Chip, Fingers and a Freckled Peregrine....North Ruby Wall 5.11 III

Ruby's Main "Diamond" Wall, located above Mosquito Flats up Rock Creek, holds very few routes. Galen Rowell's "East Arete Route" IV 5.10, "Central Route" IV 5.10 and "SP" Parker's "Daphne" IV 5.10a are all that adorn this spectacular white and towering wall. These three are true "Classic's" but are located on some very sketchy rock that isn't the greatest quality. The lines are phenomenal, without question. But, many that dare to climb either Galen's or "SP's" lines on the Main "Diamond" Wall, know that they are in for a seroius challenge and true adventure as far as the quality and integrity of the rock that they will encounter.

The North Wall, on the other hand, which is located to the right of the Main "Diamond" Wall, holds one very fine and Classic route, "Pteradon" III 5.11a. The rock quality and aestheticness of the potentially numerous lines, is simply incredible. Why this area is totally free of any other routes, baffled me for years. No "Local" Hardmen could answer that question. I came to the conclusion that it was a "Lost World" and that it was up to me to revitalize this incredible and beautiful area. So I began looking at several lines on either side of "SP" Parker's "Pteradon" for the past three years. Doing some thorough research to ensure that any of the lines that I chose to climb were in fact "Virgin" and that I wouldn't be infringing on anyone's work, I chose this to be the first.

My regular partner Derek Bomholt, from the "Westside", was working his tail off and couldn't get time off all spring and into early summer. Some "Local" folks that I had asked, were either too busy getting caught up with the late spring, getting married or simply thought that the area was too tough to even contemplate as the base elevation would be at an even 12,000'. I was frustrated and getting annoyed. I had began fishing for partners. Lots of folks were interested but none could get off during the week. All were tied up with the everyday routines of their lives. All of them wanted so much to particpate, but just couldn't do it. I was set in my mind that I have to get one route up this season. If I had to do it solo, so be it. Wouldn't be the first time. Finally, Derek called and released to me that he was sick of being a "Welding Pig". Busting his ass for 18-20 hours a day, seven days a week, and that he wanted a long break from civilized America. His climbing had faltered and his thinking towards it was deteriorating. We had gotten together the month prior with Kris Solem for a four day trip to do Merriam's "DNB" and "Feather's Couloir". That was a treat but wasn't satifying his love and desire for the life of climbing that he had come to cherish. He had become stagnant and was just about to sell all his gear and bag ass to Patagonia. He knew and had experienced my little "Shangri-la" over here in Crowley. He knew of my aspirations on Ruby. He knew that he would have total peace of mind and heart if he was part of the FA's that I had been planning on Ruby. He knew and he came. And, we did!
The Route
My first line, I had determined, would be the beginning of a series. Therefore, I would have to begin either left to right or visa-versa on the "Central Wall. I began to go on several "Recon's" with my wonderful wife and son. Took several pictures and looked closely at the aestheticness of the what would be the first line. I began hauling gear and ropes up to the base in preparation for Derek's arrival. Derek came over, we looked over the photo's and agreed that this was the potential first route.

The approach is a 1.2 mile walk up to Ruby Lake on the Mono Pass Trail that departs the Morgan Pass Trail around 1/4 from the main TH. Then a 1/3 mile suedo bushwack around the North Shore of the lake and then a 1/4 mile slog up 30-40 degree scree to the base of the Central Wall. The entire approach is christened with spetacular views of Mt. Morgan, BCS, Dade, Abbot and all the lakes that flourish the valley below.

Derek, myself, my lovely wife Michele (who had helped me for three days hauling up all the loads) and of course our incredibly energized son, "Bandit, were off at 0700 from the Mosquito Flats parking lot for our first day on North Ruby Wall. The first line that came into view was the fine towering beauty of "Pteradon" and it's incredible 20' roof that is located a little over half way up on P-2. As we neared the wall, the right side of many great vertical lines appeared and then, the first to the left of gulley, hits your eyes. Immediately, Derek agreed that this was the first to be climbed. We were stoked and so very grateful to be all alone at 12,000' with the Golden Eagle's, Peregrines and Hummingbirds that frolicked over and around us. No humans or any signs of civilization to burden us. Ahhhh, peace.

