A State of Mind

Three explorers, united in mutual desire, meet in the high desert of the Eastern Sierra Mountains to accept the challenge of navigating through colossal terrain and in an extreme environment. This quest will bring them together, or break them apart. Christian Pondella is the de facto leader, documenter, and local (to the extent you can consider anyone a local of these mountains). Forrest Shearer, the lone boarder from Utah, is hungry for terrain. Lastly myself, a young buck with skills developed in the mountains of Wyoming, looking to test that skill set in a new mountain range. Risks are accepted, research and route options considered, all that's left is setting out to adventure.

Like mountain goats, we will travel through the Sierra spurred on by curiosity and imagination. The Owens River Valley borders the eastern side of the mighty Sierra Mountains of California. It is high desert in the valley, around 1,980 meters and can be +21 degrees Celsius in the winter. The landscape comprises sagebrush, rocks, and dirt. You will find little else in the valley, but look upwards and white peaks announce themselves, luring a snow rider upwards into a dream world. We start in the brush wearing t-shirts, our packs overloaded with gear and a five-day supply of food and fuel. The skis and boards strapped to our backs feel out of place without a spec of snow in sight.

We know, however, that if we hike high enough we shall find a landscape more suitable to our needs. Christian Pondella is dialed into this mountain range and very capable of moving through it. He beasts his way up the mountain looking to tap into the "Range of Light." It was John Muir who first described the Sierra as this, and it is most likely why Christian has made it his home. The light is truly unbelievable, not the sort of thing you can describe. You must be in the mountains to get the idea because it's like seeing a color you didn't know existed. This spectacular light will stop you in your tracks, force you to observe in awe.

Somewhere between 1,980 and 3,500 meters we hiked, bushwhacked, forded a nasty creek, and skinned in the heat of the day. The going was rough, but by nightfall, we found a suitable campsite in a morainal basin below Cardinal Mountain. Our relief of dropping the heavy packs was great. The following morning, we arise from needed sleep sore and weary. It's the light that lifts us out of comfortable sleeping bags and into our boots. The couloirs surrounding camp beckon us. We will climb and ride as many as possible despite the soreness. Split Couloir is a striking gash dividing the massive buttress of Split Mountain (4,286 meters) into a rideable couloir. Though hidden from most views, a brief glance will pique the interest of any ski mountaineer.

A closer look reveals a very long, very steep pitch, numerous sections of vertical ice, and poor rock for anchors marking the adventure with multiple unknown factors. The unknown means it's a real adventure. This is what we came for. We find ourselves skinning up to a ridge and then descending into a new basin, where we would resume skinning upwards again. We reach the base of the couloir in a few hours and are confronted with the first vertical ice. Christian leads the way. We work together to build rap anchors along the way and soon find ourselves away from the ice and into wintery snow. We boot pack onwards and upwards, taking turns setting the path.

After multiple days high in the Sierra, we eventually find a new dimension of reality, a state of mind, in which we do not think with words but with movement, reduced to thinking with our bodies and senses, pure action. We stop for food and water as needed. Communication between members of the group can be as simple as a head nod. What we do discuss with words is avalanche danger. We talk to each other about how the snow feels and what we perceive as the level of threat. In this couloir several years ago, two seasoned and well-known ski mountaineers died in an avalanche. Christian knew them personally. Thoughts of them and countless others who have perished in the mountains weigh heavy on our decisions.

We push on intuiting that the snow is safe and testing our intuition with experiments in the snow. I came here to be so immersed in an action that future and past do not exist. I imagine this is the way of animals, reacting to the present situation, no right or wrong decisions, just doing. It is in this state of mind that I perform at my best. It is also a state of mind that is so focused that it makes the adventure hard to recall. I mostly remember the wind having its way with us, pushing so hard that gusts would topple you over, and you could only move forward during a lull. In fact, the wind was powerful enough to drop you to your knees, making our time at the summit short-lived and a little stressful despite the panoramic beauty.

I do not remember the actual skiing part so much, but I'm sure it was fantastic. To me, what matters is that the movement was pure, and we made it through safely. Back at camp, over twelve hours later, guided by the light of the moon we retreat into our down bags barely able open eyes or move fingers. We muster enough energy to prepare dinner, and after a few calories come laughter and rejoice. We are spent, and we are happy. Starting and finishing in the dark provides an experience through the full spectrum of light, dark, subtle, soft, vibrant, bright, and then reversed. It is a magical thing. The romantic side of me wants to live every day like this. Then the wind breaks my heart. A storm is brewing, and we are out of food and stove fuel.

The reality means we must head down, away from the magical light and back to the sagebrush, and buildings, and people. It can be depressing, but it's also a relief. I'm happy to head back to the lady I love, delicious food, a hot shower, and the comfort of comforts. When I'm ready for spectacular light and adventure, the Sierra will be there.