I particularly love the view of San Jacinto from atop San Gorgonio, with the dramatic plunge of Cochella Valley in between. Looking east you can see a sweeping view of Palm Springs and the Low Desert, with Arizona visible on a clear day beyond. To the north is Big Bear Lake and the High Desert. South is San Diego and the Inland Empire. And to west, you’ll see Mount Baldy, the Santa Ana Mountains, the Pacific Ocean, and course the mighty Los Angeles Basin.

The real trick to climbing Mount Hollywood is to pick a clear day. Alas, as you might expect, your odds of success are poor in this regard. Winter offers the best chance of good visibility, especially if you go right after a storm has blown through. Spring can be good as well if you get the timing of the daily fog just right. In summer, expect a smoggy horizon and you won’t be disappointed.

The hike begins at the Griffith Park Observatory parking lot, elevation 1131′. The observatory is a worthy destination in its own right, built in 1935 as the realization of mining and real estate baron Griffith J. Griffith’s dream to build a public observatory and “Hall of Science” for the benefit of the people of Los Angeles.

Park your car at the observatory or, if the lot is packed (as is typical on weekends), wherever you can find space on the nearby road. From the parking lot it’s about 500 vertical feet and 1.2 miles to the summit of Mount Hollywood, following a meandering fire road that makes a series of long switchbacks.

Right away you’ll pass into a pleasantly shady glade with impressive city views plus occasional peeks at the Hollywood sign poking out through the trees.

The shade soon vanishes, however, and you’ll discover the real challenge of this hike: contending with that hot Southern California sun. If you haven’t brought water, you’ll probably soon be wishing you had. And a hat and sunscreen.

Follow the fire road across the bridge and keep walking. Scramblers can alternately take a more direct path, but the ground is steep and loose, and there is fall potential. Either way, the distance to the top is modest, and with a little effort you should soon find your way atop Mount Hollywood.

Thanks to the peak’s prominence and its central location, the summit offers very nearly unobstructed 360 degree views of Los Angeles, including downtown, which is less than five miles as the crow flies, the San Fernando Valley to the north, the San Gabriel Valley to the east, and, depending on air quality, pretty much every other major peak in Southern California.

And of course the Pacific Ocean to the west.

Congratulations! You’re not quite at the very top of the Santa Monica Mountains, but it sure feels like it. Surrounding you are the 4,210 acres of Griffith Park, the largest municipal park (give or take) in the United States. Enjoy this mad juxtaposition of city and wilderness. From here, the incomparable Los Angeles metropolis spans horizon to horizon in all directions.

You may be wondering if the view might not be even more spectacular at night. It probably would, but the park closes at night, and the trails close at dusk, and you probably don’t want to be sneaking around in the dark here even if you are willing to violate the closure. The area is not considered safe at night. That said, you might try to catch a piece of the sunset.

You can loop around the upper bluff of Mount Hollywood to rejoin the main trail from the opposite side if you choose. You can also hike right into the San Fernando Valley via more fire roads if you’ve thought to drop a car near the zoo, thus crossing the Santa Monica range. For now, head back down to your car—and don’t forget to check out the observatory.

Was I having dark premonitions at the start of the 2012-2013 winter? Maybe. But mid-December brought enough natural snow, combined with aggressive snowmaking, to make for good conditions at the Big Bear resorts. As for the SoCal backcountry, we’d get achingly close to seeing our favorite lines fill in, only to have the weather turn warm and dry for weeks on end.

There was a notable cold snap in early January to complain about. But really: being in L.A. when temperatures are near freezing is no fun at all. So I tried to stay optimistic and I kept skiing Snow Valley.

A well-timed trip to Telluride definitely made things better. They were having their own problems before we arrived, with a mountain that was at the margins of skiable. It began snowing right before we got there, and it snowed enough to cover the rocks and deliver us this magic day, which is one I’ll long remember.

