THE PATCH

The morning of August 20, 2005 would start out like a typical summer day on the shores of Newport Beach, CA. Droves of vacationers and their kids up at the crack of dawn preparing for a relentless assault on an already battered beach. Normally this way-too-loud-for-Saturday-morning ritual would have sparked a flurry of profanities. Instead, I felt a wave of serenity—I was headed to the hills in search of some very late-season first tracks.

Rumor had it that in big snow years, like this epic past season, a steep and sheltered canyon high in the San Gabriel Mountains would fill in with copious amounts of the white stuff. The sheer walls of the canyon would cause snow to slide down the sides and a road would act like a dam. With nowhere to run the snow just keeps piling up, giving it a hefty layer of armor against the scorching high altitude rays.

Somehow I had loosely convinced two of my friends to join me on this endeavor (not an easy task considering we’re looking for snow in the dead of a SoCal summer). After a few demanding wake up calls I had assembled my crew and we were off to an undisclosed spot not far from the slopes of Mountain High.

When we arrive at a “road closed” sign, make a quick glance around for park rangers and hurry to grab our gear. The road had apparently been damaged from the heavy winter and if the Man got wind of our idea, the mission would be a bust. With backpacks and snowboards in tow, we head up the road.

After scurrying to make it around the first bend and out of the sight , we realize that none of us know exactly how far it is. One of the guys had been up there several years ago but time, among other things, has taken a toll on his once perfect memory. It’s somewhere in the range of one to three miles and we all hope to find our treasure in the first mile. Fifteen bends in the road later just passing the first mile marker, we’re startled by a thick German accent, “On zer left!” We barely have time to jump out of the way of two bicyclers storming up the road. And as if rub it in our face, he adds “So, ver’s de snow! As they ride off cackling, we have to laugh at our situation. He was right, we hadn’t seen a sign of winters’ lasting mark and the steps weren’t getting any easier.

Finally, around the next bend, we see an unmistakable gleaming chunk of the white stuff. We would have jumped for joy had our legs allowed it.

Upon closer inspection, it’s apparent the gleaming scene witnessed from a distance has been somewhat tarnished by summer’s fierce grip. A huge pond has formed at the edge of the road leaving a good 15-foot cornice drop from the snow above. Regardless, we gear-up while staring our over the Mojave Desert. We cross a sketchy ice bridge and race to the top of the snowfield. We find a tiny booter halfway up with the option of a log slide on one side. This setup wouldn’t mean a thing in winter but in this particular situation, it might as well been Superpark. At the summit we survey our route. There was basically only one and it would consist of a few turns, a very quick air or jib and a swift stop before entering a treacherous zone of body impaling sticks. As soon as I dropped in, it was like tunnel vision. As ridiculous as it sounds, I could have been dropping into Breck’s park or doing a first descent in Alaska. The few turns felt as good as any in winter, and the kicker with no kick turned out to be the perfect stage for bringing back some old school style.

After numerous laps and a few close calls, our bag of tricks was running low and we decided to head out on a good note. Our efforts had been rewarded with a glimmer of winter--if only for a few hours. We all hiked back to the top for one last run (but didn't call it) and dropped back into summer.