The East Side
In 2024, I lived and worked out of a 30-year-old camper that I transformed into a mobile home. When I first bought it, it was bare-bones — a relic from another era — but over a few focused weeks, I outfitted it with solar panels, a compact battery bank, and a satellite Wi-Fi setup, allowing me to live and work completely off-grid. A month after pulling out of my driveway in Maryland, I had crossed the country and landed in the heart of the Eastern Sierra. There, surrounded by granite spires and alpine lakes, I spent the winter chasing remote backcountry ski lines. My journey took me deep into iconic zones like Yosemite, the rugged Palisades, and the snow-covered slopes of Mount Williamson — each peak offering solitude, challenge, and wild beauty.
Here is my tale of ski the Giant Steps Couloir on Mount Williamson:
Mount Williamson is the second tallest peak in the Sierra, behind Mount Whitney, the tallest peak in the Lower 48. Standing at 14,379 feet, the mountain is the 6th tallest peak in the lower 48. Williamson first came on my radar back in 2021. In an episode of the 50 Project, professional skier Cody Townsend climbed Mount Williamson to ski the Giant Steps Couloir.
Mount Williamson (left) and the cows
The line is described as one of the last unsolved puzzles of the Sierra. In fact, the line was not skied until 1998. Mount Williamson stands out among other massive mountains when traveling down the scenic Highway 395. A faint crack can be seen when driving. The near-vertical snow patch is the Giant Steps Couloir.
In the episode of the 50 Project, Cody Townsend said he believes only a handful of parties have ever skied the couloir. The approach or intense exposure of the line could certainly play into scaring away even the biggest crushers in the Sierra. Based on the blog posts and trip reports online, I believe this line is skied more than Cody thought. That still might mean Giant Steps only sees action a couple of times a year. Timing the snow and weather generally allows for the couloir to be skied for a few weeks of the year.
I spent 6 weeks in the Spring of '23 living in Bishop. It was only my second year backcountry skiing, and even the thought of Giant Steps scared me. Nonetheless, I dreamed of summiting Mount Williamson and giving Giant Steps a go. It wasn't a matter of if, but when.
Alas, one year later, I was living in a camper. After several weeks in Colorado, I made my way to the Eastern Sierra. I would frequently stay off Onion Valley Road, offering excellent views of Mount Williamson. I have at least 50 pictures on my phone of the mountain. Pictures after fresh snow, first light in the morning, cloudy days, and so on. I had grown obsessed with the peak. Being able to stay in its presence even brought me gratitude. It's difficult to describe why certain landscapes or features take hold of us so tightly, but Mount Williamson had its grip on me.
Mount Williamson directly above White Lighting
Late in the winter, I decided it was time to ski Williamson. The Avy forecast justified an attempt, boosting my confidence due to the exposure on the mountain. On March 9th, I started at 1:00 AM up Baris Creek. The approach is gnarly. It is detailed in every blog and trip report about Giant Steps. To keep it short, it starts below 6,000 feet, in the desert. Miles of bushwhacking and off-trail travel eventually lead to a breathtaking, glacially carved amphitheater. In March of '24, there was snow during the entire approach. From the trip reports I had read, generally, snow could be avoided until you are out of the North Fork Baris Creek drainage. Ultimately, the route already involves a mega effort with nearly 10,000 feet of vertical gain, and snow from the get-go would only increase the effort.
I topped out on the summit at 5:30 PM. There were many times I wanted to quit and turn around, but for some reason, unbeknownst to me, I pushed forward. At 12,000 feet, you ascend a 1,000-foot couloir. I moved rather fast in this exposed section, which took a toll. After reaching the top of the gully, the last 1,400 feet to the summit felt like I was on my deathbed. I was literally crawling on all fours during parts of the final ascent. After a quick moment on the summit, I strapped on the skis to head down the East Face of Williamson.
At 13,000 feet, I crossed a small rocky section. I took off my skis to cross the talus and enter the couloir I had climbed just a few hours earlier. When putting my skis back on, my right boot would not snap into the binding. Whether I was exhausted or out of it from the climb, it took 5 minutes of fidgeting to realize ice had become compacted in the binding. By the time I cleared out the binding, the sun had set. I raced down and luckily made it to Baris Creek by the time it was pitch black out.
This excursion would take over 18 hours in total. The remaining hike back to my truck was just as gnarly as the way in. At 9:18 PM, I arrived back at the camper and rejoiced with food and water. I had made the mistake of carrying all my water with me (and not melting snow) and only took 80oz. Severely dehydrated and famished, I made myself a meal in the camper, contemplating why I seek Type 3 fun.
