The universe might be taking care of me, but the Heineken is clearly on its own. Two hours after leaving Tonopah the bus starts to sputter. I decide to skip Yosemite and head straight for Lake Tahoe where the ski resorts are still open, the air is warm, and the slopes I have only seen on the glossy pages of Powder magazine lay waiting. After seven hours of driving and no middle of nowhere break downs, I come to the top of the Lincoln Highway, the east side gateway to South Lake Tahoe.The bus, which rarely breaks sixty miles per hour is rattling down the road as gravity increases the descent to a whooping seventy-five. I am forced to brake as we approach a long sweeping turn, the road a thin crescentic band in a looming valley of granite. As the curve begins to straighten the granite walls diminish and the scenery opens up like a children’s pop-up story book.
The center of the lake is a deep sapphire blue surrounded by a ring of aquamarine. A fortress of granite and pine encompass the beautiful gem. Remnant ribbons of snow and fields of white break up the grey and green mountainsides. Across the lake, crags of grey rock frame a steep swath of snow that looks like a cross. Crystal blue skies dotted with wispy clouds provide a vivid contrast to this polychromatic wonderland. I am awestruck. I take my foot off the gas pedal and slow the bus to take everything in. The familiar smell of pine trees flows in through the open windows, encompassing me like a hug from an old friend. I am so excited to get here and while I do not want to stop I do want to extend this viewing, if only for a few seconds. I have never been anywhere that holds so much natural magnificence. I think to myself, “I could live here.”
The highway winds down the pass and we roll through the small “suburb” of Bijou. Glimpses of the crystal blue waters are revealed through the periodic breaks in wooden chalets and towering pines. It is all so perfect and quaint until we arrive at Stateline, the appropriately named town that sits on the California/Nevada border. The first casino I pass is a grungy looking place called Bills Lake Tahoe Casino. With the exception of name of the town in which it sits, is it possible to lack more originality? Bills is followed by a strip of larger casino/hotels with all of the sensory overload of Las Vegas, only on a smaller scale.
Despite the drastic change in scenery, I am excited. When I was in college, every couple of weeks my co-workers and I would leave Flagstaff after our restaurant shift ended at 10:00 p.m., drive two hours to Laughlin, Nevada where on arriving would fill up the gas tank, leave $3.00 in the car to ensure we had enough money for breakfast, and beeline it to the blackjack tables, stopping only to relieve our bladders and pick up another beer on the way. Depending on our luck, we would typically gamble and/or drink until 5:00 a.m., have breakfast and head back to Flagstaff with just enough time for a shower before my 8 a.m. class. No drugs involved.
After taking care of Macy’s needs I change clothes, grab a beer, and get back on the road heading for Harvey’s Hotel and Casino. I park the bus, put $50 in my pocket, give Macy a kiss on the head and walk towards the dizzying lights and sounds of the casino and, hopefully, a lucky night at the tables.
I walk up to the only $2.00 table with the third base position open. I like to see what cards have been dealt to the other players and play the probability of those that will follow. I take the end seat in the row of six. My fellow players give me a solemn nod as I sit down. The mood is not that of a winning table.
“Check change fifty” the dealer calls out. The pit boss gives him a look and lifts his chin indicating he heard him and the dealer slides twenty silver coins and six red chips my way with a smile “Good luck!”
“Thanks” I reply, stacking a $2.00 dollar bet in my circle on the table.
“How’s it going?” I say to the weathered, older man sitting next to me.
“Ah, up, down, up, down. It’s not horrible but it’s not great.”
“Cocktails, cocktails” the waitress calls as she walks the perimeter of the blackjack tables in high heels, black tights, a short skirt and a black and white top that barely keeps her breasts covered. I order a beer and pray, for her sake, she does not have to bend down to pick anything up off the floor. Gravity will win any fight against the top she is wearing. She scribbles on her note-pad and walks away.
I turn just as the dealer slings my second card. I pick up my cards to see a dismal nine and six, the dealer showing a seven. By the looks of most of my fellow players, their cards are not much better than mine. I watch as the players make their decision whether or not take another card.
The first player a young man with short, spiked, bleach blonde hair, asks for a hit. The dealer folds over a Queen.
“Crap, busted” he exclaims as he tosses his cards on the table face up showing the same cards I have.
The next player slides a flat hand back and forth, motioning to stay.
