Reno Rendezvous 2010 - Day 6

Meanwhile, back at the ranch (in Tahoe that is)...

I was looking forward to breakfast on Friday morning. Stacy has a favorite morning-food restaurant down in South Tahoe she is always talking about, so after we bundled up the kids we all headed downhill to the lake and Heidi's Restaurant. Big omelets (mine with Italian sausage!), piles of pancakes and lots of colorful berry syrups guaranteed to defeat any stain remover they come up against! Suddenly it was time to sleep again. But we didn't!





Dad felt that that big, taunting jackpot was still waiting patiently for him at the casino, so we dropped him off at Harrahs. Stacy, however, had decided to take an even bigger gamble. Inspired by our day on the slopes, she decided, against her own better judgment, to reclaim her youth, vitality, and her dimly remembered life of spontaneity and whimsy and return to snowy reaches. Skibunny Stacy was dropped off at the Heavenly Ski Resort base camp with strong admonitions to avoid trees and avalanches in specific and boys in general. Abandoning Stacy to contend with the yeti, Mimi, L, N and I set off on our own little adventure.

My idea of an outdoorsy vacation is more aligned with a hiking, camping and canoeing sort of paradigm. Much too cold to go out on the lake or to contemplate camping, but I reserved hope that a hike was still doable. With that in mind I'd researched some light-weight hiking trails in and around the lake area and found a couple that looked promising. I chose a short hike that went through a forested area to Fallen Leaf Lake, a pretty little lake just south of Tahoe proper. Not knowing what to expect for snow and passability, I was prepared to be disappointed, but we were able to find the trail and it was sufficiently packed down that it made for quite a nice stroll. L and N were off like snow panthers, bounding off the trail and quickly up to their waists in the drifts. Several snowsucked boots had to be dug out and reattached. The trail wound through woodlands on the edge of a campground (obviously closed for the season), opening on meadows and hopping not-quite-frozen streams. There were rabbit tracks and deer tracks to be identified and followed, logs to be surmounted and boulders to be skirted. N, worse than a Labrador retriever, left a considerable number of little patches of yellow snow.











After running flat for half a mile, the trail made a gentle rise up a slope to a table land overlooking Fallen Leaf Lake. Not wanting to overextend ourselves, we halted at the top and left the descent to the lakeshore for another day. The kids were still happy and energetic, but we figured that to be mercurial and we didn't want to press our luck. After a rest and a particularly refreshing boulder-climb we returned the way we came.

















I promised Mimi that I would in no way recount how on the descent back down the hill we hit one part of the trail that she thought a little challenging, and I assured her that I would refrain from describing in any detail how, at the end of considering all her manifold options, she chose to simply sit down on the trail and slide all the way down on her bum. I also vowed to remain very discrete in relating how nicely wide and well-groomed the smoothed out trail looked after her passing, and to forego mentioning a certain soggy seat one member of our party had on returning to the car. So having made all those promises, I of course can't tell you about that part at all. Sorry.



Once back to the car the kids' joie de vivre evaporated and we headed back to the condo for a change of clothes and attitude. We had a quick lunch at a nearby pub and before we were done we got a "come pick me up" call from Stacy. Back down the hill we found Mommy smiling and, to my relief, in one contiguous piece. We checked on Grampy, but he had financial independence in his sights and was quite happy to remain at Harrahs to deprive them of their profits. Relating the highlights of our hike with Mimi, Stacy was inspired to venture forth again and see the countryside. She suggested a mini-cartrip over to Emerald Bay; she's often told me how much she loved the area and how much she thought I'd appreciate it.

And I did appreciate it, but it was a very good thing that my Dad decided to cast his lot with the gambling crowd and not with us pioneers. The ride to Emerald Bay was truly spectacular, but of the exact sort that would have sent Dad into phobic paralysis. The road to Emerald Bay is the same one we'd taken earlier to Fallen Leaf Lake and initially stays relatively close to the lake, running through woods and small hamlets. Not too far past the turn off to Fallen Leaf Lake, however, it starts making its way up the mountains that line the western shores of Lake Tahoe. These roads were probably the most harrowing of the entire trip. Gorgeous, but deadly. At one point the road zips along for about a mile along a summit ridge, poised precariously between Cascade Lake on the left, and Emerald Bay on the right. The road at that point is a very narrow two-lane job with no room for guard rails, let alone shoulders. The drop off on either side is immediate and plummeting. Dad would have met his Maker.



We proceeded wistfully through the slaloms of the mountain hugging blacktop until we got to Vikingsholm at the southwestern tip of Emerald Bay, where we parked and piled out. The overlook afforded great vistas of the mountains we'd just negotiated, as well as multicolored Emerald Bay, and out beyond the narrow neck that almost make the bay its own lake, the huge expanse of Lake Tahoe proper. Already tired from hiking, skiing and booty-sliding (as the case may be), we didn't stay too long - just long enough for another chance for the kids to drown themselves in snow and make ruin of yet another fresh outfit. On the return home, just as we got to that angst-inspiring bridge between Emerald Bay and Cascade Lake we were nearly blown off the meager road by a half-dozen rangers in SUVs, barrelling over the ridge full-speed with all lights flaring. I'm not sure where they were headed, but for the next half hour as we followed the windy road back to South Tahoe we must have passed another half dozen SUVs all urgently whipping past us.













