The Ansel Adams Wilderness

I guess that before hormones kicked in, Ansel Adam's photography was my porn.

But even through uni (after they'd kicked in) there was scarcely a student house that didn't seem to have at least one of his photos on a wall somewhere.

His black and white works always seemed majestic and otherworldly, the landscapes almost impossible.

Howie arrived early at Tamarak, and we did a final kit repack. Our already heavy packs had been whittled down to just the essentials... no extra jocks or socks. After Howie had generously given me the three man tent to add to my load, his electronic device weighed me in at just under 40 pounds. I didn't want to know what that was in kilos, knowing that regardless it would shift my centre of gravity somewhere up around my shoulders.

Although more bad weather was forecast, it was a glorious day as we drove around to the north of Mammoth - and I have to concede that as we set off on skins, the deserted corduroy groomers of Mammoth were looking very inviting indeed.

After an hour of up, we had about a five kilometre ski descent down a closed summer tourist road to the valley floor, and our first glimpses in the distance of the Minarets and the Ritter Range, which was our objective. Despite the lousy snowpack, we only had one small bush-bash down one of the western faces at lower elevations.

Then commenced the ten mile climb up to our campsite, which would take most of the rest of the day. 

Despite the effort, it was amazing to be amongst such a vast and incredible wilderness. What impressed me most on this day of approach were the trees. Sequoias, junipers, redwoods, aspens, birch, and pines of every description, crisscrossed by the odd coyote or bobcat tracks.

There were a few technical elements climbing up the gully to Shadow Lake, but mostly it was just a wonderful walk in the wild. And as we plateaued out at Ediza Lake, I finally realised Ansel Adam's secret: that it was fairly much impossible to take a bad photo in such a place. 

At 2800m the trees ended, and Howie cased out a protected pocket for the forecast bad weather which was already arriving with wind and the first few flakes of snow. 

Whilst Howie cooked up a banquet of salmon, garlic, lime, herbs and noodles, I had a quick climb for a ski just to limber up the legs for tomorrow. 

Already it was apparent that Howie's best attribute was as a teacher. JP and I were lapping up every gem thrown our way on the technical aspects of climbing, calorie and fluid homeostasis, geography and the environment, and snow camping 101 to keep warm and well. The American approach to guiding already seemed less cavalier than the French, although our terrain was also more remote: at the bottom of every tour in the Alps is a road leading to tartiflette and beer on tap. It was also easier to be talking and joking in English for a change.

Although it had been a big day, tomorrow was going to be bigger, and soon it was time for bed.     

Our destination for tomorrow, Mt Ritter, was towering a kilometre above.

The Negatives

Ever since Blizzard of Ahhhs, I have wanted to ski these mountains.

I guess I always envisaged dropping those same chutes at Squaw made infamous by Glen Plake with his mohawk, attitude, 80's colours and prototype Gopro.

Twenty years later and I've lost the taste for ski resorts. I love the mountains even more, but hate the cut-up, rutted, tracked out slopes, lift lines, multitudes, car parks and the endless insulting ways of being made to feel like a punter ready for the fleecing. So I will likely never ski Squaw.

But every now and then a conference comes along that happens to be next to these same mountains, and this time around I thought I'd take a friend and organise a ski tour into the vast terrain of the High Sierra that Glen Plake still rates as his favourite, even over Chamonix.

Mammoth Lakes airport is almost higher than Kosciusko. Flying in with JP, we were amazed at just how vast the Sierra Nevada stretches - from horizon to horizon, and including a dozen of the lower 48s' coveted 14ers (and including Mt Whitney, the highest mountain in the lower 48). 

A season-saving heavy snowfall the week prior meant that there would be lines to ski, however California is still in its worst ever drought, and the snowpack was a paltry 20% normal for this time of year. It is probably the driest and warmest year since the Pliocene, but all part of the 'new normal' as folks who don't care too much about climate change always seem to muse.

I had organised the tour through Howie Schwartz of www.sierramtnguides.com. Although there are many self-nominated guides in the US, things aren't regulated in the US like they are in France, and Howie is one of only a handful who is actually IFMGA qualified. He has guided on most of the continents (including Antarctica), and runs very professional avalanche courses. He also owns www.sagetosummit.com in Bishop which specialises in mountain running and ultralight fastpacking.

And he basically lives, breathes and obsesses over the High Eastern Sierra, having made many first descents, including several with none-other than my adolescent hero, Glen Plake.

Our plan, after several months of emails, was a four day fully self-supported ski-tour of the Ritter Range, which sits between Yosemite and Mammoth Mountain in the Ansel Adams Wilderness, and through which one of America's most famous hikes, the John Muir trail passes.

This is very much wilderness. There are no huts, no roads, no access, no cell reception, likely no other people, and no choppers if you get into trouble. It was exactly what I wanted. 

We booked a room in Tamarak Lodge, which is a quaint little cross-country resort on the lakes to the south of Mammoth Mountain. Howie arrived at 0600 in the morning for equipment checks and pleasantries, but also with a bit of bad news mostly concerning the weather which was for snow and winds of 60 miles/hour at 3000m which would make camping if not impossible, then at least extremely unpleasant.

He suggested a day tour instead, which would at least help us establish and assess our equipment, and (I imagine), help him assess our capabilities. It would also serve as a reconnaissance for snowpack and conditions in general.

We drove to June Mountain, which is a funny little family resort with a couple of ancient rattly old chairlifts north of Mammoth that they keep trying to close down due to its non-profitability. What they refuse to promote though, is the insane amount of awesome terrain an hours' skinning west.

Due to the high winds, only the bottom access chair was running. We started skinning from around 2500m through sad forests that are being decimated by mountain pine beetle in what is the largest forest blight ever recorded and another casualty of the warmer winters of climate change.

We had a break at the tree line in windy snowy conditions, and Howie asked me to road test one of his new 'Bison Bars' which he is trialling for his shop, and which is basically minced bison in the shape of a muesli bar. Although an obvious good source of protein, I had to concede that it was an acquired taste. 

The weather looked nasty up high, however we continued skinning with ski crampons up a pass known as 'The Hourglass', with JP getting some helpful hints on how to do kick turns in a cyclone.

At around 3300m (the conversion of feet, inches, pounds, miles and fahrenheit to metric was already doing my head in), the weather started to lift but the wind got stronger. I started to worry that JP might be blown to Idaho.

As we topped out on a ridge at 3500m, the snow had been scoured away and we carefully strapped our skis to our packs to stop them flying across the boarder to Nevada. Removing the skins was one of the more challenging tasks for the day.

The couloirs we were to ski are known locally as the Negatives. They are steep west-facing lines set amongst a Martian red landscape that is one of the more extraordinary ski-scapes I have ever seen.

We locked in our heals and were off after Howie, taking it gently at first in the steeper pitches, and then opening up a little on the apron. The snow was fine under foot, with only a small slab set off in the choke. Down lower, a south-facing section of the apron had seen the sun, and we got our first harvest of glorious and famous Sierra corn. 

It was an awesome descent, but with some important lessons and insights into equipment bugs that would necessitate yet another stop at a mountaineering shop on the way back to Tamarack. JP and I are suckers for long periods and credits spent in these shops, especially when a poor snow season has prompted sales. Eventually the staff evicted us, and we were back for a hearty meal before a final pack and early to bed.

Tomorrow was going to be the real deal.