Howard's Adventure

Howards Cautionary Tale
An excerpt from an early draft of
The Perfect Art: The Ostrander Hut & Ski Touring in Yosemite

The Early Season Opening

And What Rough Beast,
It's hour come at last,
Slouches Towards Ostrander to be Reborn?

The first trip of the season is made as often on mud and shallow crust as on
snow. The pack is heavier than usual, I'm not in top form, but my body has fond memories of what it is doing and I am eager to start the season, so the trip up Horizon Ridge passes with a little soreness and a lot of renewed bonding to
features I have come to love. Usually. Then there was December l7, l984, a trip best characterized by paraphrasing Daniel Boone: "I never was lost but I was bewildered once for quite a while".

Arriving at Badger Pass at an unusually early l0 AM, with the best of intentions
for an easy first ski (many starts are around 4, and known in the trade as "trail
sweeps"), I then had to wait over 2 hours for the radios to be brought up from
the Valley. Laurel graciously offered to carry the radios to the Horizon Ridge
trail junction for me and I accepted; no macho here, not with a storm at my
back.

A light snow was falling by l:l5 when we parted at the Horizon trail junction.
Amazing what a difference l5 lbs. of radios makes. As I neared the dome on
Horizon, winds were 30-40 mph, visibility 50' or less, and no tracks remained
from two prior groups. Rounding the dome, I lost a skin on the ice, and turning
back into the wind 20' later, realized I would never find it--it was half way to
Mt. Clark and I would be frostnipped by the driving snow in seconds.

Hacking through exposed rock,I came to an edge with unrecognizable trees.
Can this be? After l0 years, a place I don't recognize? Figuring it for the SW
side of the dome, I took my skis off to downclimb and watched one of them
skitter and cartwheel over an edge and into the forest. Major Dumbness. No
ski, no hut, no shelter. I slid down iced-over exfoliation plate ends about 200'
and tracked the ski, then hit an invisible snowdrift, and had to remove the pack
to get out, which gave me a chance to reassess the situation. A cirque headwall
rose behind me, a glacial feature impossible at this elevation except on northerly
exposures, so I was east of the dome on Horizon, even if I didn't know how I
got there.

And in my pack--l5 lbs. of radio, 22 lbs. of frozen Christmas turkey, 25 lbs. of
camera gear and tripod, shovel, bag and pad--no food, no liquid, no radio
batteries (but what was I going to say, anyway, HELP?). Hmmm. Not too many of the famed "10 Essentials", just plenty of useless weight, and lots of experience to guide my steady trudge through deepening, darkening, snows.

I figured that traversing should get me to the base of Heart Attack Hill. It just
had to. But while the red fir looked like a north slope forest, I still recognized
nothing specifically. After 20 minutes of slipping over and around down logs in
deep snow with one skin, the ridge on my right should have been dropping into a saddle. It wasn't. I was just beginning to cramp; breaking trail, the pack, and the uncertainty, were wearing me down. Five more minutes, then I'd have to call an ignominious bivvy. Kick turning and climbing into an opening, hoping for
something familiar, I was surprised by the direction of the wind contouring on the trees, but following that clue, turned, and spotted a figure just disappearing into the blowing snow. The thought of salvation does put a spring in one's stride and, as I approached, he turned: "THE RANGER! WE'RE SAVED!". This was not the time to tell my tale, and even I could not imagine that the saga was just beginning.

I gathered the four them and led to the top of Heart attack, where I saw a light
and yelled. Another party of five, headed off the trail and into the Illilouette
drainage, stumbled out of the forest. A trail sweep indeed. So l0 of us sharing
two headlamps plodded on, the ranger in the lead. It was dead reckoning in the
trailless darkness, but occasional trees loomed up which seemed familiar, so I
vacillated between confidence, wariness, and occasional rushes of panic when
the signs vanished completely in the blowing snow.

We reached the treeless flat 300 yards from the hut. It was 75 yards to the next
sign, but in the blowing snow, the headlamp produced an impenetrable curtain of dazzling light l5' in front of us. I crossed the opening blind, then searched right and left, and found a track! We raced down it for 200 yards, only to end up standing dejectedly in the red fir corridor 1/2 mile from the hut. The track was my own, and we were headed away from the hut. The others had had it and called a bivvy. I could hardly argue, but I knew how close we were to shelter and warmth, so borrowed a headlamp for one more try. I left them promising to return, after opening up for two other parties presumably ahead of us and freezing on the porch. They supplemented their one tent with an ingenious shelter of boughs, skis and snow.

I recrossed the flat, looped left and right fruitlessly, and was headed back to the
bivvy when, turning around one last time, the lamp caught a trail sign reflector. I
carefully followed them to a warm, open hut (an unregistered NPS carpenter
with a key had preceded me), and stumbled in at 7:30, an inch of ice on my
beard. The others were brought in, and a pleasant night was had by all. Now
that I've gained humility and compassion for the tribulations of other winter
travelers, I can avoid another season's opener like that.

Howard's book: The Perfect Art: The Ostrander Hut & Ski Touring in Yosemite, is available either at the Hut or by calling or writing him:
Howard Weamer
3812 F, Happy Valley Rd.
Lafayette, CA 94549.
(925) 284-4470.

Also, check out his web site for examples of his Fine Art photography and how to place orders: www.weamerphotography.com