P-1: I took the first lead into the unknown world. The rock was a tad bit flakey but very doable. A 5.9ish slab that was well protected by a splitter trough, gave way to the beginning of the series of left facing dihedrals with their corner 1"-4" perfect cracks. A series of small 2'x 2' ledges greeted me and were a welcome rest. The first two corner sections went at 5.10a for 30' and then 5.10c. 40'. I came onto a fab 3'x 3' level ledge 110' above Derek and decided this was a grand place to bring him up as the two corner systems above me were looking at some stiff laybacking at 10.d or even 11.a. I hate cracks! I am a slab/face dude and have always disdained any cracks that entailed laybacking or any other "free" climbing technique known to man in order to ascend them. Derek on the other hand, he is a laybacking crack master! He loves cracks and ascends them like a lizard. Up he came and as he climbed with confidence he began exuberantly sharing his growing joy at the quality of the rock and the route as it progressed. As he joined me on the ledge, he was breathing hard and mentioned that he could feel the altitude. I looked at him and said that "we could go down and leave this great line for someone else". He smiled and mumbled something to the effect that I could go have sex with myself? He peered around the the corner of the block that we stood on and looked at what appeared would definitely be the beginning of the crux sections of what so far was a great line. He called out what gear he wanted and that if anything else would be required more than what he had, he would haul it up on the "Tag line" which we had incorporated for just that reason.


P-2: So off he went. Stemming across the dihedral, placing small TCU's in the small but perfect 1/2"-1" inside crack. He had a smile on his face, the likes I had never seen before. He stemmed and laybacked for thirty or so feet and came onto the first of sloping ledges. He hollered down to me if I thought that this would be a better location for the stance/anchor as the ensuing upper section would definitely go at 11.a and looked to be the crux. I said sure. So he set up the a temp stance and I climbed up to his locale. We agreed before hand that we would hand drill two nice 3/8" x 2 3/4" SS Wedge Bolts and utilize Metolius Rap Hangers for all the Belay/Rap Anchors and nothing more. That we would make it go "Trad" the entire line. So as I approached his hanging stance, I noted what appeared to be a perfect location to drill the two anchors. The day was progressing and the altitude was taking a toll on Derek. The sun was passing over the Diamond Wall and the chill began to settle in. We agreed that I would drill the first anchor today and return early in the morning to continue the second pitch and finish the route. BAM BAM BAM... took ten minutes to drill the hole. Pounded in the "Wedgy" and Hanger and tightened it down. AHHHHH! I am batting 1000 as far as my placements go. I pride myself in my hand drilling over the years and have never used a mechanical device for any of my over 300+ anchors that I have placed. Derek agreed that it was so nice to have a fat hanger, the likes that only Metolius offers. We fixed the lead line and rapped to the deck where Michele and Bandit had been so very patient all day taking pics of this historic effort in Derek's and I partnership. We slogged on down the trail to our vehicle and drove the terrible 20 minutes or so down to Tom's Place where we "Burger'd" up and then drove the awful 10 minutes down Crowley Lake Dr. to my home where warm shower's and cozy beds awaited us.