The happy older woman next to him, wearing a floral blouse and pink polyester pants asks for a hit, and the dealer exposes a five. “I’ll stay with my seventeen. A push is a win to me, right honey.” she says, nudging the man next to her who appears to be her husband.
“I guess. Go ahead and give me one.” says her partner while fingering the gold cross around his neck. He is clearly not happy with the thirteen he shows to the table.
“Shoot, a nine, one too many” the dealer says as he sweeps the mans cards and bet off the table. He directs his eyes to the man sitting next to me.
“I’ll stay” he states exposing a ten and a five.
These cards are just not helping my decision. Queen, five, nine. Large, small, large.
It’s my turn. No run of face cards that would make the decision, sequencing would say the next card is small but that has nothing to do with probability or luck. The fate of the man next to me could be determined by if I take a card but I just cannot bring myself to stay on fourteen with a seven showing. I turn to him.
“I am sorry, I hope I don’t take the bust card but I cannot stay on fifteen. I just don’t play that way.” I turn my attention to the dealer and tap my finger on the table, indicating I want another card.
He flips a five “Twenty, nice hit!”
“YES!” I exclaim. My thought process worked. Or, maybe it was just dumb luck.
It is the moment of truth for my neighboring player. The dealer takes the top card, using it’s edge to flip over the bottom card exposing a king. “Seventeen, win, push, sorry sir, win” as he goes around the table, giving or taking chips of various colors.
The table annies up another round of bets and the dealer tosses the cards from his fingers like he is a cowboy firing a six shooter. I win. I lose. I win three in a row, lose seven after that. I leave the table and find another. The night goes on like that at various tables, win a little, lose a lot, until I am broke and tired.
I return to the bus with nothing in my pockets but a few lonely balls of lint. I lost it all. It was money I had set aside for gambling so in my mind it was money already spent and I am not upset. If I won, it would have been a double bonus.
I wake in the morning to a beautiful sun-shiny day and head straight for the slopes where I enjoy lap after lap in the cliff and rock strewn double black diamonds of “Mott’s Canyon.” After a full day of skiing, I am starved and drive to the west side of South Shore to find a microbrew and a slice of pizza. On the way, the bus stalls again. Alaska is still over 3,000 miles away and I have serious doubts that the Heineken will even make it to Sacramento. I am taking it into a mechanic tomorrow and seriously considering looking for a job and a place to live.
CHAPTER SIX
I begrudgingly fork out $400 to repair the bus but have lost all faith that it is capable of a long road trip. By the end of the week I have job and a place to live. I am renting a room in a house shared with two guys, one of whom gets me a bartending job on a tour boat where he works. . The Bob and Shawn are great, five years older than me, cute, relatively clean, with similar interests and great knowledge of the area. I hit it off with Shawn immediately. He is tall, blonde, sincere, an avid reader, and a big outdoor enthusiast. He has been living my dream life for the last four years. We have already discussed plans to hike and ski “The Cross,” the steep swathe of snow that I saw from the highway when I first drove into Tahoe. I have looked at it everyday, salivating at the prospect of skiing it. I am beside myself with excitement. I am less excited about the job. It is called The Tahoe Queen, a cheesy tour boat that takes people to Emerald Bay daily and provides dinner cruises at night. But, it’s a job. I cannot believe how good my life is. I have a room in house that is two two blocks from the lake, two cool roommates, and I am surrounded by a winter wonderland that is just as appealing and beautiful in the summer months. Macy and I have endless possibilities for adventure.
A week later, Shawn and I are packed and take off mid-morning for the trailhead at Fallen Leaf Lake to hike and ski Mt. Tallac. As "The Cross" comes in to full view, I bounce up and down in the passenger seat, clapping my hands and exclaim,
"Can you believe we are going to ski this!"
