After agonizing over where to go to get my snow fix--Whistler, Colorado, New Zealand (oops, wrong season) I ended up cutting the baby in half. Went to California...well, that is if you can sayTahoe is in California completely. It's almost in a world of its own, really, though we stayed on the Cali side. I eventually chose Northstar, even though I had heard less than complimentary things about it, primarily because Dave's company owns it, and we thought we could get some perks from the management folks. Sort of yes and sort of not so much. I did get a few days of lift passes and some help with baggage transport, but it was pretty hectic the rest of the time.
We lucked out on the lodging, getting a 3 BD condo for roughly $150 per night. No, that is not a typo, nor is it a per person price. As the kids today say, s-w-e-e-t. It wasn't Interlude or Thunderwolf, of course, but it was very serviceable. I flew out earlier than the rest, so I got the big loft room; I had offered to share it with one of the guys, but no one wanted to get that personal. Waldo would be laughing up his sleeve. There were beds for everyone, though they were small and uncomfortable. A small price to pay for a small price.
The timing was off for the Stockton/Loescher/Schwartz clans (new jobs, new baby, soon to be new baby...all very understandable), so I solicited the Coyle clan. Of the group, only Dave could get away. It was, after all, a business trip for him, and my impression is that he will go anywhere any time if snow is involved. Dave brought his buddy from school, RJ, and his cousin Adam. A small but robust group. RJ hadn't been on snow in quite a while, and Adam was often struggling himself, but we managed to escape serious injury nonetheless.
Adam
RJ
I went out a few days early to get in shape (and because I could) and it was mucho funo.
I flew into Sacramento and took a quick sidetrip on the way to the slopes via the Bogle Winery just south of the city. It was gorgeous, very European feeling, and I got to sample a bit. Just a tad, as it was a 2 hr drive to the mountains.
Of course, I got some paraphernalia and almost a case of various wines (red, of course) thinking the guys would help with it. Who knew?
The first day I piddled around and got out for a half day; success was measured by the fact I came home in one piece. I have no other recollection of it. The second day (Monday) I bopped over to Squaw Valley and found that this was the 50th anniversary of the Olympics there. Seemed pretty small to me at the time, and maddeningly unmarked. An interesting concept, they colored the lift lines on the map according to what types of terrain that lift served. Then you were on your own getting down. Crazy, but I hear the locals love it. The best part about it was that the lift ticket worked for night skiing also; I hadn't intended to push it that hard so early, but when I picked Dave up at the Reno airport late that afternoon, ... well, one thing led to another, and you know how boys are... we scurried back to Squaw for a few runs. It turned out it was only a few by the time we found the entrance to the tram and got back down (another story). The cable car was HUGE, holding I think over 50 people, though not that night.
As is the case with most night skiing, the snow was hard and often crusty. It was chilly, to say the least, but we managed. Dave was a bit rusty at first, but that soon passed and we piddled around the top for a bit, then headed down. Somewhere along the way, a funny thing happened. Dave slowed next to a sign that it was too dark to read, and which (as we found out later) pointed down to drop off that looked icky. Of course the only reasonable thing was to keep going straight. Also unbeknownst to us, that wasn't where the lighted trail was--we were on a regular blue trail that ended at the bottom during the day, but was closed at night. Shades of War Dance! We finally figured something wasn't right when we looked across the ravine and saw the light poles (and lights) way over on the other hill. Well, I sure wasn't climbing back up the few hundred yards we had come to get back to the trail--I had been down that run earlier and knew it was doable. Guess I forgot that "earlier" meant it was light then. It was kinda fun to have to turn blind, or by the scraping sound of the person in front (Dave), but a few of the sharp drops were, shall we say, exciting in the dark. Why is it I always end up riding with people who say "That's the last time I'm following you anywhere!"?
All was copacetic when we got to the bottom and we sturggled back to the tram. There was time for another run, and, at the indicated spot, we took the drop toward the lights in what was the most thrilling, fastest, and most uncontrolled 100 yards of the day. Thought I was dead, fer sure...or at least broken up a bit. But, in the end, neither of us fell, enabling us to cheat death once again.
The rest of the trip was a blur as RJ and Dave did all they could to injure themselves in the trees and the terrain parks, and on the ungroomed blacks. Now, Northstar didn't get the nickname "Flatstar" for nothing, and the blacks there are essentially blue or, at worst, dark blue in places like Colorado and Utah. But they still aren't to be trifled with if you're a mediocre rider. We trifled. My mistake was trying to follow the two pairs of 30-something legs down ungroomed, choppy slopes. My thighs and knees have seen too much other territory to hold up to that for very long. But...once we finally stumbled onto a groomed black run, (name) the tables turned dramatically. Even Adam liked those better, as proper technique is golden when it's smooth and steep. I have a fond memory of looking back uphill to see RJ on his ass cursing loudly. Technique, my man. Finally he and Dave took off into the woods to tease the reaper instead. All in all, a tiring and good day. And the ski-in part of the lodging was very much appreciated.
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| Tahoe is beautiful if you ride the lake side. Here's why. |