I’ll also remember seeing the delight on my little girl’s face when she learned, this season at Telluride Ski School, how to ski all by herself, off the leash. Her older brother, meanwhile, went on a rampage of his own, ending up with him skiing the Drop Out Chutes at Mammoth—his choice, not mine. Consider me a very proud papa.

Back home I managed to catch a very brief window of opportunity on San Jacinto. And as it became clear that the Southland Mountains weren’t going to come back to life, there was Mammoth and lots of it. In a way I feel like I finally got Mammoth this past year.

No, there weren’t any powder days (for me), but conditions at the resort were still outstanding for much of the year, thanks to a heavy early season. And for once I found myself appreciating Mammoth for the quality of its skiing, rather than thinking about all the other things it is not. My frequent Mammoth trips this year coincided perfectly with my determination to unravel the mystery of steep skiing technique.

Trip after trip, I kept trying conventional wisdom and coming up short. And then, in a fit of experimentation in my kitchen, I suddenly came up with a new hypothesis that totally broke the technique wide open for me the next time I made it to Mammoth. The only problem now is I have to find the patience to wait all Summer to put it into practice.

On the subject of steep skiing, I finally found a piece of the missing Gringo Eskiador film, in which Patrick Vallencant skis the west face of Yerupaja. Among those who’ve heard of it, this descent has over the years achieved a sort of mythical status. Seeing actual moving pictures of it, if anything, only heightened my sense of awe at Vallencant’s daring.

My own backcountry accomplishments were far more modest: a descent of Esha Peak with SMG guide Jed Porter. Connecting with others was by far the overall highlight of my season. For those of you who shared turns with me, getting out there with you inbounds or out (mostly in) made the season a great one for me, snow or no snow. Thank you to everyone who put up with me and my camera all season long!

See you soon!

After two fun-filled days on the slopes comparing both skis, I found myself thinking they are best understood as two different approaches to solving the same problem. That problem would be our on-again, off-again love affair with the notion of the one ski quiver: one Ring Ski to Rule Them All. To cut to the chase, both Soul 7 and Bonafide are outstanding skis. They just come at the goal from opposite sides.

The Bonafide begins with a classic GS carver concept and adds All Mountain versatility from there. The Soul 7 begins with a progressive Powder plank and then dials in carving ability. There is an incredible amount of overlap between the two skis because they both do their jobs incredibly well. Yes, the Soul 7 is a powder ski with fabulous carving ability. And if you never need more flotation than 98mm underfoot, you probably won’t find a better powder ski than the clean-carving Bonafide.

So what is there to say when it comes to definitive distinctions between the two skis? First of all, the Bonafide is a better carver. Period. It is more nimble and snappy, it is a dream on long-radius turns across the hill, and it is surprisingly feisty when it comes to slashing slalom turns straight down the fall line. If you are a carver at heart, the Bonafide has got you covered in the All Mountain department.

I will mention what I believe is the ski’s one weakness: it feels a little aft-balanced to me, possibly as a consequence of its flip-core rocker construction. I find myself feeling just slightly back on the ski, particularly on hard (ie, frozen) snow surfaces. It’s hard to get on the tip of the ski. As things soften, that issues vanishes entirely, and at its worst, it’s still fairly subtle, so you may never even notice it.

As for the Soul 7, the ski feels dead perfect center when mounted on Rossi’s guide mark—wonderfully balanced for a ski with so many progressive elements. Overall, I say the Bonafide feels more traditional in character. The Soul 7 is undeniably a little bit New School, so for those of you who don’t want even an ounce of Freakiness, be advised.

Ultimately, I think I’d break it down this way: if 98mm underfoot is all the floatation you’ll ever need, the Bonafide reigns supreme. On the other hand, if you know you want more width, the Soul 7′s 106mm gives you undeniably more float and very nearly the carving chops of the Bonafide. So, two great skis, no doubt about it. Good luck picking between them.

