Solo Mission to Wrightwood
I woke up Sunday morning with a hangover from the two and a half pints I had the night before. I just cannot handle drinks anymore. It was early, maybe 7 am and I had fallen asleep around 2:30 am. I drifted in and out of consciousness but finally forced myself out of bed at 8 am. I had loose plans to go skiing solo but I really could not face the drive. I sat around for another hour before forcing myself into ski clothes and then I hit the road. Gassed up, topped off the oil, checked tire pressure, and I was on Highway 163 by 9:30 am.
I arrived at Highway 138 around 11:15 am. The mountains looked ominous with storm clouds blanketing them and dark tendrils drooping into the curves and valleys. Halfway up visibility was nil, maybe 30 yards. I kept driving, too far to turn back. I almost missed the Highway 2 turnoff. I saw it at the last second through the haze and swerved over to the turning lane. Highway 2 had much better visibility.
Traffic up to Mt. High was mild until the last three miles, which were stop and go. It was 11:45 am when I arrived at the east lot. The sign read “Both Mt. High lots are full, please park legally on Highway 2.” I pulled into the first illegal spot I found, hoping that I could see my car from the express lift should the parking nazis find their way up to my car. I put my boots on, loaded my skis onto my shoulder and hiked a couple hundred yards back to the resort.
I had remaining points from my last trip, so I boarded the lift immediately. The guy I rode up with was friendly. He skis three to four days a week; he lives in Phelan. “We don’t get conditions like this very often” he said. “That’s why I made the drive” I replied.
He was right. I’ve never skied powder in the LA mountains. We used to call the heavy snow “Sierra Cement” up in Tahoe, but it was fun regardless. I cruised down the main run into the Olympic Bowl. Despite being skied out, it was a relief- something I really needed. The conditions could not have come at a better time, I had not surfed in weeks due to small surf and urban runoff. I got to the end, popped a smooth 180 off a jump and got back in line.
I skied that run ten more times, mixing it up by alternating tree routes and open faces around the bowl. I followed a few Mt. High ski team members to a secret stash and made some nice knee deep turns through a narrow tree chute. Followed that one with a mini tree jump. Back in line.
Cautious, I never forgot to check my car on the lift rides. On my eighth trip up I heard law enforcement announce, “Anyone parked over the white lines will be towed.” Amazing how that broadcast carries up the mountain. I was definitely parked over the white line. I skied another run and on my way back up the lift, I noticed that the car parked behind mine was gone. I raced down, popped off my skis and ran to my car in my ski boots. Still there, false alarm. I was done anyway, exhausted. I must be getting older- heavy powder is heavy on the legs and lower back.
I warmed up, u-eed and drove down out of the mountains. At the base I stopped off at Mormon Rocks. I’ve always wanted to take photos, and this- being my first solo trip to Mt. High- was the perfect opportunity. Continuous activity on the southern San Andreas fault caused tilted rock layers to shoot out of the ground, over a hundred feet in some areas. I pulled into the deserted parking lot and ran up a path for a good few viewpoint, snapped some shots, and headed back to my car. I love these random stops on road trips as they usually yield random but memorable photographs.
A couple miles down the road, Highway 138 meets Interstate 15. It was at this point that my iPod ran out of power, two hours shy of San Diego. I was getting tired, the skiing and minimal sleep the night before were catching up to me. About a half mile short of the 15/215 interchange, I felt a huge impact on the right side of my car. I still had control but things were getting squirrelly. It actually went away for a minute or so, then it started getting really bad. I pulled over, got out and burning rubber filled my senses. My rear right tire was in shreds. I called AAA, concerned about riding on a spare after riding on my rim for over a mile.
I drove straight to Discount Tire in Rancho Cucamonga, but it was closed. Damnit. Luckily Sears was right up the road. The blowout was just a warning, so I opted for a set of new tires. “Wheel alignment?” he said. You better believe it. “Plus an oil change, please.” Two and half hours later I was on my way home. I listened to the radio the entire time just to stay awake. I got back around 8:30 pm.
