This article first appeared in The Snowboarder’s Journal #21.3, in the Winter of 2023. 

“WE SHOULD DO A High Sierra trip this year,” I’d muttered one too many times to my daughter, Mia. The plan and approach are the same as it has been since I went all-in on foot-powered snow- boarding over 20 years ago: stuff backpacks with food, fuel and feathers and head west aiming to get a layer back into the range.

Jeremy Jones and his daughter, Mia, touring from camp to start the first day of bagging peaks and riding lines in the John Muir Wilderness, CA. Photo: Cody Mathison

Twelve hours later, spring be damned. Wind driven snow and single digit temps in early May—where’s the beach? Is it winter’s last gasp? Temps are too cold for sun-softened snow. Will it be enough to keep us off the sun crust? Is it a futile dream? Must be present to win.

Ninety percent of the time you spend with your kids is before they are 18 years old. That thought had me cancelling trips all winter, as Mia spent her final winter at home, for now. If only I could bottle up our time together. My hope is her love of snow keeps her coming back. It was my love of those things that sent me west at 18, never to return.

Jeremy Jones planning next line with Mia Jones. Photo: Cody Mathison

MIA SLEEPS WHILE I wait for the water to boil, tucked in my sleeping bag. I think back to the Deeper days in the late 2000s. Mia was an infant. That first night on a ridge with Jonaven Moore watching the sunset. He breaks the silence: “this is the coolest thing I have ever done.” We had walked through a portal away from the synthetic into the real world. The mountains saying, “Welcome, we have been waiting for you. There is a never- ending supply of mountains, and the learnings are infinite… It’s gonna be hard, but worth it.”

The High Sierra was a perfect test ground. High peaks guarded by long approaches and huge vertical relief. Dark-to-dark days left us crawling back to our car or camp completely smoked. Shooting quality footage was futile. The distances too far, the lines too big, the snow too variable, but High Sierra bred strength travelled well in other ranges.

We were all on DIY splits, carrying too much gear and not enough water. What I thought was the twilight of my career was actually the dawn. The kit has tightened up, our approach has been refined, my fitness is better, but the mountains have not gotten any smaller. Mia, however, is thriving. She got her “front pointing badge” yesterday, on bulletproof ice hidden under a few inches of powder. “If you slip you need to dive on your ice axe as fast as possible,” I warned as she got higher off the deck.

Jeremy Jones watching daughter, Mia, drop first. Photo: Cody Mathison

WATCH THEM GROW and let them go. The thought wakes me from a deep sleep: “I am losing my main riding partner to college next fall.” The toughest kind of riding partner to find. The one whose stoke is not tied to conditions and who embraces less than optimal love of sport days as opportunities to progress. Yesterday we celebrated her end of adolescence with a dawn to dusk splitboard bender. It started with a high peak that appeared out of nowhere on our way to another line. The snow-covered pyramid seemed out of place in the rock laden Sierra. Halfway up, Mia took the lead over the steep convex roll to the summit. She dropped first, charging over the blind roll with speed and confidence. I took the left side of the Pyramid and mirrored her line. Two perfect tracks side by side down a fairy tale peak.

“After a small spring storm, Jeremy and Mia found five inches of fresh snow in this backcountry chute. A perfect setup for a father-daughter doubles run.” Photo: Cody Mathison

It was only a warmup for the evening encore: across the way a winding, 1,800-foot pinner couloir. We had been looking at it since the first day of our trip, wondering if it connected to the top. The morning’s vantage point confirmed it does.

Tucked behind a rock wall, our last safe spot before entering the chute, Mia and I get into full send mode. Climbing up chutes is like staring into the barrel of a shotgun for two hours—any snow or rock fall will blow you off your feet and to the bottom of the mountain. We trade leads up the couloir in a steady, continuous push. Three hours later we drop into the top part together, snaking our way through the granite hallway in golden light. The line steepens halfway down, and I take the lead to test the snow. I pull up into a small nook out of harm’s way and call over the radio: “The snow is perfect, sluff is minimal, drain it!”

“With crampons on and ice axes in hand, Jeremy and Mia booted 1,000 vertical feet to ride this west-facing Sierra couloir. The walls glowed orange in the evening light during their descent, creating a magical shared experience.” Photo: Cody Mathison

With a setting sun, she comes into view railing turns past me and out of view. Few people I know could charge a line in snow like this with as much power and grace—a testament to all those less than optimal resort days.

We embrace at the bottom. The sky is glowing and so are we. Together we wind through banks, waves, and rolls back to camp in the twilight of the day, and the twilight of her childhood. She has earned her Shralpinist badge. It is now her time to break trail and lead.

“Jeremy and Mia bundle up in their sleeping bags while preparing their favorite ramen recipe on the last night of the trip.” Photo: Cody Mathison