P-2(Upper Section) 3AM came quickly. I live here at 7200' and am doing stuff at altitude on a regular basis so I considered myself in good shape for the daily routines that I knew would be required for the following ten days or so of FAing at 12,000'. Derek on the other hand, he was not acclimated and I knew that he would be slower. I knocked on his door and heard a mumble, "oookaaay". I got the coffee going and got some banana's and juice down me. Derek awoke, stumbled into the LV'n room and downed his two cups of Joe and two burned bagels. Michele mossey'd into the LV'n room and offered her good mornings and mentioned that she would stay behind today as she wanted to do some housework. We were off at 5:00 and up the road we went and started the vertical march on the trail at 5:30. We arrived at the base of the route at 7:15 or so and started jugging up to the stance. I was thinking of a name for this line and had originaly mentioned yesterday eve to Derek, that something along the lines of "Chips and Fingers" sounded appropriate. We had agreed. But as the third day on the route would turn out, that would change. We agreed that we would work on cleaning the route of debris so as to make it a delight for the ensuing party's to enjoy. So that is what we did. We arrived at yesterday's high point anchor, I drilled and placed the second "Wedgy" and Met Hanger. Derek racked up and took off. He took his time on what was indeed the crux pitch. As it turned out, it needed to be "Deep" cleaned of flakes on the walls and of rocks in the 2" to 5" crack. Derek took his time placing gear and cleaning. He took five hours to do so on this 70' section. He surmounted the upper slight bulge and let out a yelp that notified me that he was impressed and so very happy. He yelled down to me that this was in fact one of the best "Laybacking" corner's he had ever done in the High Sierra. He knew that it was good and could become a Classic. As I jugged up the fixed lead line to do some follow up cleaning of any debris that he may have missed, I agreed with his assessment. WOW! This was an awesome section and definitely would go at 10d or 11a. The final determination would be made when we "Red Pointed" the entire route tomorrow. I joined Derek at his stance to find two old "Rap" chocks and slings that were at least 20 years old. I figured that they had to be Dick Levesee's Rap anchor's from his Free Ascent of SP's "Pteradon in 87'. So, Derek and I decided that the second anchors would be placed here as the direct "Rap" would go all of the 60m's to our right as Leversee had done. I drilled and we rapped to return tomorrow, early, to "Red Point" the lower two pitches and finish what we figured would be an easy 5.9 upper section to the top. Were we ever in for a surprise!


P-3: Again we awoke at 3AM and were off a tad bit earlier. We arrived at the base at 7AM to another beautiful cloudless crisp morning. Derek was PUMPED! He asked if he could do the "Red Point" on the first two P's and I of course said yes. So he racked up what he already knew what would be required for the first Pitch and off he went. His climbing was flawless and precise. Suddenly a Peregrine appeared overhead. I yelled up to Derek to enjoy the flight of this beauty. It then swooped down towards him, and circled right over his head twice, very slowly fluttering it's very atypical dark colored wings. He yelled down that it was "Freckled" and that he had never seen a dark colored freckled Peregine before. I quickly summised that this was a "Blessing" and that it would become part of the endeavor of the this amazing route. Thus, "Chips, Fingers and a Freckled Peregrine". The peregrine stayed with us for the rest the morning as Derek effortlessly stemmed and laybacked both pitches. I jugged up to the second stance so as to save time.

As I arrived at the stance, I figured that since Derek was stoked and so very happy, that I would offer that he finish the route. I did just that and he looked at me like a kid that was just given the biggest "Gum Ball" in the candy shop. "You Sure?", he asked. I looked at him and said,"You deserve it big guy!" So off he went. We were leary at what was 25' or so above us as what appeared to be a very loose 10' wide block that might end our ascent. As Derek neared it, he was very concerned. He went left of it, tapped it as he crawled onto it, and felt for any looseness. "AHHHHHHHH!" It was solid! He then looked up at the upper corner and informed me that it may be tougher than what we first thought. And as he progressed, it became reality, as it was more vertical than we first thought. The crack had ingested some big loose rocks and it required very delicate and consistent vertical stemming,so as not to drop any of the killer 12" diameter rocks onto my stance, for 50 or so feet with 1-5" Pro and at the very top, Derek had to then tunnel through a 5 foot alcove and then layback out to the final mantel onto the top ledge! "YEEEEEHAAAAA!!!" Derek was done and had finished this amazing line. I jugged up, cleaning and chucking the killer rocks and the loose chips and flakes that adourned the adjacent walls. I got to Derek's stance and we shook hands. We figured that the last pitch was a solid 10.c. Project done and a line worth claiming, aesthetically climbed. I drilled the last two "Summit" Rap/Belay anchor's and we descended with pride. We took some pics and shook hands again.

It was truly a great clean effort that we hoped others will follow and enjoy as much as we did!

Gear/Rack Req
-60m Lead Line & a 60m Tag for two 60m rappels
-1 Set of Stoppers
-1 ea #1-3 Lowe Balls
-1 Set of #1-4 Met TCU's
-1ea of #1, 1.5 and #2 WC Flexi-Friends
-Doubles on .5-4.5 BD Cams
-8 Draws
-10 24' "Stinger" Slings w/ 2 biners ea

Most importanly, lots of enthusiasm and joy!

