“At last the lake burst upon us---a noble sheet of blue water lifted six thousand three hundred feet above the level of the sea, and walled in by a rim of snow-clad mountain peaks that towered aloft three thousand feet higher still! As it lay there with the shadows of the mountains brilliantly photographed upon its still surface, I thought it must surely be the fairest picture the whole world affords.”---Mark Twain, 1861
We’re Off To The Coxville Zoo
In the Golden Age of Airports, long past, we thought them glamorous, inviting, waiting-rooms for adventure filled with cosmopolitan folk off to traverse the jungles of Cameroon, traipse the walkways of Paris, inhale the scented air of Hawaii. These helpful oases escorted us off to college, worried as we headed for military duties, celebrated when we finally came home. Everything was shiny new in the airports and passengers dressed as if they were headed for the opera. There was great civility in these places, they were welcoming and roomy, visitors felt special just to be there. In the golden days, it really was all about the journey and not just the destination.
In the Golden Age, the planes rolled in and out of their gates on schedule. The aisles were wide, the seats far enough apart to recline without inconveniencing your neighbor, wide enough to encouch The Fat Lady from the circus. Svelte, lovely stewardesses in crisp, spiffy uniforms paraded up and down the aisles smiling, delivering drinks and aromatic dinners, tending to one’s every need. When we arrived in Honolulu, native girls in grass skirts bid us aloha and dropped pungent leis around our necks. It was the best of times, it was the best of times. And then….
Skip forward fifty years. Nowadays, if your flight takes off at the civilized hour of 8 a.m., you’ll be up by 4, two hours fighting airport traffic, another two battling your way through sneering airport security personnel demanding a look at your shoes, belts, jackets, handbags and the remains of Aunt Judy in that very suspicious urn. All this for the privilege of being bumped around by crowds of ill-bred travelers flip-flopping through the corridors, late as usual, dragging wailing, half-dressed urchins behind them in a blind panic to arrive at their gates before zero hour.
Many of them needn’t hurry. Planes often leave late these days, occasionally not at all; others sit on the runway in broiling conditions for extravagant lengths of time. If you somehow manage to win the brass ring, you might get a direct flight somewhere, but it will cost you. Want to save money? Step right up for our 2 a.m. bargains. Whereas one stop on the way to your ultimate destination used to be the norm, now the airlines try to sneak in an extra one, not well-advertised, where you don’t change planes. The “flight attendants” don’t look like models any more; often, they look like Bruce, a prissy ex-drag queen who missed his calling in standup comedy. And those fine dinners? You’ll more likely be given your choice of desalinated pretzels, Mongolian Boodog or jellied moose nose.
You only get all this, of course, if you heed “your last and final warning.” As opposed to your penultimate and final warning or your last and semi-final warning. Oh, and don’t try to sneak anything one-half inch too large onto the plane. They have these little gizmos at the gate now which are certain to detect your crime. When this happens, bells and sirens scream through the halls, large uniformed men come rushing forward and your suitcase is promptly thrust into the Container-Z area, along with heavy equipment, traveling gerbils and Moldovian stowaways. If you complain, you’ll be there, too.
The Days Of Wine And Granlibakken
The EPM Society is an elite cadre of approximately 50 investigators devoted to the chore of solving the riddle of a disease mostly found in horses called Equine Protozoal Myeloencephalitis. Most of them are academicians, a few (like Siobhan) in private business. A couple of times a year, they gather in posh, scenic places to discuss their research, listen to informed speakers and clean out the wine bar. Siobhan, I can say with complete objectivity, is easily the cream of this crop and was therefore scheduled to speak thrice. The setting for this Autumn’s event was the 74-acre Granlibakken (a hillside sheltered by fir trees) Resort, a funky, picturesque lodge-type facility on the west side of Lake Tahoe in tiny Tahoe City. The resort has its own modest ski facility but is right next door to a major one, internationally renowned Squaw Valley, home of the 1960 Winter Olympics. As the CFO of Pathogenes, Inc., it is my duty to travel along to these affairs to make sure ne’er-do-wells don’t bilk Siobhan out of her money. Oh, and to make sure she doesn’t get lost. Far more important, however, is to gather up critical information and photos for The Flying Pie. It is, as you may surmise, a difficult life, but I’ve learned to cope.
Travelers enured to the Hyatt Regencys of the world might have adjustment issues to the old lodges often found in national parks and ski resorts. Most of these buildings were constructed just after the dawn of time, when central heating hadn’t occurred to anyone and elevators were the stuff of science fiction. The rooms are small and the bathrooms will not be mistaken for those at the Waldorf-Astoria. At the Granlibakken, the heat emerged from the pipes painfully slowly, as if guarded by miserly trolls, and the three-flight slog to our room was a thrice-daily chore. Not to be considered outdated, however, the resort has conjured up an expansive zip-line which covers a significant part of its real estate. I asked fun-girl Siobhan if she’d like to try it. “I would rather bathe in the Citarum River of Indonesia,” said she. But we’re not going there, I protested.
