Last March, photographer Scott Rokis planned to ski an Eastern Sierra classic, Mt. Williamson’s Giant Steps Couloir. Rokis hoped that shooting the line might open doors for his business but was apprehensive about the physical undertaking that would require 12,000 vertical feet of climbing. At dawn, just a few hours into the day’s journey, things took a turn for the worse after one misstep. Here’s Rokis’s story in his own words. —Louise Lintilhac
“I fell just a few feet farther from the skier on the right,” Rokis says. Mt. Williamson’s Giant Steps Couloir, Sierra Nevada Mountains, Calif. [Photo] Scott Rokis
My buddy Dale and I wanted to ski Giant Steps, because it’s a sought-after line that doesn’t fill in very often. I had been on the road—living out of my van—so I hadn’t logged many miles that season, especially recovering from a broken foot in August 2016. I was nervous; I was worried about the photography, and I was worried about my fitness.
That morning, Dale and I met up with the rest of the group, whom I didn’t know. This raised a red flag, but I knew that if I wanted to do this, it would be with Dale, my bc mentor.
We ascended hardpack snow first on the east face. The slope was around 35 degrees, and I remember wishing I had my crampons on, but I kept going until we reached a flatter area. At that point, the sun had just crested the horizon, so we got a few rays of light and a bit of warmth. We transitioned [from sneakers] and got our ski boots on.
Leaving the flat area, we walked over a 10- to 15-foot traverse with a drop-off below us that was 15 or 20 feet down. We were only a little over an hour in, and this exposure made me nervous about what was to come.
I really started to feel the weight of my camera pack and was feeling unsteady climbing over a ribbon of rocks. The snow was icy and steep, and I remember saying to myself, “Oh, this could be a tricky situation. I need to get good foot placement.” And that was it.
I think I threw a bad pole plant. I rocked back, lost my balance, hit the snow and immediately started sliding.
At first I was cartwheeling. I had a Whippet in my right hand, but didn’t have my hand in the pole strap because of an arm injury, so when I lost my balance, I lost my Whippet. I rotated to my back, and when I looked down, I saw a rock chute in front of me.
I wasn’t wearing a helmet on the ascent, so I focused on protecting my head, but as I launched through the chute, my thoughts went from “protect your head” to “brace for impact.” I hit a rock outcrop feet first and immediately felt pain in my knee. I fell another 20 feet before I slowed. I was yelling in fear and frustration. I felt around my knee and nothing felt strange so I knew it was ligament damage.
The guys made it to me quickly and built a platform so I didn’t fall another 40 feet to a treed cliff area. We used space blankets and skins to keep me comfortable while we talked plans; we decided that the only real option was a SAR evacuation. My groupmate Zach put in the call and got things moving.
While we waited, Dale took my skis and pack to the car and grabbed a zero-degree bag and a six-pack of beer. It was roughly two hours before SAR called in the heli; it was five hours from the time I fell to the time they brought me back in. When the helicopter approached, I was an emotional wreck. I knew I had put others at risk.
They put me in the harness and flew me over the Eastern Sierra. Then the guy who was in the helicopter with me tapped me on the shoulder and asked for a selfie with me. That’s when I realized that these guys love what they do.
I ended up with a blown ACL and meniscus and a nasty bone bruise. But what I really beat myself up about is that I go into the mountains for that sense of focus that I don’t get elsewhere, and I was not focused on the task at hand that day. When I fell, I was frustrated with my mishap instead of trying to problem solve in that moment. Now I know to listen to my gut.
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