A mega 2023 snowpack in the Sierra calls for more than seeing the hills from a saddle—time for long pulls on the touring setup.

Generational and historic are lightly used terms in the backcountry scene. By all metrics, it was a deep (read generational and historic) snowpack last spring in the Sierra—the Range of Light drew Sam Chaneles in.

I’m obsessed with snow. Windy and the NWS Forecast Discussion are the focus of my breakfast and coffee every morning. I’m the detail-oriented type with ski ideas documented in a massive Caltopo file that takes forever to load. So, when it was clear that the Eastern Sierra was having a historic year in spring 2023, I couldn’t help but obsess. Atmospheric rivers on repeat—so much snow.

Throughout my winter 2023 around Snoqualmie Pass and the PNW backcountry, the Sierra and its overabundance of snow water equivalent was the focus of my friend group’s skintrack discussions. “This is the year for the Sierra,” we’d say. Few of us had been, and it was mostly just small talk, a pipe dream.

Throughout March, I watched from a distance in the Pacific Northwest, still waiting to feel the time was right. Once April rolled around, I felt an insatiable itch. My neurotic side started to kick in. I began seeing people skiing down in the Sierra on my Strava feed and Instagram, and the FOMO grew.

I work from home for a corporation—I’m not a professional skier with a “project” or obligation. I’m ski-obsessed, but it’s not my livelihood, just my obsession. I’m 25, with no mortgage, kids, life partner, or other serious life obligations. I had no reason not to take time off and go down south. 

What was holding me back?

The opportunity-cost optimization cycle was circling the drain. Is it worth the drive? What if there’s bad weather? Oh, but Mt. Rainier will be good. Why should I leave?

I chatted with a friend staying in the Eastern Sierra for a month and got the scoop. I won’t divulge all the details, but within four hours, I packed my Honda CR-V, a sleeping bag, and three pairs of skis and drove toward California. On such short notice, I’d have to work a few days from coffee shops on the road, but that was a small price to pay. It’d be worth it…right?

With such haste, I didn’t have a precise “plan.” There was no “tick list” or grand traverse guiding my trip. I didn’t have consistent partners lined up. For once, I ignored all of my “spreadsheet” items, checklists, regular partners, and familiar habits. I decided to put myself in a position to be in the right place at the right time and see what came of it. 

The plan felt makeshift but not reckless. I could piece something together— It’s the Sierra in a HISTORIC year, there’ll be stuff to ski. Three days of driving would give me plenty of time to think.

As I drove south, I needed to come up with ideas of what to ski. I was incessantly texting a friend who was skiing down near Convict Lake, peppering him with probably annoying questions on the conditions, what lines he was keeping an eye on, etc. He had a crew of friends lined up and politely clarified that he had his own thing going on. 

I figured I should buy a guidebook if I were on my own, so I stopped at a ski shop on my way out of Tahoe and flipped through the pages.

In the PNW, I can last-minute text plenty of friends for a tour. That wouldn’t be the case in the Sierra. The realization of this makeshift, unplanned, partnerless, and without a clear “objective” trip began to sink in. Shit… I’m on my own out here. I’d have to lean into it and enjoy the change.

Convict Lake

After three days of driving, I pulled into the parking lot at Convict Lake. The Mendenhall Couloir stood over me. I’d seen several trip reports about it from recent descents. It was fatter than ever. 

The line usually has rappels or downclimbs and only “goes” continuously in the fattest snow years. It seemed to fit the “fat Sierra snowpack” theme everyone around me had been hyping. Ski the line that isn’t normally in; that’s special, right? The line didn’t seem to be in great shape, though. Through my camera, I snapped a few pictures, making out runnels and avalanche debris below some of the upper rock slabs that appeared to have shed in the last day or two. 

I recall thinking at the time, “That looks chunky and shitty.” 

This first day would set the trip’s tone. I’d be skiing alone in serious terrain for the first time. I closed the CR-V’s trunk and crawled into my sleeping bag, thinking about what I wanted to do. Did I want to force my way through huge lines this entire trip? What was I even down here for? I’d left so quickly that I never really asked myself that question.

I opened up the guidebook and began reading. The Mendenhall wasn’t speaking to me—something about skiing a line in bad conditions just because it was “in” wasn’t lining up. The Bloody Couloir was nearby, and yes, it was a “classic,” but it seemed a nice alternative. I could ski the south side of Bloody, then go back up to the north side and ski chalk. Corn, chalk, all in a day sounded like a good time. Sure, was the ‘classic’ status a bit cliche? Maybe, but the line had to be popular for a reason.

I set my alarm for long before sunrise and figured I’d listen to podcasts through the long valley skin towards the couloir. As the day rolled on, I was happy with my pivot. I skied the south side of Bloody Mountain in firmer-than-ideal conditions, transitioned, and climbed back up. I got a little “bonus run” when I dropped my pole off the south side and had to ski down to get it. After a few hundred more feet of unplanned vert, I was at the top of the famous “Bloody Couloir” and edged into classic California chalk. 

Be Open and Kind—You’ll Meet People 

My two weeks in the Sierra in April 2023 unfolded in ways I couldn’t have expected.