"I know, it looks so intimidating, but I can't wait"
We park Shawn’s immaculate 1972 orange VW bus and don our fifty pound backpacks. We are only camping for one night but due to the weight of our ski boots, ski’s, and all of the evenly distributed gear essential for snow camping, our packs are heavy. As we leave the car a light snowfall begins to drop perfectly formed hexagonal snow crystals which collect on my red North Face Shell. I am amazed at how nature can produce such a perfectly symmetrical shape. We follow the Spring Creek trail through a scattered forest of pines. I can hear Shawn's respirations increase as the elevation rises and the grade steepens. Shawn's light smoking habit evident. By the time we reach the clearing that is the northeast bowl the snowfall has increased in intensity, as have the winds. The snow, melting on contact with my skin, feels colder with blowing wind. My exposed face becomes numb. We take a short break, the stunning views of Lake Tahoe and Fallen Leaf Lake obscured by dense clouds. In front of us is the looming last part of todays climb, Seventeen-hundred moderately steep vertical feet of quad burning exertion that is made easier by employing the mountaineering technique of rest steps, locking the knee of the lower leg while relaxing the upper leg takes the next step. The skeletal system supporting the weight of the body while the leg muscles get a brief period of relief. The dense tree line to our right offers protection from the wind, to our left short, jagged cliffs of granite fall down to the bowl of untouched snow. Macy, unaffected by the elements or increased exertion, begins a cycle of bounding ahead, taking a few side trips to explore a scent unbeknownst to Shawn and I, and returning for a quick hello before doing it all over again. We reach the top of the bowl and make camp in a flat area below the saddle, hoping to get some relief from the wind. According to what we have read we should be less than two hundred feet below the peak, making for a short hike in the morning.
We drop our packs and set up camp. Despite trying to find the safest and most protected area for our tent, the winds are fierce. We retreat inside where we share a few Sierra Nevada Pale Ale’s. Macy curls up on my sleeping bag, undisturbed by the whipping sound of the tent walls.
“As long as we don’t blow away tonight, tomorrow should be an easy hike. What do you think, less than an hour?” I ask, raising my voice over the rustling of the nylon.
“Yeah, I think so, I don’t know how vertical the hike is above the ridge line, but even if it is straight up, we should have no problem getting to the top in less than an hour.”
“I am so excited! Are you psyched?”
“Yeah, a little nervous but definitely excited. I have not done much backcountry skiing but if it keeps snowing like this, the conditions will be great.”
“I did a little in Flagstaff but I don’t know if it was anything as steep as this. I hope it doesn’t snow too much, we don’t have avalanche beacons.”
“I didn’t even think about that! You think it will be ok?”
“I hope so. I will be really disappointed if we hiked all this way for nothing. I guess we should have checked the weather report before we left. We’ll check it out in the morning. From what I have read, Tahoe has an incredibly stable snowpack so unless it turns out to be a huge storm, we’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, I hope so. ’‘I’ll be right back, that beer went right through me.”
Shawn returns a few minutes later, snowflakes sticking to his jacket and hair.
“Still snowing?” I ask, hoping, for the first time in my life, it does not continue all night.
"I love this, the snow, the hike, sleeping in a tent, simply being out here, away from everything. It is such a different pace from our lives in Tahoe."
"It is, you should have seen how crazy it was on the dinner cruise last night. Talk about a different pace. We were in the weeds all night. Dave was screaming at the cooks, yelling at the servers, completely losing his s**t."
“That does not surprise me. What’s the story with Dave anyway? He seems like a real jerk.”
Dave is our manager on The Tahoe Queen. He is a pencil necked version of Geraldo Rivera with a smaller build, causing his head to appear too large for his body. He has greying, reddish brown hair, a thick handlebar mustache, and the attitude of a pompous Pomeranian. Everyday he struts onto the boat as we prep for the days trip, barking orders, patting girls butts as he walks by. He stops only to have a quick chat with the male servers, usually barely audible, stating his rating from one to ten on how firm each of the girl's buttocks is.
Shawn replies “Yeah, Dave is not exactly what you would call a respectful kind of guy. Dave is all about Dave. If something does not benefit him, he has no interest in it. You have to play the game with him if you want to get the night shifts. For guys it’s easy, act like you believe him when he talks about the girl he supposedly fucked the night before and join in on his "a*s rating" ritual, and you are in. As a girl, you have to flirt, allow him his gratuitous touches, hugs and make him think you want to sleep with him.”
“I knew something was up the other day when he seemed offended after I offered my hand to say hello. Oh boy, I'm in trouble. I don’t have much patience for things like that and have never been able to play the game of pretending to like someone just to get something.”
“Welcome to Tahoe, there are a lot of guys like that here, most of whom are in authoritative positions so you better learn the game. South Shore is clearly not Vegas but we are the Sin City of the Tahoe Basin. Being a gambling and ski town, a lot of residents are transient, staying until they lose all of their money or go looking for another ski resort to explore. When those people leave, there is another group arriving to try their luck or spend a season skiing. As a result, there are a lot of people looking for work and employers do not count on people being there for any length of time. In most establishments, employees are dispensable, if you don’t want to put up with the quirks of your boss, there is someone in line behind you that will.”
