So, what do you do?”
It’s hard to explain, but…I’m actually a mountain; I do mountain things. What a life.
The maps left at my summit tell me I’m Jake’s Peak. I was birthed into this world three million years ago by a fault block, a fracture in the earth’s crust causing some blocks of land to move up and others to move down.
Imagine this: break a brick in three, lift the outer two pieces up, and push the middle piece down. That’s how Tahoe was formed. I uplifted and became a tiny stitch in the grand Sierra Nevada, while to the east, the Carson Range also rose up. Between us, the Lake Tahoe Basin dropped to form the largest alpine lake in North America. After another million years of glacial polishing, here we are!
I rather like my view.
Some of you backcountry skiers and boarders already know of me, and I know of you. Your headlamp beams rouse me like shots of espresso, and I laugh as you scramble for first tracks. Sometimes, I tame your aggression. The sunglasses you left in the car as you rushed to make an early morning start — an absent-minded accident? No, a gift from me forcing you to return for them and slow down, for my enjoyment shouldn’t always be rushed. But we know how to play, you and I — your turns, those graceful, thigh-screaming figure eights, swish youth into my slopes. And when you’re done and you look up with that sense of victory, of leaving your mark, know that we’ve both been used.
If we haven’t played together, surely you’ve passed by? Presiding over Emerald Bay’s northern bank, I salute you few hikers who scramble up my sandy faces in the summer, and I hear you travelers as you drive by. At 9,187 feet above sea level, your questions waft up my 2,800-foot face: “Wow, what mountain is that?” I’m Jake’s! (Easily confused with my westerly neighbor, Peak 9,195, and her lovely Emerald Chutes.)
My other neighbors share names like yours — Maggies, Dicks, Jacks. The dry winter allowed me time to retrace these origins. Maggies namesake (fitting because of her dual peaks) was a well-endowed barmaid at the Tahoe Tavern, circa 1800s; Dicks after Captain Richard “Dick” Barter, an English sailor called “the Hermit of Emerald Bay” who drowned in a boating accident in 1873; Jacks after a Placerville miner, Hardin Green “Jacks.” Over time, these legendary names graduated to official names.
I’m different from the rest. I hold the honor of preserving the name of Jeffery James Smith, commonly known as Jake. At the youthful age of 27, Jake died in the tragic 1982 Alpine Meadows avalanche. Because Jake and his brother Dennis cherished the solitude of my slopes, Dennis worked for three years to name me after Jake. In 1985, the U.S. Board on Geographical Names agreed, and I officially became Jake’s Peak.
Naturally, I craved a deeper understanding of Jake. In 2009, 24 years after the Alpine avalanche, Jennifer Woodlief’s book “Wall of White” provided that insight. Jake was an inspired soul, not so different from many of you — a curious, resourceful, full-bearded mountain man who jammed out to the Grateful Dead. He was a lovable ski patroller at Alpine Meadows, as well as a fisherman, hiker, and climber. With vigor in his heart and a playful soul, he cherished the long Sierra winters and skied the longest, fastest skis possible.
At 3:45 p.m. on March 31, 1982, Jake was snowmobiling down Alpine Meadows Road. His job – to ensure no one was caught in the avalanches soon-to-be triggered by his patrol friends above. But before he arrived at his post, a massive, natural avalanche released and barreled down the Buttress, Pond, and Poma Rocks slide paths. Jake didn’t have a chance. Yet, as the monster sprinted toward him, he used his only self-preserving seconds to call in a warning, radioing “Avalanche!” seconds before his burial. Jake wanted the others to have a chance.
One hundred inches of new snow plus a few feet of early-season snow slid that day, demolishing the Summit Terminal Building and killing seven people. That day, which observed its 30th anniversary this year, causes me great pain to summarize. The events and people deserve many pages more, and that’s why we are so fortunate to have Woodlief’s highly researched, captivating 240 pages, an essential history for both of us.
History is what we have, you and I, and it’s complicated. Our bond seemingly intertwined with fate, we share the greatest triumphs, the greatest learnings, and we wait … we wait for the greatest tragedies. We know they will come. We will watch them cry and we will cry with them. Eventually, we will move on — our hope that love flooded their last moments, that this is how they wanted to go. And we pay tribute.
I celebrate Jake’s life with Woodlief’s words: “The peak [Jake’s] lies in a wilderness location overlooking Lake Tahoe, the perfect location and ideal tribute to a true mountain man.”
You may see me referred to as Jakes or Jake’s. But to me, I am Jake’s. Only on maps and official documents am I Jakes. The U.S. Board on Geographic Names is careful with possessives. Apparently, apostrophes look like rocks in water when printed on a map, and indicating possession of natural features is generally discouraged, as if we’d have a problem with it. They never asked us.
But the other peaks often ask me: what’s it like to take a stranger’s name? I tell them it’s wonderful. Until 1985, I spent countless years as a block of rocks 9,187 feet tall. That was it — no association, no greater purpose. I was lonely. Jake’s name brought a renewal of spirit, for I saw in him what I wanted in myself.
Today, Jake and I bring new mountain men and women into the world, and we sharpen the accomplished. Jake’s Peak is challenging, yet playful and forgiving. Come romp our snow-covered slopes, scramble up our manzanita and rock-bloated ridges, and bound down our sandy banks. Let Jake’s be the resource that makes you resourceful.
No matter your journey, we’re ready. Wildly explore us all, but stay mindful, my new friend. I’ve spoken with them — the unnamed — and despite their eternal loneliness, they’d rather stay that way.
~ Comment on this story below.