These excursions had the real potential of being partnerless. We all know how a trusted partner or group improves the quality of decision-making and can be energizing during low-motivation moments. I was comfortable with the notion of solo missions, but I was hopeful I’d make meaningful personal connections while on the road.  

Sunrise over the Owens Valley became a routine.

Partnering with Nick and Lane was proof of my “be open and kind” premise. Nick lived in Utah but, like me, was monitoring the Sierra from a distance. I’d met Lane, who grew up in Seattle, on the summit of Shuksan earlier in the year. Lane happened to be in California on a detour during his drive from the Tetons back to Washington. 

Nick rolled into the plowed pull-out in Lower Sage Flat after dark and nearly ran over Lane, who was sleeping outside of his Rav-4 on the side of the road in a ditch, which was full of all his belongings. 

Despite that near miss, we planned to link up for an ambitious day in the Palisades. The goal: ski the Norman Clyde North Couloir, the North Couloir of Mt. Sill, the U-Notch (or V-Notch, or maybe both), and if we still had legs after all that, the North Couloir of Thunderbolt Peak. 

Good people make for good times. Road walking up to Kearsarge Pass for a tour around University Peak.

The three of us clicked and were mature enough to change plans on the fly. For example, we looked up at V-Notch and agreed that the sideslipped entrance and double schrund exit didn’t look appealing. And we unanimously decided to rally for the North Couloir of Thunderbolt.

The fine day was yet another reminder to sometimes bite on a seemingly irrational plan, trust in the community, and seize the opportunity of a generational snowpack. 

I was also shown “non-guidebook” lines by Nathan and Alex, two more quality individuals who welcomed me and treated me like an old friend. Nathan and Alex brought me deep into the Sierra high country. Nathan was a friend-of-a-friend that I’d met the night before at a brewery. Alex, similarly, was a friend-of-a-friend that I’d skied the Scheelite Chute with earlier in the trip. 

Thrashing through the approach up Pine Creek at 4 AM with Nick and Alex felt much more familiar than a series of text messages. We moved efficiently together up the climbs as if we were a well-trained team. Nathan and I rallied for an extra lap as if we were longtime partners. Later in the day, we reconvened with Alex and skied chalk late into the afternoon: Another +1 for the open and kind mantra.

Openness and potentially finding partners involve a willingness to be alone. That means being open to internal second-guessing and finding your comfort zone for solo missions so you can embrace the solo time, too.

Crunchy turns at the top of the Scheelite Chute. The vertical relief above the Owens Valley never gets old.

I Made the Right Choice

When did I realize I made the right choice to pack up and head down to California? Was there a defining moment? The NE Couloir of Peaklet.

Nathan and Alex (same as mentioned before) had skied a rare line on Basin Mountain. The guidebook-famous Basin Couloir had been on my radar, but with the huge snowpack this year, lines that don’t typically come in were fair game. I texted them a bit, getting the scoop. I hatched a plan to link together a few lines on Basin: I’d ski their line first, then ski the Basin Couloir, then ski the South Face, then hop over to the Northeast Couloir of Peaklet (or Humphreys if I was feeling REAL ambitious). It was the kind of plan you hatch in your mind but want to avoid calculating in Gaia or Caltopo because the stats are silly. But I was going to be solo, so why not just start and see where I end up?

I drove out the bumpy Buttermilk Road the night before and camped as far as possible. I’d skied the Southeast Face of Mt. Tom earlier in the trip, so I knew there’d be some desert walking before skinning began. It would be another pre-dawn start.

I fell into a solo rhythm, with the “crunch-crunch” of frozen morning snow. I found Alex and Nathan’s booter just as they had instructed. I continued to the Basin Couloir, coming across the first people of the day. I dropped off the back side of Basin Mountain to the South Face, now out of sight of my car. The day blissfully ticked away, line after line. I barely picked my head up or stopped to think. I wasn’t racing but rather flowing through the day. Cliché? Yes. But true.

Looking down from Basin Mountain towards the Owens Valley atop one of the many lines on the peak.

From the top of the South Face of Basin, I looked out at Humphreys. Damn, that’s really far away. Super ambitious plan scratched. I next looked at the west side of Peaklet; supposedly, there was a snow ramp that led to the summit where I could drop the NE Couloir from the top. Umm…that looks thin. Rocks didn’t seem to give way to snow anywhere. Welp, I guess I could ski over to the base of Peaklet and climb up the Northeast Couloir bottom-up.

Alone, making decisions on the fly, letting the conditions and feelings of the day govern my movements…that was the difference here in the Sierra. In the PNW, everything feels more organized, predictable, and structured, even though it isn’t inherently different. Call it basic familiarity with terrain, conditions, and routine.

Lane skis down to valley bottom, moving deeper into the High Sierra on a day around University Peak.

I skied over to the base of the Northeast Couloir, peaked up, transitioned, and began booting. I made it about two-thirds of the way up before I was just, for once, content. I know that sounds romantic and a bit cheesy, but that’s a rare occurrence for me. I often egg on my friends for “one more lap” or “one more line.” But here, on my own, I stopped. And not because I didn’t have more gas in the tank or because conditions were turning bad. I was making decisions for myself. And as I transitioned into ski mode and headed down, I smirked. I was skiing in the sagebrush of the Owens Valley alone, nobody telling me what to do, meeting great people I’d like to see again.