The Log of a Snow Survey
Skiing and Working in the Winter World of the Sierra Nevada
by
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At the old Horseshoe Meadow cow camp cabin I carefully examine my right ski, I flex it, and allow it to snap back. No buzzing sound comes from the ski and there is no visible crack. It seems OK, but I am concerned, for a broken ski in some conditions could be a major problem.
We head out towards Cottonwood Pass. Above the cabin are dense woods of lodgepole pine giving way to the foxtail pine at the upper elevations. We’re sheltered from the wind in the dense forest and slide along the headwaters of Cottonwood Creek in a real winter wonderland. The chickaree squirrels are out, bouncing from limb to limb and scolding us as we pass. Pine marten tracks in the fresh snow indicate that a chickaree hunter is on the prowl. We call them pine martens, but they are really the American marten, cousins to the European pine marten.
The chickaree squirrel (Douglas squirrel) is an athletic bundle of energy, a little gymnast. The jumps they make from tree to tree are remarkable. These little guys need to know just what jumps they can make in their territory to elude the larger, but equally gymnastic American marten, who dine on the little chickaree. The Chickaree practices his longest jumps when the snow is
The little Chickaree squirrel
deep and powdery so if he doesn’t make his mark he simply falls in two feet of soft powder. Judging from the number of marten tracks in the snow, the chickarees need to have their wits about them today. Martens are in the weasel family, a family of energetic, persistent predators that includes the weasels, martens, fishers, river otters, and wolverines. These American martens are ever on the move. A chickaree for breakfast, brunch, lunch, dinner or a midnight snack is what martens were built for, what their dreams must be made of. No deep snoring sleep for the little chickaree.
The name chickaree is fitting, for their Oui-ro, Oui-ro qui, qui, qui, qui, qui, qui-ro scolding call is loud, persistent and often just over one’s head. They don’t like anything in their territory and sound off with their scolding to deer, coyotes, mountain lions, owls, hawks, bears, snow surveyors and of course martens. Their scolding is a warning call to
American Martin
other chickaree but it also “gives away” the presence and position of other things present and moving through the forest. They are little newspapers, little loud shouters, these chickarees. They most certainly were used by Native Americans to locate larger game. If you are sitting somewhere quietly eating lunch and you hear the Chickaree some distance away, giving his scolding call, you can bet there is something else moving through the forest nearby.
The last 1500 feet of climbing to reach the east side of Cottonwood Pass is often best negotiated up an avalanche path that is a tangle of willows in the summer or on low snow years. Today, due to an average snow pack, it is a beautiful white rolling open slash in the mountain side. There is little avalanche danger where we stand since it hasn’t snowed heavily for two weeks and the weather has been calm and mild, but the spindrift snow blowing over the pass today is a bit of a worry. It could build on the lee side of the pass in this type of wind quickly and the surface layer could become deep and unstable.
We decide to ascend north of the avalanche path at the edge of a forest of gnarled foxtail pines. These are remarkable trees, few reach more than thirty to thirty-five feet in height, but some grow to girths of four, five, six feet or more in diameter. They have beautiful reddish bark with many exhibiting sun scalds on their lower trunks. Sun scald is where the bark is gone, actually killed by the intense solar radiation reflected from the snow; it is a sun burn more or less. This raw wood on the south side of the tree weathers to golds, reds and deep browns.
Foxtail pines seem friendly, dignified trees; they are closely related to the Bristlecone pine, the oldest known living thing on earth. Some of these trees here on Cottonwood Pass must be well over two thousand years old. A sprig of their needles in hot water makes a fine mountain tea.
Just under the pass we are forced to traverse an area that often avalanches. We could ski north a mile and climb another four hundred feet to a notch above the main pass that never slides, but today we assess the situation and feel it is safe for there is little spindrift where we must traverse and the underlying snow is stable. We put on parkas, wind pants, over-mitts, and chinch our parka hoods tight in the lee of a cliff. Dave leads off. I look back at Murt; he is wearing two colorful but well blackened oven mitts for gloves.
I cock my head in a questioning manner. “Quaint,” I say.
He shrugs, “I forgot my gloves so borrowed these from the Sawmill Cabin”.
Well, I suppose oven mitts for two weeks of skiing on the Kern will likely work just fine.
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About the Book
Snow surveyors throughout the world get to see what most of us only dream about: stunning terrain, birdlife and animals rarely seen in lower elevations, and stars that seem close enough to grab.
Patrick Armstrong reveals the little-known world of a snow surveyor in this fascinating account, transporting readers into the remote winter world of the Sierra Nevada in California.
High in the mountains, Armstrong and his companions must cross twelve-thousand-foot passes and dig through snow to gain entrance to rock or log cabins for shelter at night. Traveling on skis, they often traverse more than a hundred miles each month during the winter and in the process climb and descend twenty or thirty thousand feet.
This account also provides important and practical information on topics such as safe winter travel on skis, avalanche prediction and avoidance, cabin life, cooking on and maintaining wood-burning stoves, wildlife, and birdlife.
Whether you’re involved in snow surveying and snowmelt water management or you’re just someone who enjoys the winter, wilderness, and the mountains, prepare yourself to enter a beautiful and remarkable winter world that has its dangers and sublime beauties.
About the Author
Patrick Armstrong has three grown children and lives with his wife Merry in Bishop California. He was on the U.S. Biathlon team in 1972, and has enjoyed skiing his entire life. He has been a chemistry and electronics instructor at the College of Idaho; a wilderness supervisor for the Forest Service, a trail building contractor, an Alaska commercial fisherman, and a rancher in Idaho. He began doing snow surveys in 1972.