Skiing a High Route Through the Sierra Nevada

Dry whiffs of sagebrush streamed through the open windows of the pickup as the three of us, clad in shorts and T-shirts, headed north along U.S. 395 toward the high-desert town of Independence.

The road ahead, wonderfully lonely at 1 a.m., was arrow-straight and lined with Joshua trees.

North of Mojave, the dark mass of the Sierra Nevada began to loom higher, closer. We began to see small patches of what we hoped was snow on the tallest peaks.

Was it snow or bare granite? Tough to tell with no moon.

It was early spring and we were on our way into the Owens Valley to ski across the Sierra.

California’s Sierra Nevada is a range of superlatives. More than 400 miles long, it covers an area greater than that of the French, Swiss and Italian Alps combined. It’s the longest continuous range in the conterminous United States, and also the highest.

Dark clouds crowded the sky as we rolled past Mt. Whitney, the highest point at 14,494 feet. By the time we pulled off Route 395 at Independence, all we could see was a narrow strip of dirt road fading into darkness. The stars were gone. The mountains had disappeared.

At dawn we get our first glimpse of our intended route over the Sierra Crest. The highest peaks along this section of the range soared more than 10,000 feet above the Owens Valley floor. This first view, stunning as it was, was also discouraging. We were there to ski, and there was virtually no snow in sight.

We drove about eight hours from San Francisco to ski what has become a classic backcountry tour. Simply called the “High Route,” it follows a line that crosses over the backbone of the High Sierra--from the desert floor of the Owens Valley in the east to the giant trees of Sequoia National Park in the west, a distance of about 35 miles.

The route entered the High Sierra through Shepherd Pass, a notch in the fortress-like eastern wall of the Sierra Crest. Once over Shepherd Pass, the route stayed above 10,500 feet for several days.

Few trees survive at this elevation. During the winter there are no flowing streams, no visible lakes, no trails. The route is unmarked. Navigation was by map and compass using major peaks and ridges as guideposts.

The high alpine country stands transformed by snow and ice into a world of radiant blue and white light--an arctic landscape framed by serrated ridgelines of bold Sierra granite.

Our surroundings at the Shepherd Pass trailhead the first morning were somewhat less than arctic. There was a cactus about three feet from my sleeping bag. The hillsides were covered with sagebrush and sand, instead of snow. And there was a lizard sunning itself on our pile of skis.

We started up the trail in shorts, our foreheads wrapped in bandannas to hold back rolling beads of sweat. Six hours later we began to question the sanity of hiking up a dusty desert trail in ski boots, carrying skis, poles, ice axes, crampons, shovels, and pounds of cold weather clothing toward a promised land of snow.

We had been told the High Route was best skied in late April or May. We decided to try it in early April, due to the season’s meager snowfall.

Just as we began to wonder if we should have gone in March, or maybe February, we turned a rocky corner and . . . snow at last.

Towering above us, all the while hidden from view by a high ridgeline, was Shepherd Pass in all its icy glory.

It took us all day to reach the snowline from the desert below. We were anxious to get our skis off our backs and onto our feet. But instead of climbing the high pass in late afternoon, a time when avalanche gods are the most rowdy, we set up camp just short of the notch. It was one last chance to camp on warm, dry gravel before stepping into winter.

The next morning we started off early, before the sun hit the peaks above us. The snow was frozen solid. The front points of our crampons barely made a mark. Very little danger of an avalanche at that hour.

This plan of attack became an accepted ritual. If in our travels we would reach the base of a steep pass late in the afternoon, we would stop, make camp, and wait for nightfall to consolidate the snow, starting our climb early the next morning before the sun has a chance to loosen things up.

Shepherd Pass was steeper than expected. Our knees hit the snow with each step upward. Shards of crusted snow and ice were sent whizzing down the slope as we planted our ice axes between kicked steps. This was going to be as much a mountaineering route as a ski route.

At the top of the 12,000-foot pass, the view opened up across the head of Kern Canyon to 13,641-foot Milestone Mountain. Square miles of untracked snow laid waiting at our feet. It was time to unpack the skis and cut loose.

The five-mile, mostly downhill run to the rim of the canyon was fun, though a bit dicey; skiing with full packs was going to take some getting used to. The air was cold and the sun intense.

One minute we were chattering across the tops of crusted, wind-sharpened suncups. Sort of like skiing over a giant cheese grater coated with ice.

The next minute a sun-warmed hollow grabbed our skis like glue. Moving along at a good clip, our skis suddenly slow on the warm sticky snow, our bodies, propelled along by the heavy packs on our backs, continued on their way. The end result--a perfectly executed face plant.

Between the suncups and the soft stuff was Sierra corn snow. Each day, the spring sun warms the snowpack, coating the individual grains of snow with water that refreezes at night. The grains get larger as they are coated and recoated until they look like kernels of corn.

Tight, smooth turns are effortless on the ball-bearing like surface of good Sierra corn. We were tempted to climb back up and ski the good spots again--but this was only day two. The long haul up the dry side of the range quickly faded from memory.

Our first high camp was on an airy ledge on the rim of magnificent Kern Canyon. The surrounding landscape was absolutely still, locked up tight until summer thaw. You can look 20 miles down a canyon this time of year and know that it is utterly empty--wilderness in the true meaning of the word.

Late in the afternoon we encountered a steep drop-off packed with deep, sun-softened snow. Dangerous to ski, impossible to down-climb in boots.