Back at Harrahs we found a Grampy more inclined to leave his financial stratagems to develop on their own overnight. He joined the troops in the minivan and endured the drive back up the mountain to the condo - a drive that now seemed quite placid to the rest of us. A mellow evening of leftovers and cards followed. Stacy, evidently sucking all the good luck out of the mountain air (much to my Dad's chagrin), made off with another Progressive Rum win.

Bathroom Ballads and Restroom Recitals

Stacy was feeling wiped out, so to give her a few moments peace and quiet I took the kids out for Pho after church. Fortunately, it would turn out, we had the restaurant more or less to ourselves. There were a couple of other people there, but they were mostly waiting on take-out orders or off on the other side of the room. About midway through our meal L decided she needed to go to the bathroom. I risked leaving N alone at the table while I walked L around a divider wall to the bathroom at the end of a little hall. I opened the door and switched on the light for her. It was a big bathroom, quite clean and covered with tile. Letting her slip in, I shut the door behind her and returned to the table.

N and I quietly enjoyed our lunch of soup and cha gio (Vietnamese eggrolls) while waiting for L to accomplish her mission. She took her time. Having learned the L doesn't like to be rushed in these matters, I waited more and more impatiently. Then, from around the wall and down the hall I started to hear what sounded like distant, high-pitched chirping. Was that a trapped bird or something in the kitchen that needed oiling? Confused, I couldn't make it out at first, but slowly it dawned on me. L, off in the bathroom, evidently impressed by the tile-lined acoustics, was pouring out her heart in inspired song. As she swelled and built to a crescendo I nervously glanced around the restaurant, which was, as I previously indicated, blessedly empty. I hoped she'd quickly conclude the ballad, but alas, the aria proved a long one and I was forced once again to play the odds and leave N unattended at the table while I went and gently encouraged Maria Callas to wrap it up.

"You could hear me?" asked L sheepishly as I walked her back to the table.

"As could most of Harbor City," I replied.

It's a Dog's Still Life

Finished another painting last week. It's for my friend Linda from church.



I've never met the dog personally, and I'm told from others that it would probably try to tear my throat out if I ever did. It puts a bit of a damper on the old creative juices to try and paint something that would, all things considered, be perfectly happy to see you dead, so throughout the creative process I chose to imagine a much more mellow and peaceable animal - more of a Lassie in pit-bull form, if you will. ("Look, Timmy! Lassie's brought us back another severed arm! Good girl, Lassie!")

A Pre-Summer Night's Scheme

Stacy is a chronicler of strange anniversaries. I get the point of memorizing the wedding anniversary, the birthdays of our children, etc., etc., but Stacy keeps track of neigh unto everything and affords each reminiscence a surprisingly large allotment of honor and esteem. I usually smile and try to humor her when she reminds me that such-and-such a day is the day we first played Yahtzee together or the first time we ate at the In-N-Out in Costa Mesa. Her plethora of accumulated date marks is generally benign and somewhat amusing, if only for the chance to tease her about her capacity for pointless trivia. Occasionally, however, the preservation for posterity of these less-than-landmark events works to my advantage. Take last night for example. It was either the day of our first date, or the day that I proposed, I can't remember. (But I'm sure I was and will again be reminded.) Stacy cornered me and made me promise to be home from work early enough to go out that night. She wouldn't tell me where - it was to be a surprise. I did so and with babysitter firmly ensconced, we went off for our celebratory evening. First it was dinner at the New Orleans Cajun Cafe in Hermosa Beach and some of the best seafood gumbo I have ever had in my life. (Stacy's Crawfish Etouffee was deadly delicious too.)


Since we came all the way to Hermosa Beach I suspected rightly that we were going to go see something at the Hermosa Beach Playhouse, but it wasn't until we parked the car that I learned she had got us tickets for the South Bay Civic Light Opera's production of "A Midsummer Night's Dream." It was a great treat and the perfect call. (I was afraid it was going to be "South Pacific," which, for some unenchanted reason, I can't stand.) I'm a big Shakespeare buff and in particular have always enjoyed this play. The cast was fresh and talented and the performances spot on. The only downside was that we were seated in the thick of a mob of 7th graders evidently getting credit for some lit class. Pubescent barely-teens (much like Bottom, the play's star-stuck tragedian), are quite consummate at making asses of themselves. But at least by the end of the production they had stopped flirting raucously with each other and actually seemed to be pretty well engaged in the production.

