Glissade (gli sad’, -sad’), n., v., 1. A skillful glide over snow or ice in descending a mountain.
There is a transition in the high country between spring and summer. You’ve put your skis away because the corn snow has turned to icy slush and the bare areas make connecting a line all the way down a mountain challenging, if not impossible. Climbing a peak in hiking boots right now still requires navigating numerous snowfields--but these snowfields make for glorious descents, and you get to leave all that heavy ski gear behind. Wait another month, however, and the sun cups will make for a bouncy, painful ride.
There are several ways to glissade down a mountain. Some prefer to “boot ski”, staying on their feet the whole way. Others prefer to sit down and slide down on their butts, the preferred method for extremely steep snowfields or challenging snow conditions. Often a descent begun boot skiing ends up butt-skiing when unexpected snow conditions are encountered. Having a tarp to shove in your pants can save yourself some abrasions--I’ve worn holes through pants several times sliding down snow.
The glissading connoisseur begins watching the snowfields in May and June, and in wetter years into July. Certain snowfields offer classic glissades and can be relied on for thrills every year. There is one such snowfield in Lundy Canyon where the idea of co-ed naked glissading was born.
One spring day after work, full of youthful enthusiasm and creative ideas, two male cohorts and I drove to the end of Lundy Road and hiked up to the top of a snowfield. We had been here three days earlier, and knew what this long, steep snowfield had to offer. No one else was around for miles. At the top, we removed our clothing with the exception of our boots, and boot-skied down to the bottom. Naked glissading!
I typically am a utilitarian nudist, only reluctantly getting naked to go swimming, or in hot springs, and I generally don’t get naked just for the sake of being naked. So it was to be a glorious day when I glissaded naked for a reason.
The northeast slopes of Parson’s Peak drop steeply into Ireland Lake, set in a grassy alpine basin in Yosemite National Park. One spring day I climbed this peak, and on the way down I slid down a snowfield that ended in the lake. Immediately excited by the idea of sliding off the snowfield into the lake, I took off my clothes, grabbed my tarp, and climbed partway up the snowfield barefoot. I sat down on the tarp, and slid down the snow, splashing into the icy cold water.
The best glissade I ever had was off the shoulder of Mt. Wood. It was late June 1998, and glissading season was still in high gear thanks to the snowpack from the El Nino winter. It was warm, and as I began sliding down on my back, sliding snow built up under me. It felt like I was riding on a waterbed full of pillows. I slowly and nervously passed through a place where rock walls approached on both sides, but after they were safely behind me, I let it rip! 20 minutes later, I was 1 mile away and 3,000 vertical feet below where I started! Coming down mountains like this is easy on the knees!
You can’t glissade down just anything, and I learned this the hard way on the Mt. Lyell Glacier that October. By the time I bounced to a stop in the deep sun cups at the bottom, I was sore, banged-up, and very lucky. But if you exercise careful judgment and gain experience, then you can often glissade down surprisingly steep snowfields and have a thrilling ride. Clothing optional, but ice-axe recommended.
What about the co-ed part? Well, now that's another story...
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Gregory J. Reis