Elsewhere I think (check me on this) that the road to Devil’s Post Pile has opened, or at least opened part way, and yes, Mount Ritter in the Mammoth Area still looks good up high, though you’ll be hiking a long way to get to snow there. My fear would be you’d arrive to find those snowfields, looking so tasty from a distance, turn out to be heavily textured up close.

There’s been a lot of dust and a lot of wind on those peaks and not much else. Rumor is Mammoth Mountain might push day-to-day past the holiday weekend, so perhaps we can eek out a few more good Climax hits before the long summer begins. For the backcountry-minded, skiing in the Sierra right now is probably a lot more like August than end of May. You’ll find snow if you know where to look for it, but don’t expect it to be pretty.

A big concern for me, with the Soul 7, was whether or not it was truly an ‘it’ ski. I spent about an hour on a demo pair in Winter Park, but that just isn’t much time, and it certainly isn’t under diverse conditions, and I’m always a little worried as to whether or not my memories of SIA skis are going to pan out here at home. So I was anxious when I snapped into my own Soul 7′s for the first time at Mammoth Mountain yesterday.

That anxiety resolved with remarkable alacrity. I’m not asking the Soul 7 to be a brilliant powder ski, to be honest. I want it to be a brilliant Mammoth ski. I want it to be credible enough on frozen early morning hardpack that I’m not cursing until the snow softens, and then as the day warms and things mush up, I want the ski to be an absolute monster on steeps, slush, and giant bumps.

In trying to formulate my thoughts on the Soul 7, I’m finding myself having difficulty believing my actual, on-the-snow impressions. It was that good! The Soul 7 might actually be more balanced on hard snow than the Bonafide (I find that sentence hard to believe). It is certainly outstanding across the mountain on soft snow, with abundant floatation, outstanding quickness, clean carving ability, and a just-right subjective zingy on-snow feel.

I have to point out that a pair of 172cm Soul 7′s weigh eight pounds zero point five ounces on my scale (lighter than a pair of Kabookies and basically dead even with a pair of Nunataqs), making them a fantastically viable choice for the backcountry. Is this an It ski? I think it is. I think this is one people will be talking about (and riding) for a long time, and I think I’d be doing all of you a huge disservice if I didn’t tell you to basically just go buy a pair now if you have any interest in this class of ski.

buy it: $699 at Backcountry

What was a week ago a big pile of brown dirt is now a gleaming white fin dominating the entire eastern horizon. Naturally I took one look at this and immediately wondered if the road to Barcroft is open. Here is yet another of the many, many California roads that shut down in winter and open just too late to offer skiers any kind of reasonable access to the snowline.

Paul Richins talked about this issue a lot in his guidebook (he recommended writing your Congressman), but all across California’s high country, year after year, the story remains the same: we’ve got lots of mountains. We just can’t (easily) get to them.

I returned from France determined to decode the mysteries of the technique men like Baud, Vallencant, and Boivin were using to ski the super-steeps. The turn they developed is generally known as the “Pedal Hop” turn, and even today, decades later, it remains a state-of-the-art technique for controlled descents of extreme terrain. The Pedal turn has been described in various ways, most typically as a hop turn executed from the uphill ski.

Armed with that concept, and ancient blurry PAL video frames, and every other scrap of information I could find, I tried to teach myself the turn. And I failed. And I kept trying. And I kept failing. Over time, I suppose I began to give up. I began to think that either I was somehow just anatomically unsuited for Pedal turns, or maybe even that the turn itself was overrated—that any number of other steep techniques were just as good.

Then I began skiing with my friend Trevor Benedict. On steep pitches, I soon noticed (1) his technique looked surprisingly similar to those grainy old PAL clips of the French masters and (2) his level of fluidity and control on steep pitches was vastly better than mine. Curiosity and pride combined in me with a vengeance, rebooting my mission to understand and master the Pedal turn.

STEEP GOALS

For the purposes of this article, we are concerned with a very specific turn. We want to begin and end this turn in a stationary, static position. No sideslipping to begin; we start from a standstill. We want to lose as little elevation as possible with each turn—we don’t want to drop a long distance, which in high-angle terrain is a safety threat.

