The recent blitz of California by “atmospheric rivers” has been highlighted in the news by reports of massive snowfall at the Mammoth Mountain ski resort in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.
For Southern California skiers, Mammoth is THE PLACE. Sure, there are a half a dozen ski resorts in the local San Bernardino Mountains, but the snow there is sketchy, the crowds (and lift lines) are immense, and the ski runs are anything but challenging.
Mammoth has a special place in my heart, as I used to ski there often back in the day with friends, co-workers, and family. It was about a 300-mile drive from Southern California, so maybe a five-hour drive, although my ex-boss Steve Kohler and I once made it in 3 hours flat in his brand-new BMW (including a stop and ticket for speeding by the Highway Patrol on the Sherwin Grade north of Bishop, which set us back by ten minutes!).
(Fun times: My Dad, my Mom, and I were hustling up Hwy 395 one evening, on the way to Mammoth, when my Dad got pulled over by the CHP for speeding in busy traffic (as it always was on a Friday night in ski season). When the cop handed my Dad his citation, he said something disrespectful to the cop, who seemingly ignored him. As soon as my Dad could, he goosed the engine and jumped back in the line of cars whizzing by at 60 mph. We hadn’t gone a half-mile when we noticed red lights and siren… the CHP guy was back. He gave my Dad a second citation, this time for unsafe entry into traffic! My Dad kept his mouth shut and we didn’t bust his balls about it.)
The last 1-1/2 years of my Air Force stint was spent at Castle AFB near Merced, California. I learned to ski up there, frequenting nearby Badger Pass in Yosemite and Dodge Ridge near Sonora, both resorts being on the western slope of the Sierras. They were “family” type ski areas, with pretty tame slopes, which fit nicely into my regime for learning this new skill. By the time I left the Air Force, I was a decent skier.
I believe it was at Dodge Ridge that I introduced my parents to downhill skiing. My Dad and Mom had been excellent water skiers back in the day (they were now around 50 years old), and still had some coordination and gumption left in the tank. I taught them how to get on a ski lift, snow plow, do a few Stem Christie turns, and stop where they wanted. My Mom was super careful, while my Dad really loved the speed, despite the fact that he never mastered stopping gracefully.
I began skiing Mammoth Mountain back in the Winter of 1973 with my buddy Pat Freemon, who was attending the University of Southern California. I was working part-time in Xray at Queen of the Valley Hospital in Covina and trying to finish up my Bachelor’s Degree at Cal State Los Angeles. We would cruise up to Mammoth every so often and tackle the challenging slopes there. It was on one of those trips that I mentioned to him that I’d met a nurse named “Charlie”. That was also the trip where my 1965 Mustang broke down on the way home. Bummer.
By that time, I could ski just about any “runs” at Mammoth, which is an enormous facility with lots of challenging pitches. The main lodge is at 8,000 feet and the top of the mountain is at 11,000- feet. Most of the skiers stick to the bottom half of the mountain, leaving the upper runs to the better skiers and daredevils. Back in 1973, the big challenge at Mammoth was “The Cornice”, which was a run where the skier had to “drop in” about a dozen feet before skiing down the very steep pitch about a ¼ mile. Only the best skiers could ski that run in those days (subsequently the operators shaved off the Cornice to allow average skiers the opportunity to ski the top of the mountain), and Pat and I were determined to master that run. We succeeded in getting down the run without getting killed, although we surely didn’t earn many points for style.
Over the next few years, now living with Charlie and her four boys while working for the Riverside County Planning Department, I skied Mammoth whenever the opportunity presented itself. There were several of my co-workers who skied, Charlie gave it a go, and my parents and brother and sister-in-law were learning, too, so there were always opportunities to ski. I told Charlie that I would marry her when I graduated (March, 1974), but she would have to ‘guarantee” me twenty ski days a year once we were hitched.
Our bunch of friends and relatives skied at a number of places over the years (Heavenly Valley, Alpine Meadows, Squaw Valley, Big Bear resorts, Jackson Hole, Park City, Mount Baldy, etc.) but our favorite was Mammoth due to its accessibility, its size, amenities in town, and the challenging ski runs. I was a bit more athletic and adventurous than the people I skied with and liked to challenge myself, so I’d steer towards moguls and Diamond runs (“expert”) for the adrenaline rush. I can remember vividly the first time I took on Climax, which is an extremely steep run just off of the Gondola shack at the top of the mountain. I stood at the top staring over my ski tips at the tiny skiers several hundred yards below, thinking, “If I fall, I’m dead!”. I pushed off, made a few quick turns, got into a rhythm, and skied the run like a pro. I was so proud of myself.
For a while, I skied Nastar races at Mammoth. These were amateur Giant Slalom events where the competitor was racing against the clock for medals. I won a few but was never an earth-shaker: there would be no Olympics for me.