BEWARE: This is an Alpine "Trad" environment that starts at 12,000'.
Acclimization for the task at hand is highly recommended!
TOPO
"Chips, Fingers and a Freckled Peregrine" III 5.11a
Derek Bomholt & The Chief, 23 August 2006

The Sierra High Route 2005 ByRay Purcell Day Four: lancets of ice crystals buried themselves into the exposed parts of my face searing the skin that was not protected by the hood of my parka and snow goggles. Leaning into 40-knot gusts our party of four inched up the southern flank of the 12,000-foot Triple Divide Pass. Ground glass snow washed over our skis as they broke through the crust like the bow of an icebreaker plowing through North Sea pack ice.The mountain pass was a spectral line that lay ahead of us, fading and emerging again from a sorcerer’s cloak of roiling mist that formed the clouds that surrounded us. The slope steepened and was avalanche prone because an overlaying layer of wind formed slab that was loosely bonded to the spring softened layer of snow underneath. We advanced on the pass in hundred foot intervals; as exhausted by our senses stretching out into the indifferent and potentially lethal snow field as we were from the physical effort to ski in the oxygen rare air while laden under our backpacks.We could have been skiing across the Alps or the Arctic; but we weren’t. We were ski touring across a stunningly airy and physically arduous line that traverses the highest and grandest peaks and passes of the Southern Sierra Nevada and is called, simply yet most apropos, The Sierra High Route.For years I had looked up at the snow-covered mantle of the Sierra from the Southern San Joaquin Valley after the air is washed clean by spring storms like this one. I’ve dreamed of crossing the range east to west following the line originally pioneered by the prolific Sierra skier David Beck. In 1975 Beck first connected this spectacular route. To follow the route the skier has to travel over six passes, all over ten thousand feet, but most over twelve thousand feet, and covering some fifty miles of rugged alpine terrain.I have attempted this route before and in retrospect wisely turned back recognizing my own inexperience in the face of increasingly difficult terrain and deteriorating weather that made the avalanche risk unacceptable. Now, forty-eight years old and enjoying a perfectly wonderful midlife crisis that I have no wish to end prematurely, I’d decided to hire a professional mountain guide. A no nonsense, "we go this way now", "follow me boys", kind of leader.Selecting a mountain guide to lead you into an adventure like this is not to be taken lightly or on the cheap. You would do no less selecting a heart surgeon, right? Fortunately there are many reputable companies whose guides are certified by the American Mountain Guides Association; a bench mark of excellence and professionalism. Based on reputation I selected the Sierra Mountain Center in Bishop, a town in the northern Owens Valley, surrounded by mountains, and a hub of California mountain culture. My guide was to be one of the company’s principle partners, Robert “SP” Parker. Originally from New Zealand, he turned out to be very much the "follow me boys" kind of leader that I sought. “SP” left the Southern Hemisphere to “climb and get out of the rain.” As with most climbers, he eventually gravitated to the granite walls of Yosemite and finally, by natural extension, to the mountainous Eastern Sierra. Though clearly laconic and occasionally evasive, I found that “SP” has a wry wit not uncommon among New Zealanders. When asked what the “SP” stood for he explained with a twist at the side of his mouth and a sideways glance; “Well I suppose it could stand for a lot of things.” Never the less “SP” is a highly regarded and accomplished alpinist, and has twenty years experience guiding. He has guided in the Alps, Patagonia, as well as the Sierra. Additionally he holds certification from the International Federation of Mountain Guides Association; which is necessary to guide in Europe where his professions history is deep, rich, and has achieved it’s highest art. Day One: on the appointed day at seven O’clock in the morning we were to meet at the Winnedumah Hotel. Now a bed and breakfast style Inn, the Winneduhma is a movie set 1927 Spanish Colonial style hotel located in Independence, the closest town to our trailhead. Over breakfast we were meet by “SP” and introduced to our respective team members. In addition to yours truly there was Barry, a fifty-two year old Urologist who practices in Phoenix, Arizona. Original from Ontario, Canada, Barry had been skiing since he could walk and is an accomplished white water boater, back packer, and mountain cyclist. Over the course of the trip Barry endeared himself by spontaneously breaking into song. When things got weird and scary he'd start singing rock ballads and gospel with ironically poignant situational lyrics in lugubrious