Fool City Guys : Some Came to California for the Sunshine. But a Few Came With New-Fangled Skis to Explore the Sierra Slopes

The development of skiing in the Sierra Nevada more or less paralleled other winter-sports areas in the country--with one exception. California had been promised as the land of perpetual summer, and it took the state Chamber of Commerce some time to admit that California ever had snow, anywhere.

First published in 1931 and reprinted with permission from “Voices for the Earth: A Treasury of the Sierra Club Bulletin,” edited by Ann Gilliam.

It was in the winter of 1919-20 that a small group of enthusiasts put about to find suitable skiing country in the Sierra Nevada of California. Up to that time skiing had been for the most part of the 8- or 10-foot pinewood variety, with primitive toe-straps--merely a means of locomotion for the lumbermen and railroaders of the Sierra. A few initiates may have penetrated the Tahoe region, a few boys may have performed some jumps at Truckee’s snow carnival for the delectation of trainloads of metropolitan excursionists, or a very occasional knight-errant of the ski may have appeared for a snowy day; but skiing--the great and glorious sport of ski mountaineering--was practically non-existent in California.

So at least we were led to believe when two of us alighted in the snowsheds from the train at the old Summit Station one chilly morning at 5 o’clock with our Norwegian skis and sticks. A huge fellow occupied the little station room, spat on the remaining bit of floor and remarked, “Going to ski?” “Yes.” “Them sticks ain’t no good, you want a big pole”; for the Sierrans were wont to ski forth with a single pole, acting as brake, hobbyhorse, or balance, as the occasion demanded, much after the manner of the old Zdarsky one-stick method of the Austrians. Little did he guess that with these small skis and dainty bamboo canes it was possible to turn, swerve or stop, at a speed of 40 m.p.h. an hour and over, avoiding obstacles, shooting between and around trees, in a glorious flying descent of perfect control.

Out of deference to my companion, who was a novice, we spent the first two days in a secluded spot of the woods. On the third day, however, the writer climbed to the cliffs behind the railroader’s settlement and “let her go,” oblivious of everything but the sinuous flight down to a whirling stop. He was greeted by loud hurrahs and shouts from the various houses and shacks half-buried in the snow; for it was Sunday and railroaders were at home. As they afterward confessed, they had watched the “fool city guys” climbing to the cliff with some amusement, and had hoped they would break their necks. Sturdy skiers though they were over long distances and in any weather, they had never seen such turns or even imagined the possibility of their execution. That afternoon they shyly dropped in on our host, Bob Agnew, on various pretexts, incidentally casting a glance at our skis and bindings. Later we heard a sound as of hammering from the neighboring cabins and before long saw them sally forth on quite modernized skis. . . .

In 1921 the writer’s better half, on her first arrival in California from Sweden, was greeted at Summit by 14 feet of snow and a boxful of orange blossoms. On that occasion, while skiing from Mt. Lincoln to Mt. Anderson and Tinker Knob, my wife and I saw in the light of the setting sun the opalescent glint of Lake Tahoe. To reach Tahoe across the mountains became our dream, the realization of which had to be postponed to a future occasion.

In 1926 the broad-gauge made it possible for the first time to go directly to Tahoe . . . . On this occasion we had a rarely beautiful tour, skiing west from the Tavern up Ward Creek to Ward Peak, from the top of which we dropped down north to Bear Valley and so to the Truckee River. The cliffs were aflame in the setting sun as we shot down in the shadow of the peak into the blue depths beneath us. The snow on this cold northern slope was so dry and powdery, and, except for a slight hiss, our descent so noiseless, that we became aware of the swiftness of the descent only through seeing the blazing crags to our right rapidly rise and thrust upward into the sky. After what seemed an endless series of downward shoots, punctuated with sharp turns and stops, panting, we reached the shadowed floor of the valley and its gentler slopes. The flaming cliffs were now high above us. With wings on our feet we coasted in gentle curves between the trees and into the starlit night. . . .

My wife and I decided to carry out our cherished dream of crossing the mountains from Summit to Tahoe at the next opportunity. In 1927, one morning before daybreak, “the little woman,” as the linemen called her, Scott Smith and the writer started from Summit for Lincoln Saddle, which we reached as the sun was rising. We had decided upon the route to be followed from previous tours . . . and from the Geological Survey maps of the intervening portions. Due to the small scale of the maps, we were left largely to our own resources to find the route that would entail the least loss of altitude and of time--for it was imperative to reach the floor of Squaw Valley before nightfall. The trip took 15 hours, including one half-hour of reconnoitering and one half-hour’s rest. The distance covered was between 30 and 35 miles.

The first two hours from Lincoln Saddle took us underneath and past the wind-swept cornices of Mt. Lincoln and Mt. Anderson. At this early hour of the morning there appeared to be no danger from slides. Toward noon we lost altitude by being forced to descend into a cirque on the north side of Anderson. This was bad enough in itself; but when it began to thaw we wondered whether we should ever reach our goal. Hopeless though it seemed, we began the very hot and tedious climb up to Tinker Knob through abominably sticky snow that stuck a foot deep to our skis. The advisability of giving up the trip before it got too late was discussed. However, as we gained altitude and the shadows grew longer, the snow became less sticky, and at 4 o’clock we finally looked around Tinker Knob at our next objective, the watershed between the North Fork of the American River and Squaw Creek. We traversed the south slope, where the granular spring snow permitted us to swing along at a good speed, while the Granite Chief range, radiant in the afternoon sun, kept pace to the right. Just to our left, and seemingly within our grasp, cadmium-colored cliffs pierced a deep-blue sky. We had hoped that the descent from the watershed to Squaw Valley would prove to be a skier’s reward for our previous labors. But, alas, after the first few excellent runs across wooded slopes, we found the head of Squaw Valley to be broken up by a maze of boulders and cliffs. Time pressed; so good form was thrown to the winds. We slithered and skidded between the rocks any which way until our bones ached . . . and reached the valley floors as night fell. . . .

In Europe the appreciation of winter in the mountains was not born until the latter part of the 19th Century. It took some years for people to overcome their traditional attitude toward winter--let alone the mountains in winter--namely, that of a necessary evil, to be put up with at best one could in the shelter of towns and well-heated homes and relieved only occasionally by the pleasures of ice skating. One need but cast a glance at any part of the Alps today to realize how totally the picture has changed and how the joys of winter have taken Europe by storm. One cannot but believe that the same will occur in California. It might be argued that the Californian has no need for this--indeed, Easterners come to the Pacific Coast to enjoy our balmy, snowless winter season. Yet, as variety is the spice of life, so also is it health-bringing, and there can be no question that for us lowland Californians, a truly seasonal change, such as is offered by the snows and altitudes of the Sierra, is a priceless thing.