We also want to conduct the turn within as narrow a lateral space as possible. Think of the confining walls of a steep couloir. We want our turn to take place entirely within those boundaries. We don’t want to have to slide horizontally into the turn, and we certainly don’t want to shoot out sideways (and out of control) at the end of the turn.

At its core, our hypothetically perfect steep turn takes place within the smallest possible three dimensional box. It must be efficient, it must be stable, and above all else, it must be reliable, turn after turn, in good snow and bad, so that we know we can depend on it no matter how desperate the situation.

THE CHALLENGE

To understand the steep turn, you first need to understand why it’s hard to do it. To be clear, I’m not talking about 30 or even 40 degree pitches. Steep skiing for me begins at and above 45°. Let’s take a quick look at what happens when the slope angle crosses 45°—and why that number is so significant. Go get a ski, right now, if you can. A shorter kid’s ski will be easier, but any ski will do.

Now set that ski flat on the floor. For the sake of visualization, let’s say the tip is pointing to the east, and the tail is pointing west. Expert skiers generally understand that to turn their skis they’ve first got to unweight them—that is, get their body weight off the ski, releasing or “unsticking” it so that it can be easily pivoted. In this case, we want to rotate the ski 180° east-to-west, so that tip and tail end up pointing in the opposite direction from where they started.

That’s one “turn”. Do it now, on the floor, just so you can see the motion. Those of you who are feeling especially lazy can use a pencil, or any other ski-shaped object. The principle remains the same. Rotate the ski 180 degrees, keeping it flat against the floor. Easy, isn’t it? This is the turn we all use every day on green, blue, and black pitches.

Now, let’s shift to the realm of the super-steep. Take your ski (or pencil) to the nearest wall, and place the ski level against the wall. This wall for us represents a high-angle slope. Yes, in this case it’s an unskiable 90° pitch, but it will nonetheless serve perfectly to illustrate a crucial point. Once again, let’s define the tip of the ski as east and the tail as west.

Once again, try to rotate the ski east to west just as we did on the floor, and look what happens: the wall gets in the way! You’ve just identified the fundamental challenge of the steep turn: we cannot simply rotate the ski as we do in flat terrain, because the hill blocks a horizontal pivot. Find a steep inbounds run, and you’ll see countless skiers—even seasoned experts—struggling with this problem. The uphill ski gets pinned against the hill.

THE UPHILL SKI

As it turns out, the common description of the Pedal Turn as “a hop turn executed off the uphill ski” gets one key thing right: it directs our attention to the uphill ski. Returning for a moment to our ski-against-the-wall example, let’s notice that the uphill ski will always be the closest to the wall, because the downhill ski is always at least a pelvis width farther out.

In practical terms, this means if the uphill ski has enough space to pivot without getting stuck against the slope, so too will the downhill ski have enough room. And if the uphill ski does not have enough room, it doesn’t matter what the downhill ski is doing—the turn is going to fail. This leads to an understandable error: we might think the solution is to create lateral, “outward” space between our ski and the hill, to enable us to rotate it.

Why is this approach a mistake? Remember our steep skiing goals: we want to fall as little as possible in between each turn. Yes, with an energetic leap outward, we may (or may not) be able to create enough space to rotate the uphill ski in a horizontal plane, but as a result we will certainly be dropping a long way in between turns, compromising control and safety.

A SOLUTION

Oddly enough, the answer to this dilemma can be found in our very first example: ski flat on the floor. Remember how you pivoted your ski on the floor? We’re going to do exactly the same thing (more or less) with our ski against the wall: rotate the ski so that it remains in the plane of the slope. The easiest and most effective way to visualize this is to imagine dropping the tip of the ski so that it points straight down. Go back to the wall and give it a try.

