It Was a Thumpin’
Impatient with fall and wanting to validate the steep-skiing theories I devised while experimenting on my 45° ramp this past summer, I drove up the 395 yesterday in search of snow.
I knew, en route, I was facing two major challenges. First, I needed edgeable snow—not ice. That was important. I also needed my snow to be sufficiently steep without being dangerously exposed.
That... was also important.
My plan was to try for something in the South Lake region, but smoke from the Garnet Fire pushed me farther north. Mount Dana, with two couloirs and a not-yet-extinct glacier, seemed like a good bet, so I parked at 9900' on Tioga Pass Road and started hiking.
Somehow, I naively thought Dana's modest two and half-mile approach would make for an easy day. That was not the case. Even with snow, climbing up the drainage can be a major pain in the ass; without snow it definitely doesn't get any better.
Traversing Dana's talus with skis and boots on my back was hard. I'd padded in extra hiking time so I could go slow, but it still took longer than expected, with various meandering and ephemeral use trails offering at best dubious benefit compared to just scrambling up directly.
When I got to the base of Dana I aimed for the snowfield below Solstice Couloir, deciding against the main glacier because by that point I was fed up with talus. It was around noon, breezy and cooler than forecast. At the snowline, I dropped my pack, grabbed my ice axe, and gave the snow an experimental chop or two to see how it felt.
It was firm. Soft on the very top, but otherwise impenetrable. I kicked at it a bit to see if that made any difference. It didn't.
The situation wasn't great.
I'd worked hard to get there. The snow was steep, and fed directly into rock. Not jagged instant-death rock, but certainly well within the you'll-get-hurt-bad category. Eyeing it warily, I figured I could snap into my skis, side-step up a little, and see how things felt.
I tried to get onto the snow to put on my skis, but even that much proved problematic. I'd step onto it and immediately skid back off. It was too firm. I'd deliberately chosen not to bring crampons so I would have neither the temptation nor capacity to climb hard snow. But I was here now, and I wanted to ski.
I stood on the rocks, contemplating the puzzle. The snow gapped-up about a foot above the ground, steadily dripping water onto slick, angled granite. I placed both skis on the snow but stayed on the rock. Crossing my downhill foot over, I carefully stepped up and onto the downhill ski. It clicked in. I put my weight on it and held my breath. The edge held.
I'm not sure exactly what happened next. I think I got the other ski on and was trying to move forward to safer ground. Did an edge slip? Did I pre-release? I don't remember. Something broke loose and my feet shot out sideways and I slammed into the snow.
My back and tailbone seemed to explode and then I was doing the world's shortest slide-for-life onto the rocks, one ski beneath me, the other ski sending it solo off the nearby low cliff which I may have failed to mention was at that time below me.
I took a moment.
I looked up. I looked down. I verified I was more or less intact.
A strange clarity came over me. I saw how very, very alone I was. I saw the rock, black and menacing. I saw the snow, steep and hard and fast, a siren perched above unforgiving rock and yes okay a small cliff, too. I saw that even if I put my skis back on and successfully managed to gain the snowfield—if—I'd be operating with razor-thin margins.
I looked at my gear—not my trusted Blizzards but rock skis never meant for high-consequence skiing. I looked at all of it and in that moment there wasn't even a decision. I just started packing. I downclimbed to my other ski, grabbed that, strapped both to my pack, and started heading down.
At Dana Lake, about five hundred vertical feet below, I found a flat patch of snow. I looked at it, shrugged, and said, 'what the hell.' I unstrapped my skis, pulled out my ski boots, and snapped in for a few silly turns that answered absolutely none of my many questions.
I'm no summer skier—this is the first time I've ever tried to make Sierra turns in mid-September (much less steep turns). Hats off to those of you who do this sort of thing. You're all crazy. But in a good way. Regardless, I appreciate there's an art to it. Maybe, someday, I'll try again.
— September 16, 2025
Andy Lewicky is the author and creator of SierraDescents