Here are some more old ski photos. If Part One could be titled
“The RMRU Years,” then Part Two should be called
“Fear & Loathing in the High Sierra.” Bernie McIlvoy and I were as thick as thieves through most the Eighties, each spring romping up and down the Eastern Sierra in search of the finest backcountry lines it could offer. Never a dull moment. Just point the tips downhill and go.
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Aspendell, 1985: Bernie initiates a tailgate party after a romp up to Lake Sabrina. Spring skiing in the Eastern Sierra became our Holy Grail: Secluded alpine bowls; immaculate corn snow; and an abundance of sunshine.
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Lake Sabrina Road, 1985: Hitchin’ a ride back down to the car—only there wasn’t anybody driving by, because the road was closed. When Bernie and I had skinned up this road early that morning, most of it was sheathed in a few inches of snow. What a difference one hot April day can make! We skied all the way down from Piute Lake in shorts and T-shirts.
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Onion Valley Ranger Station, 1985: Relaxing in front of the cabin stove, not a care in the world—at least none that I can remember. Bernie and I had driven up Onion Valley Road until snow halted our progress. We then hiked and skied the final three miles up to the ranger station, finding it locked up for the winter. I figured we’d sleep on the porch—we never packed a tent—but Bernie said: “Hold up there, mate.” Dropping his pack, he scaled up the side of the A-frame cabin to a second-story window
(solid V0), and finding it unlocked, crawled inside. We stayed here two nights, underscoring our trip with an avalanche-prone tour up to Kearsarge Pass. And yes, we cleaned up our mess
(note broom in background), leaving the cabin tidier than we found it.
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Kearsarge Pass, 1985: Bernie makes the final traverse up to the 11,760-foot pass. A hefty spring snowstorm, followed by a heat wave, had created perilous avalanche conditions, obliging us to avoid the best slopes. But on the run back down, one particular bowl was so enticing that Bernie couldn’t resist dropping into it. And as he was carving his second turn,
Crrrack!!—a slab the size of a basketball court broke loose. He was able to ride it down, to where it stopped a few hundred feet below. But then later, we both triggered another one. We couldn’t wait to be off those slopes, and shared a sigh of relief when we were back at the Onion Valley Ranger Station. Not that this place was any safer: The very next winter, a big avalanche nailed the cabin, reducing it to a debris field of toothpicks and mortar.
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Mammoth Mountain, 1986: After a few days in the backcountry, Bernie and I would sometimes stop in at Mammoth for some downhilling. Bernie is a rare breed, the real deal: one part Hunter S. Thompson, one part Edward Abbey, a splash of Jack Sparrow… From his point of view, life is one big road trip—and sometimes you don’t see the gist of the adventure until you’re coming ‘round the bend.
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Sawtooth Ridge, 1985: A nice view up Horse Creek Canyon, with Twin Peak
(12,323 ft.) in the distance. Sawtooth Ridge is my personal Nirvana for backcountry skiing. You can spend a week up here and not ski the same line twice.
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Sawtooth Ridge, 1985: Taking a late-afternoon break in Horse Creek Canyon. Bernie and I had planned to ski the East Col of Matterhorn Peak, but a late start and icy conditions got in our way. Wisely we bailed.
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Travertine Hot Springs, 1985: After two astounding days on Sawtooth Ridge, Bernie and I hiked out and grabbed dinner in Bridgeport, where our waitress, bless her, provided directions to a hot spring outside of town. She was at first reluctant to divulge its location—it was primarily a local hangout back then—but Bernie promised to leave her a generous tip. And so it was, after considerable time driving around in the dark on bumpy cattle roads, we came upon a hot spring—more of a mud pot, really. Bernie started muttering about the big tip he’d left for the waitress, and to assuage his dour mood, he opened another beer and popped Stevie Ray Vaughn into the tape deck and turned up the volume. About then, headlights came around the bend and pulled up next to our vehicle. It was a Sheriff cruiser. Crap. The deputy rolled down his window; asked: “You fellas looking for the hot springs?” Turned out, we’d passed it, two hundred yards back down the road. We kindly thanked the deputy, relocated our camp, and spent the remainder of the evening in one of the finest hot springs along the Eastern Sierra. Early the next morning, Bernie snapped the photo above. Sure can’t beat the view.
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Twin Lakes Roadhead, 1987: The trail to Sawtooth Ridge starts in the trees behind the bait shop, and ascends up the hillside into Horse Creek Canyon. Matterhorn Peak
(12,279 ft.) can be seen in the distance.
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Sawtooth Ridge, 1987: Spring skiing in the High Sierra resembles a beach scene at times. I wonder what ever happened to that kamikaze shirt?
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Sawtooth Ridge, 1987: Bernie relaxes at the top of an un-named col. The downhill fun will begin soon enough.
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Sawtooth Ridge, 1987: Bernie skis down one of the upper bowls of Horse Creek Canyon.
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Tamarack Bench, San Jacinto Mountains, 1986: I crawled out of my bag at dawn to snap this photo of our bivouac. J.R. Muratet, Bernie and I slept under the stars that gorgeous night, during an RMRU winter training weekend. Although I was no longer active with the team, I occasionally would join my old comrades on a training exercise here and there.
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Shangri La, San Jacinto Mountains, 1988: My daughter Heather
(nine years old here) poses next to an igloo that I help build the prior weekend during an RMRU winter recon. The two of us had packed a lunch and took the Palm Springs Tram up for a day of x-country skiing. Fun times. Heather was as tough as nails, which was a good thing. I had her out on downhill skis at age 6, and three hours later she did her first intermediate run
(which ended in a face plant). At age 13, she ticked off her first, bona fide black diamond at Mammoth. One thing I didn’t do was raise wallflower girls.
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San Jacinto Peak, 1989: Kevin Feldman takes in the view from near the summit. It was one of those crystal-clear February days, when you can see all the way to Mexico
(that's the Salton Sea in the distance). Kev and I had done a lot of downhill skiing together, so I knew he’d take to alpine touring easy enough. He borrowed spare gear from Bernie; then we set off for San Jac.
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San Gorgonio Wilderness, 1989: Rick Sharbinin poses for a photo with Old Greyback. After giving the San Gorgonio backcountry only cursory attention for years, it was suddenly on my radar screen. In the distance is the righteous north face of San G, arguably the best ski run in SoCal.
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San Gorgonio Wilderness, 1989: Rick makes quick work of the slopes in Little Draw. We spent a long weekend skiing on corn snow in the high country bowls. Rick, a magnificent skier, moved to Ketchum, Idaho soon after this trip, and has been a Sun Valley local ever since. As for me: this trek into the San G wilderness opened my eyes to the incredible descents off its high peaks and ridges. The potential lines were too many to count. But I was determined to ski every one of them.
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TO BE CONTINUED…
