Report from May 10, 2026
I’ve always said I’d only try Red Slate if it was a big snow year, yet there I was at 5:30 am, head down, pounding a dirt trail in sneakers and heavy pack, praying for snow to show up within 5 miles…
2025/26 has been a dry one around here and the unprecedented heat wave in March really put a dent in the California snowpack.
Red Slate Mountain
“North Couloir”
Sierra Nevada, CA
- Summit (actually a notch): 12,860 feet
- Car: 7,588 feet
- Vertical From Car: 5,785 feet
- Vertical Skied: 2,020 feet in the chute down to Constance Lake (another 900 vert down to the big meadow, then another 800 vert down the canyon to the washed out bridge – all transportation skiing)
- Max Pitch: 45º
- Average Pitch: 45º
- Aspect: North
- Distance: 18.58 miles round trip
- Car to Summit Time: 7 hours and 4 minutes
- Car to Car Time: 11 hours & 52 minutes
- Recommended Equipment: crampons, ice axe, skins
Up at 4:15 am.
Walking by 5:34 am.
The day felt like a test.
Tall Carl said he’d made it to the top in 6.5 hours two weeks ago.
My goal was 7 hours and I knew to hit that mark, I’d have to move full speed all day and minimize breaktimes.
I started out blazing down the trail.
The secret to this day is that there are no real steeps until the very last 200 vertical feet.
When I first saw Red Slate early in the day, it appeared within reach.
An hour later, Red popped up again, clearly no closer, and I started doubting my intentions…
The first 4.4 miles of the day are on an immaculately groomed trail, allowing for long strides and quick, mindless steps.
After 2 hours with no breaks, I thankfully found snow.
A rugged creek crossing delivered me on snow right at the old washed-out bridge.
Shoes off, boots on.
The skinning was superb on grippy refrozen corn snow.
I moved well along the creek, taking my skis off here and there for quick portages across short snowless sections.
The deep canyon felt ominous, foreboding, unpretty.
After 6 or 7 portages, I hit Mildred Lake at 9,800′.
The Mildred Meadow is about 1 mile long and held little snow.
Skis on the pack, long heel-strike strides until the meadow gave way to rolling snow-covered hills.
Choose your own adventure up these puzzling humps.
The heat slammed down on me in this moment, lending urgency to my mission.
If everything went my way, I’d be topping out around 12:30 pm, which is approximately when the chute should be fully drenched in sunlight.
The humpy hills were the crux of the lower mountain, as they required route-finding and too many switchbacks.
I emerged from the hill country just above Lake Wit-So-Nah-Pah and had a decision to make…
Stay on the little ridge I was on and hope it connects to the plainly visible main route, or drop the 70 vertical feet down to the lake and take the straightforward path up.
I chose the former.
I was wrong.
I ended up climbing an unnecessary ridge and having to rock scramble down to the far side of the lake.
Back on track, I took a healthy break, fueled up, and got ready for the estimated 2-hour push up the final 2,000 vertical feet to the top.
Nothing but big switchbacks and a short bootpack stood between me and the first-hand knowledge of whether or not the sneaker entrance went.
My anxiety grew.
Would the sneaker entrance be skiable?
Would I have to downclimb?
Should I have brought a rope?
I was already spent.
I focused on breathing, kept my head down, and started grinding.
1,400 vertical feet and 60 minutes later, I made it to the last flat spot and took my final break of the climb.
I checked the numbers and saw that if I moved well, I’d hit the top at the 7-hour mark.
After a few more switchbacks on skins, I donned crampons and started cranking up the booter.
The snow was good enough for booting and I made good time to the top.
I crested the knife-edge ridge, gawked into the sneaker, and immediately felt relief.
The sneaker entrance was in.
Thank goodness…
I’d been nervous about it all day.
That’s one helluva long walk only to get to the top and see that the entrance is closed and you gotta go back the way you came.
My heart felt light, my anxiety vanished.
I took a decent break there on the knife and drank in the classic California summit weather – no wind, warm temps, blazing sunshine, not a cloud in the sky.
I could see Mt. Ritter and Banner, the Minarets, Crowley Lake, the White Mountains, the Sweetwater Range (where they heli-ski now), the green valleys down into the western Motherload, Yosemite, Mt. Laurel, and more.
The sneaker entrance looked like a ladder as everyone before me had side-stepped down.
I side-stepped, too, then tried a few turns.
The snow was awful.
Manky, sticky, sun-cooked, unconsolidated mush.
I fell over a couple of times when the snow started sliding underneath me.
I glided over to the little launch pad at the top of Red Slate’s north couloir exhausted.
I took off my skis and pack, sat down, and took another full break there, hoping my body could recover enough juice to ski with gusto.
It worked.
I dropped in not knowing exactly what to expect from the snow and was grateful to find 3 and a 1/2 star corn.
I got lucky.
It would’ve been sticky and horrible had the handful of skiers before me not skied off the rotten new snow in there.
Thanks, guys.
The bed surface they left corned up and skied nicely.
The good snow gave me confidence and I skied the first pitch a bit faster than I shoulda.
I cranked 15 fun turns before having to stop and huff the 63% effective oxygen for a minute or two.
11 more big turns – another break.
Then the finale of the run, where I was able to grunt out 39 turns down the choke, across the apron, and into the flats.
I was smoked.
I dropped my gear and collapsed on my pack, thrashing the air with my lungs.
Relief, satisfaction, and pride swept over me.
I’d passed the test.
The skiing was sticky and weird down to Constance Lake.
I no-skin-skinned across the suspicious blue-tinted melt-freeze lake ice to the mile-long meadow.
I stopped at the first good-looking stream I crossed, sat down, and guzzled a liter of water directly out of the stream.
I filled another bottle for the road.
Skis on the pack for the walk across the meadow where I saw dozens of small trout (German browns?), brilliant green algae, plenty of dead meadow grass (still not awakened from its winter slumber), and sly coyote tracks.
I drank in the gentle gurgling of these lazy meadow streams.
At the edge of the meadow, I reapplied my skis and glided down to the washed-out bridge where my shoes were (with about 6 skis off walking bits).
The dark, ominous gorge of the early morning hours transformed into a dazzling display of convoluted sedimentary rocks coming in an array of colors, favoring reds, oranges, and slate grays.
Steep cascades bashed down the mountainsides, screaming for stillness in the lakes and meadows below.
I was ecstatic to get those boots off…
Shoes felt exquisite and my pack felt heavy as I guzzled my last liter of water and leaned into the trail home.
To make it back to the car in under 12 hours, I had to cover the last 4.4 miles in about 90 minutes.
I lingered not.
Breathing only through my nose, I long strided the miles back to the car.
The lake felt impossibly far away.
Once I finally hit lakeshore, I knew I could hit the car in about 20 minutes if I hustled.
I stepped onto the parking lot asphalt 11 hours and 53 minutes after I’d left it.
I was thrashed.
I struggled to exchange words with a jovial youth from Bishop named Levi, who gave me 2 fresh strawberries.
Tart, spicy, and delicious.
I soaked my battered feet in the lake and let the heat of the day wash over me.
I ordered a Latin Market carne asada burrito and rolled home happy.
I was so tired that eating the burrito proved difficult.
I felt like a robot seeking fuel, not pleasure.
I don’t know if I’ll ever ski Red Slate again, but to me it felt like a test.
A test of will and fortitude that my mind needed.
I love the fact that I wasn’t sure if I’d make it or not.
Making it meant a lot to me.
Thanks, California.
Photos in Chronological Order