“Well, I guess I’ll find out how long I last at The Queen. Chances are sooner or later my patience will run thin and I will say something that will get me in trouble or fired.”
"Whatever you do, don't confront him. He thinks he is the captain of that boat and I have seen him fire people for no reason other than challenging his position." Shawn says as he gets into is sleeping bag, facing the wall of the tent.
Although the conversation is unsettling, I refuse to allow it ruin my mood and this adventure. The beer combines with the days exertion, brings me to a blissful state of full body relaxation. Macy curls into the sleeping bag with me and I am asleep in less than thirty seconds.
We wake in the morning to clear blue skies and six inches of fresh new snow. After a quick breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, we climb the last two-hundered feet to the peak of the mountain. A breathtaking, three hundred-sixty degree view welcomes us. The air is cool with just a light breeze stirring up the clean smell of fresh snow. Lake Tahoe spreads before us. To the west lies the dense green landscape of Desolution Wilderness scattered with steel grey granite, to the east, the deep blue lake with tree- lined backdrop fills the remaining circle of natural beauty. Shawn and I drop our packs to assess our options. Macy assumes her usual position during hiking breaks and sits at the edge of the cliff above “The Cross”, staring at the beautiful landscape. None of the greatness we are surrounded by is lost on her.
Meanwhile, Shawn and I discuss our options for accessing the chute. Our first thought is dropping in from the peak. It is is a fifteen foot air drop onto a forty to fifty degree slope with powdery, but, otherwise unknown conditions. According to the guidebook, the second is to take the north entrance one-hundred fifty feet below the summit. It is a forty five degree slope that sits above a band of cliffs and feeds into the main coulior. We cannot see the entrance to option number two but considering I have never skied with this much weight on my back I opt for number two and Shawn agrees.
We change into our ski boots, click into our downhills and ski down to the second access point, knowing soon the distant view of “The Cross” will never be the same, our perspective changed by the intimate knowledge of the slope, our visible tracks through the powder leaving a mark a kin to those of an artist placing a curved but simple brush stroke of grey on a blank white canvas. I am confident in my skiing skills but my heart is still in my throat. I call Macy from her peaceful stare and ski to the edge of the slope, Macy following behind. I look down at the pristine snow, one large rock provides an island of contrast in the vertical pond of white that disappears one-hundred feet below, at the cliff’s edge. Staring too long is not a good idea so I turn and ask Shawn
“Are you ready?”
“I hope so” he replies, his eyes wide with nervous anticipation, knowing one mistake could be fatal.
I jump turn onto the vertiginous slope. As my ski’s make contact with the hard surface below the powdery top, the forty pounds on my back push me forward with such force that I am unable to regain my balance and I am pushed headfirst into the slope and proceed to cartwheel out of control towards the deadly band of cliffs. I am disoriented and terrified, knowing I am destined for certain death or at least serious injury if I cannot stop myself. With each flip I try to dig the edge of my ski’s into the soft slope but my pack just seems to gain momentum each time it becomes airborne, carrying me head over heels, disorienting toss after disorienting toss, further down the slope. Finally, the forty pound death weight makes a dull thud, snagging on the single rock I saw from above.
“F**K!! Are you o.k.?” Shawn yells from the top, Macy steps anxiously from foot to foot, looking down in deep consternation.
I catch my breath, my heart racing faster than a cheetah in full sprint. “F**k” is right. By some divine intervention of who knows what kind, I am alive and unhurt. The look down to see the buckle of my pack has broken. I remove the pack so I can stand up and find that other than a compression strap being frayed where it caught on the rock I am fine and have somehow managed to keep all of my ski equipment attached and unbroken.
I take a few deep breaths, calming my mind, and shaking off the thought of what could have happened. I stand up, brush myself off, and call for Macy to come down so I can ski over to the main chute. She looks at me with a look that says ”Are you kidding me, after what I just witnessed?” I call for her three more times before I realize, she is not going to do it, at least not with me this far down the slope. I have taken her backcountry skiing before but this is by far the steepest slope I have ever asked her to descend. After seeing my not so elegant gymnastics routine, she is, understandably, not convinced. I have to hike back up to get her. To keep it from shifting and throwing me off balance again, I tie the waist belt of my pack with a square knot and make parallel steps up the mountain until I am ten feet below the spot where Macy sits.
In the sweetest voice I can conjure up I pat my thigh and call to her “Come on Macy, come on” No movement.
