Powder Perfect

Skiing is like having a crush. Nothing else matters while you’re in its thrall. You tell yourself you’ll have time for other activities but, almost without deciding, you’re suiting up, buying the lift ticket, challenging yourself to be the best you can be--and never able to say “This is the last run of the day.” Two weekends ago in Lake Tahoe, my infatuation deepened because the mountain there offered me some of the best snow I have ever skied on.

Most typically, I ski Mammoth, enduring the long drive and crowds for the sake of the mountain. But I had a hankering for new hills, and my nephew, Josh, in his late 20s and an expert skier, swore by Squaw Valley USA--one of the six Tahoe ski resorts that also include Alpine Meadows, Heavenly, Kirkwood, Northstar-at-Tahoe and Sierra-at-Tahoe. It didn’t hurt that Josh had friends at Squaw who would know about lodging and food.

We left Los Angeles on a 7 a.m. Sunday flight to Reno. There were no lines, the plane was half full and the airport in Reno had more slot machines than people. We played a quarter, then walked on to the rental car agency, where again there were no lines; we were out of there in 10 minutes. Renting a car turned out to be cheaper and easier than taking a shuttle bus from Reno to the lake ($35 per person one way).

By 8:40, we were heading up out of the desert basin into the mountains on Interstate 80, passing small settlements called Mogul and Boomtown, following the dark green Truckee River, which was steaming like a boiling pasta pot in the morning cold. As the road swept higher, the thick snow began. The week before, 5 feet of the stuff had fallen. Roadside bushes looked like huddles of cottontails. The pines, heavy with snow, assumed the postures of giant white-robed Buddhist monks, hands folded into swooping sleeves and heads bowed. One lone cloud streamed off a peak like a prayer flag.

We stopped briefly to put on the chains, which accounted for $35 of our rental car bill (not mandatory, but if you want them, you buy them). Whipping a screwdriver out of his day pack, Josh helped this process. “A good skier,” he smiled, “always has a screwdriver.”

By 10--three hours after leaving Los Angeles--we were checking into our hotel, the Sunnyside Lodge, a small inn on the North Shore a few miles south of Tahoe City that had been recommended by Josh and friends. We walked across the street to the excellent Firesign Cafe, where I had two eggs scrambled with sauteed mushrooms, green onions and jack cheese, all wrapped up in two crepes and smothered with a light but tart hollandaise. Josh had Baker’s Benedict, which was spicy sausage and poached eggs, also with hollandaise. Both of us loved the crusty herbed home fries. The great thing about knowing you’re going skiing is that you can eat as much as you want. By 12:30 we were lined up at Squaw Valley to buy half-day tickets. By 1 p.m., whisked halfway up the mountain in an enclosed cable car, I was making my first run downhill.

That whole afternoon of skiing was serene and hassle-free. Even though the parking lot was full (meaning the mountain was at capacity), there were no lines for the lifts, no lines in the ladies’ rooms and no jostling to get hot chocolate. Best of all, there was fresh packed powder all over the mountain. Falling into it was no worse than bouncing on a firm mattress, and the give beneath my turns was wonderful. Only once in two days of skiing did I hear that nasty snarl of skis sliding across ice.

Squaw is well organized for a middle-aged, mid-level skier. I followed the trail map provided by the mountain and progressed from bunny slopes to warmup runs. Each lift dropped me off at a place where I could comfortably progress to slightly more difficult runs. After an hour I found my perfect intermediate lift, Gold Coast, which led out into open bowl skiing and long, swooping runs back down to the mid-mountain Gold Coast Hut, where food and drinks awaited.

Josh went straight to the top of the mountain (Siberia Bowl), where he found fresh powder and threw himself off every steep part he could find. “It’s not more difficult than other mountains,” he said, “there’s just more variety to the terrain. I mean, it’s got not just faces and walls, but more chutes and cornices, and bowls with moguls.”

Like all great mountains, Squaw offers runs for every age and level of expertise. From the chairlifts, I loved watching the duckling kids following their ski instructors down the mountain.

At 4:30 I met Josh at the bar at Le Chamois, where we could have had hot popcorn and fries but settled for beer. Then I headed back to our lodge to relax. Sunnyside Lodge is a small hotel situated right on the shore of Lake Tahoe, which is one of the most beautiful natural lakes in the world. The lodge is a nice combination of homey but not funky, beautifully appointed yet relaxed. The main public room has nooks and crannies and a huge stone fireplace, big enough to walk into, over which a dewy-nosed buffalo head presides. Elk antler chandeliers hang from the ceilings; on the walls there are pictures of Teddy Roosevelt and ladies with long white dresses and huge straw hats standing on the decks of the old mahogany steamers that once plied these waters. Two old-fashioned wooden canoes hang on either side of the main living room.

The lodge has 23 rooms, most with lake views. Our room had a few too many ducks--in the wallpaper and at the base of every lamp--but it was decorated in subdued blue-grays, with a nubbly wool carpet. Our own deck with chairs overlooked the lake. I vowed to come back in the summer when lunch is served on the lawn above the docks.

After showering, Josh and I sat by the fire in the lounge and had hot, crispy zucchini sticks while we waited for a friend of his, Laura, who lives in Tahoe City. As the fire warmed our sore muscles, we talked in that wonderfully desultory way that can happen after fresh air and exercise and when two people are close but don’t often get the time to talk. When Laura arrived, we had dinner in the elegant dining room, where the steaks came with spicy peppercorn sauce and the bow-tie pasta, al dente, had three kinds of peppers.

On our second night, we ate at Jake’s, five minutes away in Tahoe City, which was another open, gleaming-with-polished-wood restaurant heavy on fish specials and steaks, and full of lively young people.

As with any love affair, skiing requires attention. Perhaps my euphoria made me take the mountain’s benign regard for granted, for on the second day the mountain slapped back. My ankles and knees hurt. My runs were wobbly. As a final insult, I veered off a lift staying a little uphill to avoid entangling myself with my rank-beginner chairlift companions, only to find myself thwacked off my feet from behind by the swinging lift chair. I was stunned and humbled and shakily rose to my feet, close to tears. I teetered down to the warming hut to succor myself with hot chocolate and an awesome cinnamon bun. I swore to pay better attention, and was rewarded by the best run of the day on my very next venture uphill.

I swooped down from the top of the Gold Coast lift. Far below, beyond the folds and crannies of the foothills, lay the shimmering, sapphire lake. The rhythm of my turns was effortless; the quiet rush of air filled me with elation. I was alone along the side of a giant open bowl. Anxiety receded to a faraway place and was once more wonderfully replaced by joy. I soared 2,000 feet all the way down to the valley.

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Budget for Two

Air LAX-Reno: $216.00

Sunnyside Lodge, 2 nights: 244.00

Breakfast, Firesign: 25.00

Le Chamois, drinks: 15.00

Dinner, Sunnyside: 55.00

Lunch on mountain: 9.50

Dinner, Jake’s: 39.09

Lift tickets: 164.00

Rental car: 107.35

Lunch, Burger King: 5.22

LAX parking: 36.14

FINAL TAB: $916.30

Sunnyside Lodge, 1850 W. Lake Blvd., Tahoe City, CA 96145; tel. (800) 822-2754 or (530) 583-7200.