Rick and I have been wanting to "go big" for some time now. We've been throwing around ideas: I really want to ski Basin Mountain, and climb the 4th class route to the top; he wants to hit Scheelite Couloir in good conditions; Williamson with the longest ski run in the Sierra Nevada at 8,000ft has been high on the list.
But with a weekend of warm temperatures behind us and a few days of cooler temperatures, we were guessing that the skiing would not be that great. We started looking at the high peaks to the south -- high because the snow might be more well preserved, and south because it might get just warm enough down there to soften up the snow at lower elevations.
Reasonable, but still kind of shooting in the dark. So we decided to look for a peak based on the climbing, not the skiing per-se.
Josh, a ski patroler and avalanche forecaster for the Eastern Sierra Avalanche Center, decided to join us. This rounded out our group demographic quite nicely. Rick is a local ER nurse, and then there's me, a burgeoning mountain guide. A group well-seasoned enough to have matured beyond the ego that often afflicts groups of athletes, and well-equipped in backcountry decision-making tools.
We decided to try Mount Langley -- 14,026ft just to the south of Mt. Whitney. It is the Sierra Nevada's southernmost 14,000ft peak. Clarence King summited it thinking he was summiting Mt. Whitney. Oops. From certain angles, they do look a little alike.
Actually, Mt. Whitney was only a name at the time -- the name of the highest peak once they found it. So this was not it. And it was named Mount Langley.
It is one of the easier 14ers in the summer, with a relatively easy trail right up to the top and only 4,000ft of elevation gain.
Winter is another story. On a scale of 5 in difficulty, it gets a 4 in the Falcon guide. The northeast couloir, our objective, is not too steep, but enough to keep you interested. And from where you have to park below the snowline, it is at least 6,500ft of climbing.
This day, it was about 7,200ft. Big day.
We cruised up the south fork of Tuttle Creek, making great time despite clothes-lining ourselves with the skis protruding from our backs, and making friends with the grabby willow trees.
The alluvial fan below the couloir had been blown over for days, and developed a very slick surface with a thin layer of drifting snow over it -- perfect for slipping and losing a step or two for every five.
We finally reached the base of the couloir, and put the skis on our back again. Perfect boot-packing conditions up the couloir.
And that would be the last time we could use the word "perfect," or anything similar.
The summit was cool and only a little breezy. Obligatory summit photos and register-signing, and the skis were back on the feet.
I opted for the south-facing, less-steep chute off the summit to access the couloir.Side-slipping was very fast on the ice. I made several downhill kickturns in lieu of making any real turns, and thus keep my speed under control. I was in full-on survival ski-mode.
We all breathed a sigh of relief when we met at the top of the couloir. Now for some decent turns!
Nope!
The snow was packed firm by the wind, and textured into bathtub-sized grooves by the same process.
Chatterchatterchatterscratch! And repeat.
Two turns down. Forty to go. Then we'll be in the alluvial fan. The snow is sure to be better down there.
And it was. Sort of. It lasted less than 10 turns, and we found the ice again.
Indeed, the day had not been warm enough to soften the previously-softened and hardened snow, so it just remained as ice.
But once we got into the trees, we were sure to find some nicely preserved snow in the north-facing trees.
And we did! In pockets barely even big enough to make one turn without hitting the crust again.
It was an exercise in managing the over-the-handlebars sensation as snow conditions rapidly changed, making tight turns, falling-leaf side-slipping (backwards and forwards), and when all-else failed, reverting back to one of the safest and most controlled turns: the stem-christie (otherwise known as the pizza-french-fry turn from when you were 5). Survival skiing at its best.
Or worst?
The best snow we encountered was perhaps the thin, watery stuff at the very end of the day along the trail, in between bouts of dirt and rocks. No joke.
We reached the car (before dark, remarkably) and found the beer we stashed in the nearby snow. Cold beer never tasted so good.
An excellent day, despite how awful it was. We all agreed that we couldn't remember the last time we skied in such horrid snow. Indeed, the only thing consistent about the snow on this day was how consistently terrible it was.
But it was a good experience, and we were stoked to have pulled off such a big day.
As for me, I was just glad to be 7,000 feet under, and not six.
Yes, you were supposed to laugh at that.***All photos by Josh Feinberg***
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