“ Come on Macy, it’s o.k.” She stands and takes tiny pattered steps backwards but goes nowhere.
“Ma-cy, come on” continued shuffling of paws with no forward progress
I hike five more feet up mountain, and call to her again “Come on Macer, I got ya’, it’s o.k.”
She looks at me, looks at the slope. I pat my hand to my leg and call her again. Finally she takes the jump, her momentum carrying her forward as she tries to slow down. Her front legs fully extended, her butt as low as it can get. She looks like the dog in the Grinch who stole Christmas trying to stop the sled, without the sled. Her technique is effective and she slows to a halt one foot above me, a pile of snow from her slide gathered around her chest. I give her a good rub behind her ears “Good girl!!” and glance up to Shawn.
“I am going to ski to the edge of the entrance to the main chute and wait while you drop in. Please ski it better than I did” I say with a smile.
Now that I am fully aware of what to expect from the added weight, I traverse over the untouched snow and make four jump turns and glide forward to the edge of the entrance. Shawn drops in, executes five focused turns and makes his way to where I am standing. We both breath a sigh of relief. The coulior is steeper than the slope we are on but it empties into a five or six-hundred foot long slope that gradually decreases into a modest grade. The chance of death is considerably less likely now.
He graciously extends his hand towards the untouched ribbon of snow and says “After surviving that fall, you deserve the honors”
A cheshire cat grin lights up my face and I traverse into the chute for first tracks. A rugged tower of rock stands in front of me, a five foot high wall below and behind, nothing but beautiful un-skied heaven lies directly below. My nerves have settled and I am practically salivating at the untouched slope that lies in front of me. I call Macy closer, wanting to be sure she will come down the steeper slope before I go down myself. “Here we go” I call out as I begin my descent.
I make ten jump turns into sweet soft snow until the slope eventually becomes more gradual and I begin to make floating powder turns, leaving a continuous trail of S’s behind me, laughing and “wahooing” until coming to stop where the snow ends the tall manzanita begins. I stand smiling as Macy jumps through the deep snow to meet me. I raise my hands like a racer who has crossed the finish line with a record breaking time. Shawn returns a big wahoo and makes his way down the mountain, laying a set of beautiful tracks next to mine. We high-five and are enveloped in a euphoric rush of adrenaline, admiring the terrain and the temporary signature left by our ski tracks and Macy’s run down the mountain. We pop the top off our last Sierra Nevadas and relish in surviving and skiing the legendary “Cross.” While enjoying our beers we look around for the trail down.
“Do you think it is further South?” he says looking for any sign of trail.
“I don’t know, this looks nothing like what the guidebook described.”
“I guess we could just go through the manzanita until we intersect it, it can’t be that far.”
I look at the manzanita which is chest level, thick while at the same time hollow, knife sharp thorns lining it’s branches. Not seeing any sign of a trail, there really is not another option. We change into our hiking boots and strap our skies to our backpack and begin our trek to the car, assuming we will intersect with the trail within thirty minutes.
“Ouch!” I cry as my foot goes through the branches, my bare arm cut by the thorns as I reach my hand out to keep myself from falling over completely.
“Are you ok?” Shawn asks,
“I am fine but this Manzanita is hideous!”
We were wrong about intersecting the trail and spend the next three hours slashing and struggling through the thorny vegetation. Macy navigates the vegetation with the grace of an Olympic balance beam competitor. A result of our frequent outings on concrete and dirt paths, her paws are as thick as the soles of our hiking boots and she is not bothered by the sharp thorns. Shawn and I have a drastically different experience, falling countless times as the tails of our skis get caught on the thick branches of the devil shrub. They are strong enough to not bend with our skis but too weak to support our weight, our feet crashing through the stratums of branches. Our adrenaline euphoria turns into frustration pretty quickly but we finally we finally arrive the car, exhausted, scratched and shredded to pieces, but essentially unharmed.
On the drive home we look at our solitary tracks centered in the line of snow descending from the mountain. A smile spreads across my face. I am filled with a sense of pride and delight as I look at them glistening in the sunshine.
I place my hand on Shawn's shoulder, giving it a gently encouraging shake “I still cannot believe we skied that.”
I look to the right of our perfectly laid tracks, at the messy pockets of my less than graceful entry, but it does not detract from the fact I have successfully skied the most challenging slope I have ever attempted. I now know what it is like to ski with a weighted backpack so my possibilities are limitless. I feel like I can go anywhere, ski anything.
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