My breaths were shallow, my steps short. I hadn’t drunk enough water. It’s hard to believe that any activity on snow could produce this much sweat. Sweat dripped from my face, my quads shaky. I rarely get this fatigued. After all, I’ve hiked this peak dozens of times. But never like this.
Over the last decade or two, I’ve made a career of planning unique and mildly kooky trips around the world. Whether on foot, skis, bicycles, or boards, I look for interesting ways to get to beautiful places. As a Tahoe resident, avid backcountry skier and paddle enthusiast, I have often dreamt about paddle-to-ski missions on the lake. The idea of hopping on my board and paddling out on early morning glass to one of the world’s most scenic ski destinations had always been music to my ears.
Pulling off this current trip, while it had seemed simple in my mind, was like completing a Rubik’s cube.
The intricacies of reading the wind, water, sun, snow and light, combined with the complexities of scheduling, were a challenge. And, it turns out, finding people proficient in both sports, who also possess an affinity for frequent photo stops, is harder than it sounds. As spring drew closer, my days were spent studying the forecast, trying to overlap the best potential weather with the availabilities of the few people who expressed interest in joining me.
The idea was to paddle Tahoe’s West Shore to Emerald Bay while carrying ski gear, set up camp, and ski one of the Basin’s most iconic ski lines, linking what I would consider to be one of the region’s most unique multisport missions.
Emerald Bay is the gem of Lake Tahoe. Sparkling blue and green hues are surrounded by gardens of granite, high mountain peaks, and dense forest, making it one of the area’s most visited State Parks. Its most fascinating feature is Fannette Island, Tahoe’s only island. Carved out by glaciers thousands of years ago, it is now home to a small “Tea House” built by the former residents of Vikingsholm Castle.
During big winter storms, the highway circumnavigating Lake Tahoe is often closed for days due to high snowfall and avalanches in Emerald Bay. With the road closed, the area is sealed off from the rest of Tahoe, making water and foot the only access. The caveat: those same winter storms often bring high winds and frigid water temperatures, making for dangerous paddle conditions.
It soon became abundantly clear that planning this mission would be much more difficult than the expedition itself. The recipe was simple. I needed snow on the ground, glassy water, and no wind. Trying to line it all up led to weeks of stress and backtracking. Partners were swapped with new partners, and the dates were changed at the last minute, only to be changed again. Time was running out: in April, the radiant Tahoe springtime sun bakes the snow, and ski conditions deteriorate quickly.
By early March, there was little, if any, snow on lower elevation south-facing aspects. Then, later that month, old man winter reared his head. Back-to-back, cold, low-elevation snow moved into California. Could this be the window?
My new dry suit and boards arrived days after that first storm had passed, leaving a deep coat of fresh snow blanketing the region. I had a crew in place, and we hoped to utilize the new PaddleWays app to map out our intended route, locate boat ramps and beaches and dial in our logistics.
Then, suddenly, we were entrenched in back-to-back storm-day skiing cycles. Deep, blower snow and high winds kept Tahoe residents smiling ear to ear, but we were hiding in the trees. When the sun finally poked its head out of the clouds, Brennan Lagasse, my longtime backcountry ski partner, and I set out to scope the surroundings.
The road was closed, but Cal-Trans was moving quickly to reopen it. The snow movers and plows had already cleared a quarter of the closure by the time we dropped into our ski line. We may have missed our window to paddle into the Bay while it was closed off to the rest of the world, but at least we had the snow and a plan.
***
The forecast for the next 10 days looked convoluted, with major fluctuations in temperature and strong winds. There was no certainty of sunshine, no “perfect” day in sight. My wishy-washiness in choosing the “right” day and my partners’ ever-changing plans had me rolling the dice.
Lagasse, Jason Layh, and I parked at the road closure gate before dawn on April 4th. Under a muted, cloud-filled sky, we loaded our boards with wetsuits and dry bags. Using 12-foot NRS straps, we lashed our boards to our waists like sledges used in Arctic cross-country travel. We dropped into the bay on skis, towing the boards behind us. We planned to make turns on the island in Emerald Bay before touring up the surrounding peaks.
The snow was fast and firm, and we were forced to check our speed due to the speed of our boards racing us. A frigid wind began brewing from the east. This was a problem. We quickly donned our dry suits and paddled to the island, only to find it fully inhabited by aggressive Canadian geese who had zero interest in our futile ski efforts. A serpentine hiss and flare of wings greeted our every step. We eventually reached the tea house but opted out of skiing for fear of disturbing the nesting wildlife.
Returning to our boards, we realized this wasn’t our day. We paddled into a headwind and retreated to our vehicles.
Back at my desk, the upcoming forecast wasn’t inspiring. The weather was unsettled, and so were my partners. When one found a day free, the others were booked. A few more days had passed. Tahoe was starting to warm. This fabled mission looked cursed.
Looking ahead, a windless Wednesday beckoned—and none of my previous volunteers were available. Out of the blue, I texted Kelsey Wittles and Sam Allen, avid skiers and lifestyle models whom I met on a photoshoot a few weeks prior. It seemed like a long shot. We didn’t know each other well, and I knew nothing about their interest in paddling. But they jumped at the opportunity. Even more surprising was that they fit into the dry suits I had set aside for my original partners.
