A Last Night in Lake Tahoe

It is with a sense of sad nostalgia that I write this tonight.  As I sit here with the window open, I hear the smooth sound of the waves of Lake Tahoe splashing upon the shore.  I feel the bitter, wonderful bite of the icy cold, and see the reflection of white snow upon trees, buildings and ground.  Far beyond, I see only twinkling of the distant lights of the far side of the lake.  Everything else is eerily quiet, cold and still. 

It is the last night here, the last night of my 29th birthday vacation.  Tomorrow we will take the long drive back home, back to work and reality.  It does feel like the waking of a long and wonderful dream.  We've done so much, and so little in our short week here.  We've taken a walk through the touristy nature trail, seen salmon swimming up the rapid stream, the fall colors.  We toured around the old mansions and homesteads of our fore-bearers, those who came up to enjoy this lake in the past centuries.

We walked up the side of a great mountain, Mt. Tallac, about 5-6 miles by reckoning, along a rocky path.  We stopped for lunch at an old resort camp, sat down upon the rock with nothing but the wilds of the mountains, just us for miles and miles.  Peanut butter and jelly never tasted so good.

We did a lot of nothing too, sitting and reading.  Walking and enjoying the freshly fallen snow.  We sat and watched it cascade down, and watched the wind whip up the dark waters of the lake.  We ate well, enjoying meals at such wonderful restaurants and home.  

At long last though, it is time to go home.  I wish we didn't have to leave.  I could die tomorrow and probably be very happy.  This is what it must feel like to retire, to have no worries or concerns.  I could stay up here forever, within the reach of the wilds of nature but also comfortably in civilization.  Alas, I cannot for now at least.  But here is to dreaming.

The First Snow

It is only November first, and already soft drifts of snow float down outside my window.  I am at home, in Southshore Lake Tahoe just three days after my 29th birthday and as I watch each tiny fleck I feel as if I am gazing out into a large and wondrous snowglobe.  The snow seems to hover in the darkness as if borne on tiny wings, the wind casting it to and fro to land upon the roofs in thick clumps.  It has only been an hour and it is already thick as a pillow blanket. 

This is the best weather for writing that I can imagine.  There is nothing quite like sitting in the black of night, with snow whipping outside.  There's a fire in the fireplace, hot cocoa ready at my convenience, life is pretty good.  I can sit without a worry in the world and concentrate upon my work.  Its Christmas kind of weather, so far from the sunny and probably warm and hot of San Luis Obispo where I live. 

We don't really have seasons back at home, which is something I do miss terribly.  We basically have summer, indian summer, a semi-winter, and an allergy season (which is part of summer.)  There's no fall color, there's no snow.  We sometimes get hail or a freeze, but nothing like this.  I think that this is the sort of weather that appeals to most of us when we think of warm and cozy. 

Tomorrow, I will wake to a world of white.  Where everything will be clean, cold and crisp.  Everything will be blanketed in a thick waist high layer of snow.  Kids will be out sledding, making snowballs, and animals will probably be gathering what foodstuffs they can for this strange "early" winter.  I can step outside for a moment and take in the lovely white, cold, and then step back into my comfortable space and look out to the wonders of the first snow.