The Lake
Lake Tahoe, which straddles the California-Nevada state line, is the largest alpine lake in North America. It trails only the five Great Lakes as the largest by volume in the United States. Its depth is 1645 feet, making it the second-deepest in the U.S. after Crater Lake.
The lake was formed about 2 million years ago as part of the Lake Tahoe Basin, with the modern extent being shaped during the Ice Age. Tahoe is known for the clarity of its water and the panorama of surrounding mountains on all sides. More than 75% of the lake’s watershed is national forest land.
Unlike Crater Lake, which is fairly isolated and relatively unused by the public, Tahoe is a major tourist attraction for both summer outdoor recreation and winter skiing, not to mention the wealth of visitors drawn in by its spectacular scenery. The northern section of the lake is comprised of small forested towns like Tahoe City, Incline Village and King’s Beach, the latter right at the top of the lake. King’s Beach is the major draw in the area, with an ample shoreline, a plethora of shops and restaurants and even a nine-hole golf course. The north and west have a lot of rural charm and that section is most suitable for visitors like Siobhan and I. Route 89, which winds down the west side of the lake is a two-lane 30-40 mph road with a couple of those interesting 10 mph hairpin turns so beloved by Siobhan. The route extends down to South Lake Tahoe at the bottom of the lake with an important stop at Vikingsholm, the most photographed spot in the area. There is also a modest waterfall on the nearby Eagle Lake Trail. Stop there or be square.
Tahoe City, closest town to the Granlibakken Resort, is a small tourist-oriented community with a sprightly marina and gaggle of colorful shops. The exceptional Lakeside Trail, which shadows the perimeter of Lake Tahoe and provides splendid views of the water and surrounding mountains, is dotted with clusters of memorial benches, each with a plaque commemorating a life, often the life of someone who once enjoyed that very bench. In addition to merely citing the years of birth and death, most of the plaques include a lighthearted comment relative to the person memorialized. My favorite is a simple wooden bench with a plaque which advises the dearly departed Isabel Brown that “It’s a skipping rocks kind of day.” And what better place to skip them?
South Lake Tahoe
If an ambitious traveler deigns to drive around the entirety of Lake Tahoe without stopping, the journey, almost exclusively on winding two-lane roads with plenty of sightseers, will take a little over two hours on a very good day. The distance is roughly 75 miles, but only a fanatic would not stop somewhere to snap a few photos, amble down a short trail or drop a few bucks at one of the Nevada-side casinos. Most of these houses of chance will be found in the surprisingly populous city of South Lake Tahoe, 25,000 souls at last count, located at the very bottom of the lake. Figuratively speaking, of course. Mentioning the bottom of the lake, this might be a good time to broach the ugly subject of Mafia interments in Lake Tahoe. Rumor has it The Mob discovered the place in the early 1960s when Frank Sinatra roamed the local landscape, and thought the lake an apt place to dispose of a few corpses. “Usually, a body which goes into the lake does not come back up,” says Mike McFarlane of McFarlane Mortuary, who ought to know. “They usually go down and that’s it. People who drown, they’re just gone. It’s the depth.” The South Lake Tahoe Chamber of Commerce begs to differ, as one might suspect, claiming the Mafia much preferred the desert in the south of the state. The C. of C. blames all those rumors on “The Godfather Part II” movie in which a character is offed on the lake and dumped overboard. At last report, nobody was checking. No wonder they never found Jimmy Hoffa.
South Lake Tahoe is a booming city of spiffy casinos and high-end retail, easy on the eyes and right beside the lake, the perfect spot for nature-lovers disinclined to rough it. Big name entertainers parade through the casinos just like in Vegas, though on a smaller scale. El Dorado is a peach of a beach and the Sierra Nevada trails are just a skip and a hop down the road. They even have horse-drawn carriages, for crying out loud. And who knows, you might get to rub elbows with one of those Mafia dons at the roulette wheel.
Magical Mystery Tour
Lake Tahoe, it would seem, has something for everyone. Why decide between the mountains and the beach when you can have both? You can ski in the Winter, swim in the Summer and gaze at the leaves in the Fall. You’ve got the sun in the morning and the moon at night. Our friend Richard Allen calls the place magical, and magical it is. If you like, today you can stand on the shore at Tahoe City or King’s Beach or Incline Village and see the colors morph and change before your very eyes. Watch curious mists rise from the waters enveloping the Spirits of the lake as the Sierras in the distance look down with approval. It’s a glorious day, indeed, Isabel. Why, it might even be a skipping rocks kind of day!
P.S.---It should read “a skipping stones kind of day.” Where are the Poet Police when you really need them?
That’s all, folks….
