Doug Robinson

I did three crossings over the High Route in the springtime of (what I think was) 1985. First I guided a group east to west, spending the usual week up there and leavin

g behind a nice track through corn snow. I especially liked the way it cut a high contour, drifting for miles above 11,000 feet, and rolled like a dream across the tops of those two otherworldly cirques out to the west — Cloud Canyon and Deadman Canyon. Killer.

Marty Hornick met me over in Sequoia after my clients departed, dropping from the alpine zone into the nearly-unbearable sweetness of orange blossoms in the Central Valley. Marty had worked at Rock Creek Winter Lodge for years while I lived two miles upcanyon; we were good friends and trusted ski partners. He was the most active “speed tourer” in the Sierra at the time (though I think only two or three of us even cared). Marty’s special obsession was Rock Creek to Mammoth. Door to door of the touring lodges, weaving over the Sierra Crest four times. He had refined the route for several years while whittling down the time, and no one even tried to touch his record of 7:58. It took me six days with strong clients.

The biggest, gnarliest speed tour anyone seriously considered was the Sierra High Route. Well, actually we heard that a couple of Outward Bound instructors had skied the entire John Muir Trail, some 250 miles in under 8 days. We were awed, but couldn’t find out much about their amazing record except that one of them had big regrets about choosing to do it on XC racing skis. Bela Vadasz had recently skied the High Route from Pear Lake hut all the way out to the east in something like 18 hours. That inspired us, too, but we felt strongly that the full High Route should be roadhead-to-roadhead, and Bela had cut off six miles and a couple thousand feet of climbing.

Marty wasn’t sitting around; he had branched out while I was guiding the High Route and skied from Mammoth to Yosemite in 13:01. But along the way, skating across Thousand Island lake before dawn, Marty had tightened down his Snowfield boots a wee bit too much and bruised the instep of one foot. So when he drove all the way around the Sierra to meet me he was hobbling, and begged off of skiing along. That left me by myself.

I shoved off at 2 a.m. with just a daypack and a pair of skinny Karhu GT skis (normal in those days) driven by Asolo Glissade boots. With split-grain leather molded onto thin soles, they looked more appropriate for (maybe) a casual spin around the meadow. But the feet inside were tuned up; by dawn I was at the top of the Tablelands, and feeling good after putting away 5000 feet of climbing. That put me way up in the alpine zone in the crisp morning air, rocketing along that wonderful high track cutting across Cloud Canyon and Deadman Canyon.

Around noon I ran into the first other skiers, on the trip’s high point, Milestone Col at 13,200’.

“Where you coming from?”

“Wolverton.”

“Where ya goin’ tonight?” Obviously I had only a small daypack.

“Symmes Creek.”

“…..Uhhh……”

“Seeya.”

It started getting to me on the Tyndall Plateau. I should have re-waxed for grip, but it just seemed like too much trouble. At twilight I was over the last pass, the Sierra Crest itself, and dropping fast down among the long moraines by Anvil Camp, but the snow was refreezing top down to an evil break-able crust. I was rocketing eastward with all the concentration I could muster when I shot by someone standing on a rock. It took him a moment to digest what he was seeing. Finally he yelled after me.

“Is everything OK?”

I could only break my tuck enough to wave over my shoulder before disappearing into the gloom.

Teetering on the ridge above the last steep snow face down into Symmes Creek became a tactical moment. It had been fully dark for hours, but this final climb behind me up a sandy trail out of Shepherd Creek was open to the sky, lit by stars. Below me was a steep north face, piled with unconsolidated snow and deeply shaded by trees. I need a headlamp down there, but the batteries are in my Walkman. If I stop long enough to switch, I’m afraid my legs will cramp. I have now finally finished the climbing, for a total of 11,300’. Before too long I will be done descending 13,300’. Screw it, I’m outta here. I’m too tired to think whether to call it smart or just lazy, fully engaged now with bashing my way down deep and difficult snow in the darkness. That probably cost me an hour, maybe more, but my legs did keep on wobbling downward.

Marty’s VW bus is parked in the sage. The door opens to a cold beer. 22 hours and 5 minutes.

A few days later I commenced my third High Route of the spring. Guiding again, east to west again. But with a bit less enthusiasm.

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