I taught Charlie’s boys how to ski at Mammoth. They quickly mastered the basics and could at least snow plow down most slopes, even Jonathan who was maybe eight years old at the time. One day, I decided to take them on Chair 9, which accesses a back part of the mountain where most folks don’t go. The long run under Chair 9 was doable by the kids, but the initial slope just off the lift (called Ricochet, I think) was steep, something that the kids would have to tackle slowly. The three older ones did okay, but poor Jonathan fell and slid down the steep slope on his back maybe 400 yards, screaming the whole way and taking a few somersaults off moguls, to boot. The tough little guy shook it off and skied down the rest of Chair 9 run without mishap. I was so proud of him.
(Speaking of moxie, son Jeff knew no fear: he was a wrestler in high school and tough as nails. At some point, he asked if he could try Chair 23. That is the lift that accesses the Wipe Out chute off of the top of the mountain, generally considered the toughest ski run at Mammoth. Jeff really didn’t have the skills for that run, but he wanted to try it. So, we went up there. It was a very steep, narrow chute, with jagged volcanic rocks presenting hazard to skiers who lost control. I went ahead of him, demonstrating how and when to turn. Jeff took off, fell immediately, and tumbled down the entire chute, luckily avoiding the large, jagged rocks. After dusting himself off, he said, “Let’s do it again, Dad!” We did, and this time Jeff made it down without falling. It was amazing.)
Thanks to the lessons learned at Mammoth, the four boys and I later did some skiing up in Idaho at Bogus Basin and at Sun Valley. They loved it.
Their mother was game to try skiing, but just wasn’t cut out for it. Charlie had never been an athlete of any kind, was uncomfortable and stiff on skis, and was apprehensive, expecting to fall and get hurt. She did, often, beginning the first time she rode a poma lift at Mammoth. I always joked with her that the ski patrol guys and the folks in the emergency hut knew her by name, like, “Charlie’s back!” I have to give her credit for trying, because I know she did it for love and to make skiing a family affair. Finally, many years after those first mishaps, we were skiing at Heavenly Valley up in South Lake Tahoe when she took a spectacular fall on the Von Kleinschmidt Trail, appearing to hurt her neck. Another trip to first aid in the ski patrol basket for her. She hadn’t broken any bones but the episode broke her spirit and that was the end for her. She wasn’t much of a skier, but she sure enjoyed the travels and socialization that came with those ski trips all over the western U.S.
One of my clearest memories of Mammoth skiing was with my parents. The were rudimentary skiers at the time, able to handle very modest slopes. There was a nice ski area on the back of the mountain (“Red’s Lake”) which would be suitable for them; however, going there required taking the gondola to the top of the mountain, working one’s way over the Red’s Lake runs, and then returning to the front side of the mountain via a long “snowcat” trail along a steep ridge. My parents did okay until that final piece of business, when they both fell (separately) and slid on their backs about 1,000 feet down the icy slope called Paranoid Flats. Prior to the falls, I had told my Mom, “Trust me, you can do it!” Needless to say, I don’t think she ever trusted me again on a ski mountain.
(That reminds me of another skiing story with my Dad and brother Terry that also made my Mom a bit mad. We were on a family ski vacation at Park City, Utah and it just so happened to be a very skimpy snow year: lots of thin coverage and bare spots. It was the end of the ski day, and the three of us were schussing down the Olympic Downhill run. There was a snowcat trail cutting across the run which was bare in spots. I was ahead of the other two, saw what was coming, quickly turned right, then left over a ledge and across a “snow bridge” and continued on my way. The other two didn’t see what was coming, and they flew off the small cliff and landed unceremoniously in the dirt and rocks. My Dad got a nasty gash in his forehead, dusted himself off, and continued down the slope to the bottom where my Mom was waiting at a large, outdoor barbeque area. We arrived with my Dad’s face almost wholly covered in blood and my Mom just about died. He required a few stitches and, of course, I got blamed by my Mom.)
In the early years skiing a Mammoth, we would hustle to get in line and be the first on the hill early in the morning. It was very cold then, particularly if it was snowing and/or windy. We were like athletic popsicles out there, shivering, with frozen snot in our nostrils. I can recall taking a bota bag of wine or a couple of cans of beer up on the mountain in the morning and burying it so that we would have some refreshment later in the day when the sun was high and we were bushed. It tasted like champagne. What a life!
(Speaking of nourishment, part of the Mammoth experience was stopping for a good meal coming up Hwy 395 on Friday night and heading south on Sunday afternoon. Our favorite places were Bobo’s Bonanza in Lone Pine and BBQ Bill’s in Bishop. My brother Terry and I would load up at the latter, because they had an “all you can eat” special. (Speaking of pigging out, there was an ice cream parlor in Mammoth Village (Swenson’s, I think) where we would go from time to time. They had a special menu item (the Avalanche?) that was a huge bowl of ice cream scoops, various gooey toppings, bananas, sprinkles, and whipped cream… intended for a group of four. My brother Terry once ordered one… and ate he whole thing himself!)
I can’t remember the last time I skied at Mammoth… it must be over 30 years ago. That is because, back in 1993, I blew a disc in my back while skiing with some friends at Heavenly Valley in Lake Tahoe. That injury required surgery and some rehab. I tried skiing one more time, again at Heavenly, about a year later, proved to myself that I could still do it, and then hung up my skis permanently. I had nothing left to prove on skis.
No more Mammoth for me.