Now you understand why photographs of a correctly executed Pedal turn often appear as if the skier is pointing straight down the hill—as if they aren’t turning at all. This is the iconic image of French extreme skiing. If you look like this in the middle of your steep turn, chances are good you’re doing it right.

Notice that as we drop the tip of the ski, we also have to rotate the ski about its long axis, so that the ski becomes flush against the wall. Hey, no one said this was going to be simple! To get this turn right, there is a complex interaction of angles, edges, and body mechanics that will all have to be coordinated into a quick, fluid, and efficient series of motions. And you’ll have to get comfortable doing it in high-consequence environments. But that’s the heart of steep skiing.

BODY POSITION

Now that we understand what the skis have to do—uphill ski tip drops, downhill ski follows—let’s consider what your body has to do. And let’s also revisit that flawed description of the Pedal turn, as a hop executed off the uphill ski. Go stand with your body next to your wall, just as if it were a super-steep slope you were trying to ski. One shoulder (say, your right) should be lightly touching the wall, along with one hip.

Now: try to transfer your weight to your uphill ski! How did that work out? Okay, what we’ve just demonstrated is that transferring your body weight to one foot necessarily shifts your center of mass over that same foot. In the case of steep skiing, if we weight the uphill ski, we are shifting our body toward the hill, which is exactly the opposite of what we want to do—we want to create space, not reduce it.

Remember, we are attached via legs and boots to those skis of ours, and if we’re going to drop our tips to pivot our skis, our bodies have to follow. This means our center of mass needs to be out away from the hill before we initiate the turn. A good pole plant helps achieve the correct position: reach well down the hill, drawing your upper body over your downhill ski.

You can experiment with various hand and body positions, including twisting your shoulders and hips to “coil” your body like a loaded spring, and using deep flexion of the uphill knee, to see how subtle shifts affect the position of your center of mass relative to your downhill ski. In general, the goal seems to be to get as much weight as far away from the hill as safely possible, again, in a static, stable stance, before we initiate the actual turn.

INITIATION AND EXECUTION

Initiation and indeed execution of the entire turn will be done in essentially one fluid motion. As we’ve learned, shifting weight to the uphill ski has negative consequences. Depending on how ‘sticky’ the snow is, we may ideally be able to lightly rest the uphill ski and perhaps some leg weight on the snow, allowing the ski tip to drop and pivot while in contact with the hill. In less favorable conditions, we may be forced to lift the uphill ski completely free of the snow to prevent grabbing.

Either way, the key turns out to be coiling your upper body to create position and potential, and then executing a quick bounce off the downhill leg. Immediately uncoil your body while also pressing those ski tips down the hill. The uphill ski leads this tip-down motion, and the downhill ski follows. All of this happens quickly, almost instantly, ending with you facing the opposite direction, once more stationary on your skis.

It is true you can also think of this “tip drop” as a heel-lift motion instead, in which we’re flexing our knees. However, I’ve found that thinking in terms of lifting your ski tails results in a less effective turn. Using “tip drop” as a mnemonic forces you to think in terms of pressing the body forward and down the hill—even though the heels will be simultaneously lifting and “flipping” across the hill.

You can and should practice these motions relentlessly at home. Using a chair or coffee table, stand with one leg on the chair (this is your uphill ski) and your other leg on the floor (downhill ski). Position your body weight out and over your downhill foot (ski), and then jump off your lower leg, pivot in the air, and land facing the opposite direction with one foot on the ground, and your new uphill foot on the chair. Execute these motions so that you rise vertically as little as possible.

ON THE SNOW

On the snow, if your experience is anything like mine, you’ll probably find that everything immediately falls apart. Inevitably, the problem will center around your uphill ski getting pinned against the hill because your center of mass is too close to the slope. As conditions get more difficult or more frightening, our bodies automatically shift closer to the hill, seeking safety.