The coming weeks brought more snow. When seasons began to shift, warm temps followed. I continued to chase big lines in the Eastern Sierra, however, I could not stop thinking about Williamson. In nearly every trip report from Mount Williamson, some form of I am never skiing Williamson again was mentioned. Yet there I was, yearning to give it another go.
Six weeks later, I drove to the Baris Creek 'Trailhead' for one last time. I was leaving the Eastside on Sunday to meet some friends in Moab. It was my last chance for Giant Steps this season. Warm temperatures persisted in the Sierra for the last two weeks. With wet slides in mind, I decided I needed an early start to ski Giant Steps. On Friday, April 19th, I began my ascent at 6:00 PM.
The section of off-trail travel and bushwhacking went by significantly faster with daylight. I made quick work (by my standards) and found myself approaching the amphitheater in no time. The clear night and nearly full moon allowed me to skin up without a headlamp for significant portions of the ascent. Unfortunately, as with any endurance sport, the good times don't last. I reached the top of the 1,000 foot couloir at 3:30 AM and felt sick to my stomach. It could have been altitude or maybe foregoing a night of sleep, but I was unwell. In the small, snow-free rock section at the top of the couloir, I decided to take a dirt nap.
I set my alarm for 15 minutes and anticipated waking up fully charged and ready to go. Unfortunately, I ended up just lying on uneven, rocky terrain, shaking. I didn't actually sleep at all and just shivered from the cold. It reminded me of my sleepless nights fighting off hypothermia when I ran the John Muir Trail a couple years ago. When the alarm sounded, I slowly got up, put on my skis, and continued toward the summit.
I was lucky enough to experience a clear morning and one of the most awe-inspiring sunrises at 14,000 feet. The final push to the summit felt significantly better than my last attempt. I spent a brief moment on the summit before descending to find Giant Steps. The entrance to the couloir, like most aspects of the mountain, is convoluted.
Sunrise at 14,000 feet
It took me a few minutes to locate the entrance. Eventually, I found footsteps leading to the initial downclimb that led to Giant Steps. The day before, I met a few skiers intending to ski the East Face of Williamson. One mentioned he had seen on Strava that someone had skied Giant Steps in the past week. It had become clear; the footsteps were those of that skier. Some skiers will use ropes to rappel down the initial rocky section. Online, it is mentioned that the down climb is 5.6 or 5.7, however, from my experience, this seems unlikely. Although it was not a cakewalk, a few moves landed me on a traverse to the entrance of the couloir.
Upon the entrance, the footsteps stopped. I descended a 10-foot rocky section to make it to where the snow started in the couloir. There was a natural platform, sculpted by the wind, and a large boulder. Despite not sleeping in over 24 hours, I felt wide awake. The initial couloir was several hundred feet, ranging from 45-50+ degrees. It's rare for me to touch 45 degrees when skiing in the backcountry, making this couloir at the edge of my comfort zone. The combination of the steep pitch, 10,000 feet of vertical gain on my legs, and being sleep-deprived made the line feel all the more spicy. At the bottom of the steep gully lay a cliff. I tried not to think of the thousands of feet of air and a gruesome demise below. I anticipated anxiety and a knot in my stomach, yet I was experiencing pure presence.
My first turn was a success. It was far from clean, but my edge caught the chalky snow. It was clear my legs had been worked from the ascent. Amidst the next jump turn my skis crossed. L landed on my butt and began to slide. My thought of the looming cliff below came to the forefront of my mind. It quickly disappeared as I attempted to self-arrest and dug my ice axe into the snow. I fell in the direction of the granite wall of the couloir, and my skis, still locked into my boots, chattered against the rock for several feet.
The slide that felt like an eternity only lasted a few seconds. I paused for a second before attempting to carve out another platform. I was okay, and somehow my skis were as well. For some reason, I remember thinking it was a miracle my skis did not break. As I peered up at the section I slid down, I remembered a trip report of a skier downclimbing the initial section of the couloir due to the severity of the pitch. It appeared my lack of sleep had affected my decision-making since I completely forgot about not skiing the initial section of the couloir. I would like to think I could ski this section without error, as many skiers do; however, it will be a long time before I test this hypothesis. I continued to ski poorly for the remainder of the first couloir. The fall had gotten in my head.
The first two steps of Giant Steps are separated by a windblown snow lip. Entering the second couloir in Giant Steps requires sidestepping uphill about 10 feet to the lip. This section is much too steep to remove skis and extremely exposed. A slip will send you off the aforementioned cliff and into oblivion. Out of breath from skiing, I side-stepped up, toward the lip, planting my ice axe with each step. I found this to be the most exposed and nerve-wracking part of Giant Steps.
