Giants Reaching for the Sky

As the winter winds down, spring gives way to new adventures in California. It is the season for bigger peaks, longer days, and exploration. There is no other place that I would rather be than the Sierra Nevada, especially after a season of record-breaking snowfall during February. The mountains were plastered, my thirst for adventure was high, and a fierce hunger to be entwined by the jagged peaks of the East Side could not be ignored. This is what I look forward to every ski season. And there is something undeniably special about exploring your home range with some of your best friends. Our bags were packed with four days worth of food and gear prepped for a hybridized fashion of approach, including pickets, cams, and ice screws.

The crew of friends – Christian Pondella, Jim Morrison (Jimmo), Nick Russell and myself – hoofed up the valley into the North Fork of the Palisades. This particular part of the range is rather jagged and furrowed with dark rock and high mountains containing the highest concentration of 4,000-meter peaks in California. It is positively beautiful with high alpine lakes and the giant rock cathedral of Temple Crag. My smile grew bigger the further into the mountains we went, feeding the hunger and quenching the thirst. We walked by the light of our headlamps, a few miles up valley to our camp near the snow line beneath Temple Crag, an ideal location on dry ground with freshwater and no wind.

I snuggled into my sleeping bag with high anticipation and looked up in search of a shooting star. Soon enough, a shimmer pierced the dark sky and disappeared as fast as it came. We didn't wake up too early the next day, letting the sunlight hit the tent and warm the boots while we made coffee and packed our gear before setting off towards the Palisade Glacier. Despite the heat of the sun, the snow maintained its firmness as we got higher. Approaching the base of Polemonium Peak, we discussed our options and decided on booting up a line called V Notch, a 50 degrees chute. As we changed over from touring to booting, it was evident that the snow was of a wintery character and the skiing would be ideal.

The top pitch was steep, my body standing vertically against the wall of snow, knees and chest inches off the surface. Pondella always says, "it's as steep as it's icy." While it wasn't particularly icy, a fall would still be a detrimental mistake. The steepest line I have ever skied was 57 degrees, and I couldn't imagine going much steeper terrain unless conditions were perfect. It felt extremely vertical, but today the 50 degrees still classified as adventurous and exciting, yet very fun. On the way down, the walls of the couloir flew by, the snow from every turn making noise as it moved quickly next to me as I descended. This is my favorite part, the part that I am not willing to make sacrifices on my gear to enjoy.

I carry my big mountain skis on my back to the top knowing that the extra weight is always worth it as I am all about the way down. The entire adventure that day, Nick obsessively studied the lines around us. Nick and I are the same age. We've been mountain partners for some years and have primarily sought after lines in the Sierra together. He is addicted to hiking and riding lines. So am I, but his addiction is more apparent. He is unstoppable, and it's infectious in the most alluring way. Jimmo and Pondella are our patriarchs. They have over twenty years of experience as mountain partners, and their wisdom is a gift and joy to be around. Pondella and I have a special relationship.

He is the first photographer that I call when I want to climb and ski mountains. His capability to capture beautiful photographs requires an unmatched set of skills. Back at camp, we pondered what to do the next day. The answer was clear: hike up a mountain and ski down. It's what we do; it's what we know; it's who we are. Before bed, I caught a glimpse of yet another star dancing above the peaks and disappearing into the darkness. We reached the base of Thunderbolt Peak and stared up an unnamed couloir that didn't reach the summit, but we could connect the dots with a little rock climbing. The steep couloir branched to the left and right near the top of where the snow met the rock.

We went left to wrap around the corner to see what obstacles lay ahead in between us and the exposed shelf of snow clearly cliffed out on every side. This was absolutely a no-fall zone. As we climbed the snowy face, conditions continued to get better. Nick and I met eyes and giggled with excitement. As I looked over my shoulder, all I could see was the fall-away of the face over a three hundred foot cliff. I continued upward with care in every step. Up top, I took a moment to appreciate where we were before I dropped in. Perhaps we were the first ever to ski this line. I actually don't care much about being the first. I don't head into the mountains to conquer anything but my very own limits and fears.

It's more of a personal thing, something I share with only the mountains and myself. It's a delicate dance with the mountains taking the lead. I listen, learn, and follow, and sometimes the mountains let me twirl my skirt on the summit harnessing every breath of wind that kisses my face. As I skied down, the sun reflected in the snow. Sometimes I could catch a glimpse of a rainbow in the water droplets as the light refracted and dispersed in the spray. This run was a divine encounter with the mountains. We rappelled the rock face to the next patch of snow. Back on solid ground, we chased the light to the bottom and skied back to camp. An internal celebration ensued, grateful for the day and the thirst and hunger for adventure satiated. Physical energy spent, but mental energy gained, this righteous place will forever be a part of me.