On a chilly spring morning, we staged at a private beach in Rubicon Bay. We stashed our ski boot liners in our dry bags before fixing our skis and boots to the deck. The good thing about my recent strikeout—I knew what needed to be done.
Originally, I had hoped to nail both the paddle, the hike, and the ski in perfect conditions. As we paddled southbound on predawn glass, all that mattered was the moment.
We kept an easy pace, seamlessly following each other’s silhouettes. A thin layer of ice glazed over my board as the morning dew froze instantly. Right on schedule, the sun rose over the Carson Range to the east, lighting up the water and igniting the surrounding peaks. It was pure serenity, no other sign of humanity in sight.
The higher the sun rose, the more colorful the spectrum of blues that make up Lake Tahoe became. A series of granite walls jutted out from the depths of the lake as we neared D.L. Bliss State Park. A lone osprey cried out from its nest high atop a dead tree.
For the next four-plus miles, we dug in slowly but steadily toward the mouth of Emerald Bay, taking in views of Rubicon Ridge to the west and Mt. Tallac towering southwest in the distance. It was still technically ski season, and none of us were in paddle shape. Rather than stress our lack of paddle fitness, we luxuriated in long breaks to soak in the early springtime sunshine.
The sun was high in the sky when we finally approached the boat campground in Emerald Bay. In a perfect world, instead of beginning our ascent at this hour, we would have been skiing, as the snow would have transitioned to perfect corn (a type of snow characterized by large, rounded grains formed by repeated cycles of melting and freezing, known for its smooth, consistent texture).
No point focusing on could’ve or should’ve, however. A touch tired yet ready to roll, we transitioned from dry suits to ski gear at a small camp near the water’s edge. Kelsey would be heading out after our ski tour, so we opted to haul her board to where the trail met the road. I was shocked to see that the snow we had skied down a few days’ prior had completely melted, leaving mud in its wake.
After stashing the Clipper 110 in the trees, we proceeded to the start of the climb. It was hot. Worried about wet slides in steeper sections of the snow, we made our way cautiously upward. One foot in front of the other, we toured toward the ridge where a selection of chutes and couloirs beckoned 2000-plus feet above. From there, we would select our line and ski back toward the lake.
Short on water and already dehydrated, I paused in shade wherever I could find it. I was drenched in sweat, the sun baking hot overhead. Roughly an hour and a half later, we reached the saddle. After witnessing a few rollerballs falling down the slope, we opted to ski the “Y Chute” instead of our initial choice.
Elated and knackered, we topped out our line and exchanged high-fives. Emerald Bay shimmered gently below us while Cascade Lake, Fallen Leaf Lake, and the rest of the Sierra spread in succession southward. An open blue canvas spread out to the east, flanked by the jagged granite pillars lining our soon-to-be ski run.
The most difficult sections of our multisport were behind us. All that was left was a stunning descent down 2000 feet of variable snow.
One by one, we dropped. Fast, glorious turns up high were intertwined with slow, gloppy turns lower down the slope. We hooted and hollered down to the road at Highway 89. Kelsey and her dad waved goodbye as they left for work. Sam and I stashed our skis and continued back to the water’s edge, where I waded out into the frigid lake to cool my aching bones.
As I painfully hauled my gear back up to the road, my hip aching from the constant bump of the board, I was consumed by the thoughts of the mission. The first was, “What the hell am I doing?”
For most of my adult life, I have taken pleasure in Type 2 fun. Rarely do I embark on anything “easy.” When we set out in the morning, I was blown away by the calm and majesty of the experience. The climb worked me. There were moments when I just wanted to sit down and take a nap. When we finally started skiing, I felt euphoric, relieved that we were about to pull this thing off. But hauling that gear back up to the road, I immediately began to question myself again.
Could I have done something differently? Should we have left earlier in the morning to ensure better snow conditions? Was there a way to nail both the skiing and the paddling? Should we have stayed for multiple days or even returned the following day?
Yet, had we waited even a few more days, this mission would not have been possible. The conditions had completely changed from when Brennan and I had skied in Emerald Bay a week prior. The snow had deteriorated even more from when Brennan, Jay, and I had attempted this just a few days earlier. In the days following, the snow completely melted out. As I warred with my “should haves,” I realized that in taking the less than perfect moment, I managed to achieve something I had been dreaming of for years.
Besides now having the memories – and photos – of this epic mission in my back pocket, I managed to learn a couple of lessons. Just because I want something to happen doesn’t mean that it should or will happen. I can’t control the weather, and I certainly can’t control the lives of others. All I can do is continue to come up with unique ideas and see how they play out.
On paper, this wasn’t a crazy undertaking. If I had done it myself, I could’ve accomplished my goal on any given day when the conditions lined up. But that wasn’t the point. I used to travel the world solo, looking to empower myself. These days, I want to share my experiences. It’s nice to know that there are people out there who share the same hopes and want to share the same experiences.
Now, I realize that if I lay out the idea, hopefully the pieces will fall into place— even if it isn’t the exact plan I proposed. It might even be better.
***
Guest Contributor Ryan Salm has made it his career to travel to the far off reaches of the globe, sharing his experiences through photography, cinematography and photo journalism. Ryan’s most recent projects combine action sports with unique locations and possibly unknown cultural events. You can find more of his work at RyanSalmPhotography.com.