The next couloir was again in the 45 degree range. Maybe my legs were feeling better or my confidence was restored, but I skied this section with no problem. Albeit I was gassed, I was able to string a handful of jump turns together to create a coherent line. Again, another large cliff at the bottom of the couloir needed to be avoided. Luckily, the traverse to the final section of the couloir was significantly easier.
The last section of Giant Steps is around 40 degrees. Relatively speaking, that should make it the easiest section. The final couloir is a series of couloirs that offers a choose-your-own adventure route to the apron. This section would ultimately be the most cumbersome part of the entire day. I spent countless hours in the couloir attempting to route find, which included downclimbing several sketchy, rocky sections. I did my best to follow the two GPX files I had, but I would have needed to rappel to stay consistent with the route others had taken.
During the final couloir, it became clear my mental capacity was dwindling. I have never lost a ski down the mountain in the backcountry. In the final part of the couloir, my ski fell twice when attempting to put it on. This included my ski falling the final 500 feet of the couloir onto the apron. I watch it ricochet off the granite walls of the mountain, praying to God it did not break.
Finally, I had completed Giant Steps. I was hours behind schedule, and the heat of the day was intensifying, yet I did not care. My multi-year objective had been achieved. The route out and back to my car was luckily less complex. Still, it was extremely long. I had started 15 hours ago and had only completed half of the mileage.
On my way back, several rocky sections required me to remove my skis, rock hop, and place my skis back on. After crossing one of the final rocky sections, I dropped my skis back on the snow to start skinning again. As the ski hit the snow, it slowly started to take off downhill. The ski breaks were disengaged because I had been skinning, allowing the ski to travel down the gradual slope. The snow was soft, lending itself to postholing, and there was no way I could run to catch it. Eventually, the ski traveled out of sight, flying off what appeared to be a small cliff.
I postholed a quarter mile to retrieve the disobedient ski. Walking down the slope, I realized this could be a more serious situation than originally anticipated. The small cliff was a massive cornice. Spanning a few hundred feet and reaching 30 feet tall at its apex. Even more concerning, my ski was sitting 30 feet out on a thawing alpine lake. As I had mentioned, it had been warm for nearly two weeks, and a thawing lake or cornice failure could easily stop me from making it to Moab.
All of the snow had melted off the lake. The ice appeared transparent in sections. Basketball-sized puddles had formed in areas of direct sunlight. I sat for a moment at the lake. Contemplating how I even got into this situation. When I am in the mountains and things go awry, I almost always feel I have the proper decision-making skills to make a choice to keep me safe. However, I truly did not know what to do at that moment. Ultimately, I needed my ski to get down the remainder of the mountain. The question was if it was worth risking my life. For my first time in the mountains, I wanted to scream for help.
After a minute of feeling bad for myself, it was time to hatch a plan. The day was only getting warmer, and the ice was becoming more unstable by the minute. I used my voile straps to strap my poles together to give me some additional reach once out on the ice. After several rounds of walking out onto the ice and probing its integrity with my poles, I felt it was time.
I contemplated stripping down to my boxers. I was wearing my ski boots, which would act as ankle weights if I were to fall in. I decided not to disrobe. Once again, I questioned my ability to make safe decisions, seeing I had not slept in over 30 hours.
At that moment, I remembered an episode of Man vs Wild, where Bear Grylls demonstrated the importance of weight distribution on a frozen lake. Crawling on all fours distributes weight and decreases the chance of the ice breaking.
With one deep inhale and exhale, I began crawling onto the lake. I attempted to move quickly to reduce my exposure. Expecting to fall through at any moment, I made it to within 5 feet of my skis. I reached out my poles and hooked the binding with the snow basket. With a yank, the ski was back in my hands. In a slightly more sporadic manner, I moved across the ice back to safety.
I threw my skis back on, glanced at the cornice above, and sprinted out of danger. Giant Steps would pale in comparison to the surge of anxiety I felt retrieving my ski. Once in the clear, I took a deep sigh of relief, melted some snow to drink, and began the ski descent to Shepard Pass.
Many hours and miles later, I made it back to the camper. The day totaled 27 miles, 27 hours, and 12,500 feet of vertical gain. It's worth mentioning the hallucinations I experienced during my walk back to the camper in the desert. I did yell and attempt to scare away a mountain lion, which was ultimately a car camper. Sorry buddy. Nonetheless, it will be a long time before I attempt Giant Steps again.
