SPORT REPORT : Snow Summit Sans Snow

There is no snow at Big Bear right now, but there’s still a 15-minute wait at Snow Summit’s ski lift 2: A long Lycra line of bikers snakes down the hill from the ticket-taker’s booth. I join them, wheeling my mountain bike, and glance at the waiver I’ve just signed. Words in bold capitals jump out: “STEEP AND DIFFICULT TERRAIN . . . SERIOUS INJURIES . . . FALLS AND COLLISIONS . . . DEATH.”

Four guys, body armor on their arms and legs, come whizzing off the mountain, ride past the booth to the lift. Their bikes are fully tricked out, drenched in decals and splattered with mud; their baggy shorts are dusty and streaked with the marks of sudden earth impact. They look fried, abused and ecstatic. Flashing their all-day passes, they board the lift. I get on a few chairs later.

It’s a 15-minute ride to the top, a time of nervous anticipation mixed with the shock of the mountain’s beauty. My bike dangles on a hook on the chair in front of me while a hundred feet below, maniacs race down the ski runs and bike trails, rooster tails of dust trailing as they skittle and slide. In a few weeks, it’ll be snowboarders and skiers carving this nearly vertical drop to the bottom. But for now, for this brisk fall day, the mountain belongs to bikes.

At the top of the mountain, the four downhill racers are at the start of the precipitous Log Chute Trail. They disappear from view, like a rock dropped into a dark well, and their screams come echoing back. My own descent is less radical though still rugged: A ride on a Forest Service road that takes me past Grand View Point to the Pine Knot Trail, a single-track trail hemmed in by Jeffrey pines, manzanita and Indian paintbrush. It careens through silent woods, past an empty campground, over bike-tossing moguls and up the banks of sudden curves.

Too soon, I’m down.

It’s just $7 for a trip to the top, $16 for an all-day pass. Last year more than 20,000 bikers rode Snow Summit’s 60-plus miles of trails and fire roads. For bikers who have seen trails closed in state and national parks, this is fat-tire heaven, a place to carve, grab big air, fly downhill with no brakes.

I return to the head of the line, flashing my all-day pass. My face is streaked with dirt and I smile at the line of still-clean innocents, holding their waivers in their hands.