I near the top. Crampons biting into the fifty degree choke at the top of the California classic, “Bloody Couloir”, I top out, immediately overwhelmed by the vast beauty of the Sierras. The deep blue sky contrasting the never ending peaks blanketed in white almost appears fake. Filled with gratitude for opportunity, fitness, and means, I sit down to wait for my friends. The day is warm, the rocks flat, and the morning long. I quickly doze off into one of the better naps of my life. The boys quickly arrive and we transition for our descent back to the bikes, and then back to the car.
The skiing is steep and variable, but such is the norm for ski mountaineering. Long, arduous ascents, and typically shitty descents. Why is this our sport of choice? See initial thoughts. Short, thigh burning jump turns eventually turn into wide, thigh burning turns and we leapfrog down to the bikes, gearing up for yet another wild descent. We eventually make it back to the car, immediately discussing burritos, beers and hot springs. What a joyous life we lead.
