Winter Holiday Part I

Everyone else went snowboarding. I stayed behind at the house because I don’t participate in winter sports. Initially I was not even going to come to Tahoe, but once I realized I had the weekend off I figured there couldn’t be any harm in it. Our friends had access to a well-furnished cabin for free, and my husband would be driving his truck u up with or without me—so my presence made little difference, cost-wise, and I am very keen on keeping the cost aspect of travel to a minimum.

We were the first to arrive last night, and we poked around in the dark, looking for the hidden key so we could let ourselves in. The cabin—a house, really—was in a gated area right at the edge of Lake Tahoe, not too far from the highway but distanced enough from the casinos and various tourist gee-gaw shops to cast an illusion of isolation. While we waited for the others, Joe and I walked a short distance of the wet, sandy shore of Lake Tahoe. The moon was nearly full and it hung, silvery and bright, in the inky black sky. The wind on the lake was strong, conjuring waves to assault the shore. By the time the chill sent us seeking warmth, our friends had arrived and we began hauling luggage—snowboards, coolers, cases of beer—into the house.

Joe and I slept in a tiny room that was barely bigger than the double bed it housed. The heat didn’t penetrate that corner of the house, but we piled wool blankets onto the bed and pulled on our long underwear, which kept us toasty all night long. The wind and the waves continued all night long, their rhythmic cries beating at the little house’s walls.

The plan was for all of the snowboarders to rise very early in order to make the most of the slopes, but the high wind meant that most ski resorts had few, if any, ski lifts running. So we brewed pots of coffee and had a leisurely breakfast. By ten o’clock the wind had calmed, and the snowboarders suited up to try their luck, hopefully scoring half-day lift tickets at reduced prices. Joe pulled on his borrowed snowboarding pants and fiddled with his borrowed snowboard. He hadn’t been snowboarding much since he injured his shoulder in a bad fall four years ago, and though he was excited, I was a bit worried. What if he fell again? What if he didn’t fall, and he had such a great time that he wanted to make multiple trips to Tahoe each winter? That would be expensive for us, and lonely for me. But I also go on adventures of my own, and I know that he worries about me, and I wish he didn’t.

The main reason I tagged along on this trip was to figure out what people saw in this Tahoe place. It’s a four-hour drive from the SF bay area in the best of conditions; factor in snow and traffic and god knows how long it might take. But people love it. I wanted to see what all of the fuss was about.

Since I wasn’t going to the resorts with everyone, my plan was to mess around in the snow for a few hours, then retire inside to read, write, and relax. I put on the warm clothes I’d brought, thinking how special it was to be wearing them, since in California items such as heavy wool sweaters and waterproof pants didn’t come in handy very often. Those clothes were from a different part of my life—different parts, actually—and it felt good to have them on, like I was resurrecting a dead, more noble part of myself. I put a water bottle in my big blue backpack, along with a fleece vest and a packet of Espresso Love Gu. Then I pulled on a fleece headband and a coarse South American wool hat with ear flaps and stepped outside.

I walked along the lakeshore for about half a mile. Snow flurries spun madly in the air, and the mountains painting the skyline on the opposite side of the lake were completely obscured in a dingy grey haze. I could be anywhere, I thought. I walked past shuttered beach shacks and overturned sea kayaks, and I stumbled across a tiny red plastic shovel embedded in sand and ice.

Dramatic slopes populated with tall pine trees and gnarled rock outcroppings rose behind some of the houses. I wanted to hike up one, but wire fences and PRIVATE PROPERTY advised otherwise. The houses in the estate were mostly new, with a deceptive suburban residential look—that faux grandeur look of exaggerated ceilings and lofts that overlook gas-powered fireplaces that flame up with the flick of a switch. But the actual development was quite old, according to our host. Decaying piers jutting from the water attested to this, as did a plaque I found close to the one non-decayed pier. The plaque commemorated two steam-powered vessels that launched in the late 1800s, ferrying tourists around Lake Tahoe until the late 1930s. I tried to imagine what Lake Tahoe was like back then; resort towns I’d been to in the east had aging grand lodges and ramshackle cabins to point to their past, but here I saw nothing but weekend houses for well-off professionals.

I walked out the end of the pier (a sign at its gate read GOLF CARTS ONLY) and looked down in the water. The wind was kicking up again, but the depths were still quite clear; I could make out rocks and the quivering images of wooden beams descending into the sandy bottom. I imagined the summertime joy of jumping off the pier into the cool water, which was probably about ten feet deep at that spot. I also thought of poor Fredo rowing his niece around Lake Tahoe in The Godfather Part II, a movie that served as my primary reference for what the real-life Lake Tahoe was like.

After the pier, the walkable lakeshore terminated. As the snow flurries increased, I made my way along the roads, past empty vacation houses and luxury cabins with snow-covered vehicles parked in their driveways. With tall trees bordering either side of the road and no traffic to speak of, it was peaceful just to wander along the road, feeling the snow crunch under my boots. My pace was nearly lethargic, but fending off the cold for over an hour had piqued my hunger, so I tore open the Gu and slurped the sticky, sickeningly sweet mess down.

Some roads seemed promising at first, but after a steady climb they all ended in PRIVATE PROPERTY sings. Hardly anyone was around to object to my trespassing, but I wanted to be respectful, and not to wander too far away from our own little weekend house. So I followed many paths only to retrace my steps on the way out, but I didn’t care. The day was becoming whiter and whiter, and in the quiet I felt I was enjoying my own private snow day.

I recalled how once my brother and I went out in the woods behind our house on a snow day. We each had a backpack with a granola bar in it. Under what I assume was the guidance of my brother, a war movie fanatic, we pretended that we were POW escapees. What war, I’m not sure. Perhaps Vietnam, although there’s not much snow there. So let’s say Korea. We got sort of lost in the woods, ate our granola bars with freezing fingers, and we finally emerged hours later in a cornfield next to the volunteer fire station a few miles away from our house. Their flag flew half-mast, in accordance with President Regan’s declaration of national mourning for the Challenger disaster. I was happy to see the fire station and the road we could walk home on, but something about the scene seemed eerie as well. That’s a snow day for you.