bar room singer style.Our fourth team member was Allan, also fifty-two. Allan is a British chemical engineer currently assigned to his company’s facilities in Pennsylvania. Allan has traveled extensively and has skied and climbed in South Africa and the Alps. He has an ebullient personality and the type of British humor made famous by the Monty Python Troupe. He told me well into our adventure that the Haute Route, a trans-mountain range ski route between Chamonix, France and Zermat, Switzerland may have had more demanding downhill skiing in comparison to the High Route, but at least you could toss back a bottle of wine in the comfort of one the Alp’s ubiquitous and quite opulent "huts" at the end of the day.After Huevos Rancheros Winneduhma style “SP” took us outside and lined us up for a gear check, to distribute avalanche beacons and the collapsible shovels that I prayed would only be employed to dig out snow shelters- as opposed to any one of us. I’ve always considered myself frugal when it came to carrying lightweight and only necessary gear in my pack. But, “SP” examined each item and with a knitted eyebrow then unceremoniously discarded item after item saying “Nope, that’s not on the list.” or “What are ya gonna use that for?” After "SP" completed the gear route we headed out. All of us were crowded into our guides faded red and brush scratched economy truck ultimately bumping along a dirt road through the desert of the Owens Valley west of Independence. Mount Williamson loomed snowcapped in the foreground as the scent of sage filled the cab. We rolled past blooming mountain lilac, deep purple lupine, and reddish-pink dessert pear to the Symmes Creek Trailhead. Silently we pulled out our loaded backpacks and strapped our skis onto them for the hike that would eventually take us from the five thousand foot desert trailhead to snowline. The beginning of the hike was punctuated by the obligatory groans of the first trail day as we were newly burdened with fully laden packs and skis. After several crossings of the spring-swollen Symmes Creek we came to a sobering sight, which reminded me of the awesome power of avalanching snow. We found the creek canyon above us had been stripped down to bare soil, with all the vegetation resting in a tangle and cemented in snow at the creek bottom. The snowfield in a steep chute further up the canyon had clearly slid, the torrent snow scouring the lower canyon savagely bare. We climbed over the tangle of avalanche debris and continued the arduous climb to our first camp above snow line on a fairly level bench at ten thousand and forty feet above sea level called Anvil Camp. Making camp became a predictable routine of setting up our two four-season tents. These were sturdy, extremely light structures made of high-tech fabric so thin that I was afraid of putting my finger through them. Yet these tents are so sturdy that they easily withstood nightlong snowstorms.“SP” was also the trips chef and had pre-prepared all meals and snacks. Dinner became a welcome routine. Each night regardless of weather, after setting up camp we welcomed hot drinks followed by hearty soup, and a main course abundant with meat, pasta or rice and beans. Foods both savory and with the crucial calories to not only replace the energy burned during the preceding day but also for keeping you warm and snug in your sleeping bag through below freezing nights.Day Two: we crawled out of our cocoons squinting into the blue jay-blue sky of an alpine sunrise. We busied ourselves to warm then eat a hot breakfast, with coffee for Barry and I, and tea, of course, for Allan and “SP”. After stowing the tents and repacking our gear we strode off for our first full day on skis intent on crossing our first high point the twelve thousand and eight foot Shepherd Pass. We were silent in the warming morning mostly from the thinning oxygen at altitude. Approaching the pass “SP” picked an economical and efficient line up the steep snowfield.Having meals taken care of by the guide was one of the luxuries of this trip. But one of the most important benefits was the expertise with which “SP” navigated steep, and exposed terrain. Not to mention his ability to identify and correct my wanting technique on skis so that I struggled less making turns as we climbed these impossibly steep slopes.I was winded, hot from exertion in the relentless high altitude Sun, and famished as we topped out over Shepherd Pass. But I was immediately distracted by the first views of the High Sierra. As we ate onion and poppy seed bagels with cheese, tomato, and avocado, we drank heavily from our water bottles and the expansive vista of the High Sierra. To the south rose the 14,000-foot plus peaks of Mt. Williamson and Tyndall. The rolling broad Tyndall Plateau spread out to the west and beyond it was the singular granite pillar that tops 13,641-foot Milestone Mountain. We would end our second day on the