All in all, it was a great evening, and it is well-crafted, celebratory events like this that will forever keep alive cherished memories like the first time we got stuck in traffic together on the 405.

Reno Rendezvous 2010 - Day 5

Our first full day in the mountains was dedicated to mountainy stuff. After a rudimentary breakfast at the condo we loaded up and headed down the hill to the lake and Stateline where Nevada and California collide with all their cultural seismology. Its amusing to note how the casinos and saloons that line the lakeshore drive on the Nevada side come to a screeching halt right at the California line. They even designed the buildings to follow the oblique angle the border makes with the road. We dropped Mimi and Grampy off at Harrahs to learn lessons in probability theory the hard way and then headed to the base camp of the Heavenly Ski Resort across the semipermeable California line. At the resort base we researched our options and decided to fork out the not-insignificant sum to take the gondola up the mountain. None of us were prepared to go skiing, but there were places at the ski area at the top where the kids could rent sleds and go sledding. Knowing that mountain-top snow-bunny food would be out of our price range, we made a quick dogleg over to Subway before hitting the slopes.

You may recall from previous blog entries that Stacy does not well abide the seat-of-your-pants world of ski lifts. She was somewhat mollified that our ferry to the mountain top was a fully enclosed gondola rather than one of those oops-I-dropped-my-shoe, open-air, bench-on-a-wire jobs. But even with 360º of metal, plastic and graffiti around her, she still was a little spooked and her voice entered the soprano range whenever L or N would shift in their seat, or heaven forbid, attempt to stand up. (My suggestion to the kids that we try to get the gondola rocking was particularly poorly received.) Fortunately the awesome views of the mountain, the lake and the quickly retreating casinos of Stateline lent enough majestic tranquility to offset the rise in blood pressure, so even Stacy had to admit it was a great ride up.

Yes, that is anxiety you see in those eyes.

The gondolas go about two thirds of the way up the mountain and hit an intermediate landing where you can get out and walk around. It is the best place to catch the Lake Tahoe scenery because once you get back on the gondola and continue the ride the rest of the way, you go up and over a ridge and lose sight of the lake. We got out at the landing and took in the sights, pulling out our formerly hot meatball sandwiches for an al fresco patio lunch.

N, evidently tracking satellites.

Soon we were back on the gondola and gaining elevation. I'm not a skier myself -- on the contrary, gravity and I have a fairly adversarial relationship. And since I can't do it, I can't imagine why anyone else would want to; I am always a little mystified, yet intrigued by the folks who inhabit the ski world and its environs. It is a culture I could never join, don't quite understand, and yet find strangely enjoyable to watch and study. I admit to being baffled that people could devote so much passion to sliding down a mountainside at great speed, hoping to avoid death-by-splatting. But I dedicate great passion to driving to work on the 405 each day, so who am I to talk.










We found the kiddie sledding slopes, paid another not-too-insignificant sum and purchased the rights to two brightly colored plastic discs and a 15º incline. Both the kids were a little apprehensive at first, but quickly took to barrelling down the hill at great speed with great passion, leading me to believe that my ski-reticence probably isn't genetic, or if it is, that my particular ski genes got avalanched by Stacy's. (Generally a good thing, we've both come to agree.) A young kid was assigned to umpire the two mini-sled slopes. (Suddenly any one under 30 is a kid.) I don't know what this poor guy did to get relegated to essentially being a lifeguard at a kiddie pool, but I'm figuring he must have ticked his boss off somehow. I think he was desperate. He noticed my Bar Harbor sweatshirt and struck up a conversation. Evidently he had worked as a counsellor at a camp in Acadia National Park a year or two ago. (What? When he was five?!?) It was fun to chat with the guy on the joys of Maine and I took some small measure of satisfaction in knowing I probably helped keep the guy from succumbing to the unbearable boredom and despair and slitting his wrists and staining all that pretty white snow.

Ouch!

The hour took its time passing, but eventually it did, and much to the kids' chagrin they had to turn in their brightly plastic disc. (N had swapped his out about seven times in that hour, deciding that different colors would go faster.) As we made our way back toward the gondolas we found a suitable patch of still-soft snow and had to pause for some angelic activity. Probably not a good idea in the long term, because now we had tired kids, at altitude, with hats, jackets and pants now soaking wet. Mini-meltdowns accompanied us back to the ski-lift and on down the mountain.

Somewhat recovered.

Once we got to terra-warma we paid the not-too-insignifacant fee to get our car out of the parking garage, swung by a local grocery store to pick up some stuff for dinner, swung by a local casino to pick up some newly impoverished grandparents, and headed back up the Kingsbury Grade to our condo. Dinner was followed by a movie (Up, quite a nice film, actually), which was followed by bed for the kids - top bunk, of course. Stacy, Mimi and Grampy and I then finished off the evening with a rousing game of Progressive Rummy, where Stacy, evidently emboldened by the mountain air, skunked us all.