Each ski-less step buried us waist deep in wet slush. The only way down was to try a zig-zagging ski traverse, executing a buttocks arrest at each end.

When an obstacle such as a tree, rock or cliff presented itself, or when an unsafe velocity was reached, we sat down and firmly planted our posteriors in the snow.

We reached the base of Milestone Pass too late in the day to climb it safely, but too early to just sit in camp. It didn’t take long for a diversion to present itself.

Directly above our tents, the finger-like spire of Milestone Mountain pointed skyward in a single 1,500-foot sweep of granite. I decided to ski to its base and poke around.

Before long I was halfway up a steep rock wall, anxious to find a foothold big enough for my clown-toed ski boot.

The view from the top was incredible. Rocky summits perfectly outlined in the sharp, clear air stretched away in every direction. It was nearly dusk--magic hour in the Range of Light.

The tallest peaks caught the last orange rays of the sinking sun and burned with alpenglow. Behind the glowing summits, a pastel sky separated into horizontal bands of rose, blue, then violet. The first star sparked on, reminding me that it was time to start down and return to camp for dinner.

Once over Milestone Pass, we followed the crest of the Great Western Divide to Triple Divide Peak and frozen Glacier Lake. Beyond the lake, the route dropped over what appeared to be a sheer wall into Cloud Canyon.

We tied our skis onto our packs, strapped on crampons, tightened the wrist loops of our ice axes and inched our way across an uncomfortably exposed slope above the canyon rim. The snow was hard and glazed.

We all made it across, but the fun wasn’t done. A short but airy pass on the far side of Cloud Canyon led us onto a knife-edged ridge. We walked along it to a point where we could look down into upper Deadman Canyon.

Ahead was a wide-open bowl with a three-mile downhill free-for-all to the next pass at Big Bird Peak. After side-slipping on the edges of our skis down to the head of the canyon, we pushed off and glided for 25 minutes, nonstop, to the far side. Sweet payback for all the uphill work.

Beyond Big Bird we crossed the Tableland, an open expanse of rolling ridges and flat plateau at the headwaters of the Kaweah River. We were still above 10,000 feet, but we could see dark green trees below along the banks of the Marble Fork of the Kaweah. Perfect corn snow slid beneath our skis across Table Meadows.

As we descended, the air began to get noticeably thicker. For the first time in several days, we actually smelled something. Up high the air was thin and sterile; ice, snow and granite don’t smell.

Down low the air was suddenly rich with pine resin and the musky odor of sun-warmed tundra grass. We took long, deep breaths.

Soon we left the open slopes behind and were sking through timber and the first shade in days. We played follow-the-leader through tree-lined slalom courses until rocks and fallen trees began to poke through the thinning blanket of snow.

We finally ran out of skiable snow just below the Pear Lake Ranger Hut in Sequoia National Park. It was time to pack the skis and hoof it.

Three hours later we stepped onto pavement at the Wolverton Ski Area parking lot. We had been shedding layers of clothing on the way down, and we were back to shorts and T-shirts.

There was no sign of snow. The ski area had shut down months earlier. People walking by found it hard to believe that we had spent the last six days on skis. Most of them would probably drive through the park without seeing as much as a remnant roadside snowbank.

After eating we hiked out of earshot of the road, rolled out our sleeping bags on a soft bed of sequoia needles and fell asleep looking up at impossibly huge trees.

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The High Route can be skied using either Nordic or Alpine gear. A typical backcountry setup uses lightweight, metal-edged touring skis with stiff-soled leather boots, which are attached to the ski at the toe.

For information on guided High Route tours, contact: Rock Creek Winter Lodge, Route 1, P.O. Box 5, Mammoth Lakes, Calif. 93546, (619) 935-4464; Alpine Expeditions, P.O. Box 1751, Bishop, Calif. 93514, (213) 624-7156, and Sierra Ski Touring, 45 Montgomery St., Markleeville, Calif. 96120-0038, (916) 694-2466.

For lodging in Lone Pine (16 miles south of Independence), try the Dow Villa Motel, complete with a view of Mt. Whitney and a year-round hot spa. Rates: $48 double, $42 single. Call toll-free (800) 824-9137. Or the Frontier Best Western: $38 double, $34 single, (800) 528-1234.

Recommended dining spots include the Sportsman’s Cafe, 206 S. Main, and the Bonanza Family Restaurant at 104 N. Main.

For accommodations in Independence, there’s the Circle V Trailer Park & Motel; rates, $29 single/$34-$40 double. Call (619) 878-2313. And Stan’s Union 76 & Motel, $32-$35 single/$45 double. Call (619) 878-2100.

Independence has two good restaurants right on U.S. 395: the Pines Cafe and the Courthouse Cafe.

For lodging in Sequoia National Park, there’s the Giant Forest Lodge, a quarter-mile north of Giant Forest Village. The lodge has motel-type accommodations for $51 to $83 single or double (depending on the season), or rustic cabins with baths for $51-$66 single or double.

There are also two-room cabins available that sleep up to six for $83. For reservations, call (209) 561-3314.

The Giant Forest Lodge Dining Room has menu service and a special dinner buffet option. Cafeteria-style meal service is available at the Village Cafeteria in Giant Forest Village.

For more information about the High Route, read David Beck’s “Ski Touring in California” (Wilderness Press, $11.95 in paperback).