eastside of this landmark in the headwaters of the Kern River, aiming to cross Colby Pass the following day. But grey wispy clouds were building on the western horizon and I noticed that the barometric pressure on my altimeter watch was falling, a certain portent of a storm.We skied through the remainder of the day across the undulating terrain beneath Diamond Mesa, finally traversing north of Tyndall Creek before a wooded descent into the Kern River Canyon and the night’s camp. While Barry, Allen and I finished setting up camp, “SP” used a satellite phone to call the companies Bishop office for a weather update. I eaves dropped with understandable interest on “SP’s” side of the conversation. In response to whatever information he was being given he simply replied with a terse “Uh huh.” “Uh huh.” “Uh huh.” “Uh huh.” “Uh huh.” Then abruptly disconnected the transmission. Over dinner I asked what the weather report held. To which he responded that a Pacific low-pressure system was building and that up to fourteen inches of snow accumulation was forecast over the next two days.The other “clients” and myself understandably asked about contingencies, you know, camping out the storm, retreating, freezing to death, cannibalism, and so forth. To which “SP” responded “Dave Beck certainly would not retreat so neither will we - yet.” Now “SP” ordinarily has a New Zealanders stereotype antipodean accent that is curiously mixed with a New Englanders “You can’t get thea from hea.” drawl. But in with this last comment he sounded eerily old school Prussian.Day Three: dawn came early through a gathering gloom and we rose early since “SP” was anticipating a long and difficult day. We hastily broke camp with the first dusting of snow and began laboring up our second pass. Hours passed climbing until the snow cover became too spare and steep to ski. Still the wind howled and slammed us with the rhythm of Jimmy Hendrix playing Voodoo Child. We strapped our skis onto our packs to continue, “booting” toward the pass. “SP” called a break so that he could scout ahead and test the terrain. At last he returned uttering an epithet.Over the wind I hollered, “Are we having an epic?” To which “SP” growled, “No, epics are where people die.” Allan disagreed and replied that “deaths are a tragedy” but that this was shaping up to be an epic.Reaching the high point of the pass we were chastened by our guide to quickly stow our climbing skins, put on our skis and descend as soon as possible to gain the shelter and safety of lower ground. It was three o’clock when we reached the sheltered leeside of Colby Pass. Lunch had to be delayed because of our perilous circumstances and not having drunk adequate water or eaten snacks I became light headed. The snow and sky became one so that even when I stopped I felt like I was still moving. Vertiginously I skied and fell, skied and fell. Finally in the relative calm we ate and I slowly felt my head clear with strength returning. We descended further but with the lowering cloud ceiling obscuring the next pass advance today was futile and we made camp. As we built sheltering walls out of blocks of snow around our tents it became clear to me that what “SP” had said in jest the pervious day about camping through a storm vs. retreat really meant that once your committed on this kind of an adventure the clock begins to count down on the food that you have with you and the fuel available to melt water from snow- the clock was loudly ticking.Day Four: another early start and hard push over another technically difficult pass. This time I was prepared to eat and drink on the run. We descended into the next valley while the storm waxed and waned. Again “SP” called home on the satellite phone for a weather report and the status of our connections once and if we arrived on time at the west end of the route.To reclaim precious lost time and avoid having to ration food and water it would be best if we could still get over Triple Divide Pass. But the weather wasn’t relenting. “SP” watched the weather and gauged the snow against the increasing avalanche risk like a surfer studying the timing of the sets of giant waves at Mavericks or the “Pipeline”. At last timing was judged and we were urged to cautiously approach the next pass.As we gained on the steepest slope with the greatest avalanche risk, “SP” dropped his pack. We checked our avalanche transceivers and reviewed how to establish a pattern of search to locate a buried body. We took our shovels out of our packs assembling the scoop into the detachable handle and stood ready as “SP” climbed the last part of the slope before the pass. We watched shielding our eyes against the daggers of wind driven ice as our guide tested the slope to the pass.Passing beyond the accumulating cornice at the highpoint “SP” disappeared over the horizon and then shortly reappeared retracing his route to us. Shouldering his pack he said “Well