That’s just an instinctive response you’ll have to work to counter, using tools like your pole plant, body positioning, angulation, counter-rotation, and, ultimately, time. You’ll find there are many variables you can tweak to customize the process to fit your own style and specific anatomy. The key to the turn remains getting your center of mass as low and as far away from the hill as possible, pushing decisively off the downhill ski to unweight and create space, and then driving both ski tips aggressively down the slope so that you can flip skis and body across the hill.

Notice, when watching video of the masters executing this turn, it will often seem as if they are indeed weighting and pushing off their uphill skis. They aren’t—that’s an illusion. Bend your uphill knee deeply and extend your lower leg like an outrigger (which lowers your center of mass), and bend your upper body out and over your downhill ski (which creates space).

From this position, execute a quick and light hop off the downhill leg. You’ll soon discover this gives you all the space and time you need to easily unweight and pivot the skis across the hill, even on the steepest pitches. With practice, these motions become instinctive, efficient, and elegant. No doubt there is much I’ve left out in this article. But I hope it proves useful to you in your own exploration of steep technique.

RESOURCES

• Ski Peru
• Trevor Benedict Skiing Levitt Peak’s Y-Couloir
• Vallencant Executing a Pedal Turn
• EpicSki’s Pedal Turn Wiki
• The New Pedal Carve Turn
• Les Alpes du Nord a Skis

Though it was cloudy from horizon to horizon, there wasn’t a hint of thunder, so I started thinking maybe there wasn’t any active lighting hazard—just clouds and precip. Still, that cloud over Chair 23 looked pretty menacing. Nevertheless, they were running the chair, and there were people riding it. Maybe, the optimist in me speculated, Mammoth had some kind of electro-static voltmeter installed at the top, and it was indicating no static charge buildup.

So I got on the chair.

I should mention, if I haven’t already, that I’m TERRIFIED of lightning. I’ve had many, many close calls with lightning, primarily involving outdoor activities and the summer monsoons of Northern Arizona. I know exactly what the sharp, arcing, whip-crack of lightning sounds like up close. Just thinking about it makes my head sink and my shoulders rise in the instinctive and universal, ‘oh shit’ position.

So I generally give dark black clouds a wide berth. But today, for whatever foolish reason, I didn’t. And everything seemed fine for a minute or two. And then I felt something funny in my arm, which was resting on the metal frame of the chair. Like I’d pinched a nerve. Huh, I thought. That felt kind of like…a shock. But no, my very quick defensive reaction insisted, I’m just imagining it, because I’m a little on edge about that dark cloud I’m now heading helplessly straight up into.

And then I felt it in my arm again, and then my back. Through my fleece jacket and shirt and underwear, I was getting shocked by the chair—continuously. Through my glove, I was getting shocked holding onto the metal of the chair. And these were not baby shocks. These were good enough to make me scooch forward so that no part of my body was touching metal.

I looked up at that dark cloud, and also at the long length of cable ahead. I had probably around eight minutes to go before I reached the top and could jump off the chairlift and get the hell out of there. It seemed to me that perching on the edge of the chair was not without risk. If for some reason lightning struck and caused my to spasm or just freak out, there was a good chance I could fall out of the chair.

So I tried holding on to the chair again—BZZST! That wasn’t going to work. How much longer was this ride going to go on? It was starting to look like forever. Okay, I said to myself, calm down. What should I do? Pray, is the word that popped into my mind. I tried that, but it didn’t really make me feel any better. So I just kind of went to my happy place for those eternity-minutes left of the chair ride, and at the top, I flagged the liftie and told him I was getting shocked by the chair.

He didn’t seem too surprised. Apparently other riders had already reported their electrifying experience. Oddly, he said he didn’t have any authority to shut down the lift, but that he’d called maintenance so that they could look into it.

Okay. I guess, if lightning isn’t actively cracking all around, you can make some kind of crazy case that you should continue running a chairlift even when multiple riders report they’re being electrocuted on the way up. But maybe, just maybe, couldn’t we phone down to the guy at the bottom, so he could helpfully inform people, before they get on the chair, that if they choose to board, they should be prepared for a hair-raising experience?

Nah!