boys that was so much fun I think I’ll do it again.” Then we were cautioned to spread out in one hundred foot intervals while ascending the slope. The rational was clear, should the slope slide it was better to lose one than all.I was the third to begin the ascent and felt as though I was spinning the chamber of the revolver and pointing the muzzle to my head. The avalanche beacon emitted a constant radio signal from where it was strapped across my chest, the strap reassuringly tightened with each deep breath. Step by step I skied delicately upward, like I was walking barefoot on rice paper; wondering if the slope would fail early, late, or hopefully not at all. I must have prayed an entire novena by the time I topped out on the crest. We were all well rehearsed in the routine. As we reached the pass we removed the climbing skins from our skis and quickly got ready to descend. What made me buck this time, especially after the physical and emotional exhaustion of surmounting the pass, was the prospect of down climbing the 200-foot gully on the windward side of the pass before being able to clip into my skis for the final descent to Glacier Lake. The airy exposure about unhelmed me. “SP”, matter-of-fact and reassuring, coached me to descend down the forty-five degree snow gully facing forward as he had done so naturally. “Be aggressive, don’t lean back,” he urged me, but my natural tendencies were counterproductively strong and my pack and skis seemed to pull me off balance- I continued to slip. Then “SP” had me turn to face into the slope and kick step down, a slower but less disorienting technique.After the ordeal on Triple Divide Pass the ski down to Glacier Lake, at the head of appropriately named Cloud Canyon, was a blessed relief. We arrived exhausted and pleased to find sheltering walls of snow already built by previous travelers which spared us most of the work. We dozily set up our tents in the enclosure and collapsed into our sleeping bags to warm, dry and gather energy for dinner.“SP” cooked inside of his and Allan’s tent as the snow continued to blow. We shuttled food between their tent and ours. Snow was melted for water with the precious remaining fuel. But the soup was reviving, and according to Allan “civilized.” We ate the main course with snow falling on our tent that made the sound of grains of rice being poured over the head of a drum. Despite the steady noise or perhaps because of it sleep came quickly, deep, and just.Day Five: I awoke before my tent mate Barry but was on the unfortunate side of tent when “SP” threw a “hey, wake up over there” snowball against our tent that loosened the frozen condensation on the tent wall and dropped a shower of ice onto my face. The resulting exchange is unfit for polite retelling.Even through the closed tent I could tell the storm had cleared and was excited by the prospect of a cloudless sky. The barometric pressure was up a little and it was seventeen degrees in our tent. I peeked out the tent flap to see an amber penumbral dawn pushing back the midnight blue sky across the top of the world. “SP” fixed a cobbler for breakfast, which redeemed his unspeakable act with the snowball. We broke camp before the sun had so much as raised a blister on the eastern wall of the surrounding cirque with the hope of reclaiming valuable time- but at the cost of a very long day.Fortunately the day was characteristically fair for spring and the terrain favorable. With the most technically difficult passes behind us we made excellent time. We rhythmically skied over the remaining three passes and ultimately gained the Table Lands, a rolling high valley which ended in a delightful roller coaster ski to our last camp near Pear Lake.It was surreal given what we’d been through on this crossing. Especially at the end as we skied out of the woods and there was the black asphalt parking lot of the Wolverton ski area in Sequoia National Park. Suddenly it was over, Still, and warm. The van driver let us out at the Visalia Air Terminal. While we waited to hear the status of our flight back to Independence, I lay on my back in the shelter of a Ramada and looked at the sky. Abundant grandmotherly storm clouds where again setting upon the valley this afternoon. With bolstered rears and throw pillow bosoms they came wearing lumpy variegated gray frock coats. They began to forage about the sky with the random purpose of a day after sale, and with a voracity born of bargain table desire. Each seemed to wield a capacious handbag undoubtedly equipped with a mirrored compact, lipstick of an absurd color, half a pastrami sandwich –mustard, no mayo- on seedless rye, and the urn with Uncle Ernie’s earthly remains. They were congregating thousands of feet above the Sierra and the shuffling of their feet was stirring up just God-awful weather on the peaks and passes.Nope, probably no flights back over the Sierra today. Then I drifted off to sleep.