The Wilderness Next Door

by Chris Crossen

While the population is growing, and places like Truckee threaten to become Truckee City, right next door is a world that is as remote as you want it to be.

When we emerged from the canyon 12 hours later, Mike and I were exhausted. Just beat. We had broken trail all the way to the summit, skied a couple laps of foot-deep powder, got hit by a storm and darkness and then endured an arduous, mentally demanding slog back down. We were astounded by how few people we had seen after the best, deepest storm cycle of the season. Only one guy—a grizzled Tahoe veteran who skis by himself in the backcountry fi ve days a week—he appeared like a genie, rising out of the swirling snow onto the summit ridgeline below. He chose a different line down the gut of the bowl and, on the skin back up for another lap, told us that he always skis alone because he can never fi nd anyone to go out with him. Parting ways, we dropped down the opposite ridge into the late afternoon. The threatening storm fi nally descended, killing the daylight and our visibility. Seeking shelter among the Jeffrey pines, we were lost only miles from home, praying for moon and starlight to guide us back safely.

Six months later, headed down out of the dust and trees, following the same drainage, I found myself alone—during the height of summer vacation and tourism after a big ride along the Pacifi c Crest Trail—with nothing but thoughts of dehydration and awe at the solitude. Six hours on a bike through the same old logging roads and single track, and not a soul in sight.

Where is everyone?

Tahoe is crowded and becoming even more so with thousands of homes, condos and shops slated for completion during the next fi ve years. Yet seclusion and solitude are often closer than the largest neighborhoods.

Sure, the summer traffic can be horrible, and Interstate 80 drones continuously. But overall, few people venture beyond, and the Tahoe backcountry remains largely empty. I can ride my mountain bike from Truckee to Tahoe City and back, or ski Sugar Bowl to Squaw and not see anyone the entire way. In fact, there are probably fewer people out in the surrounding forests and mountains than there were 100 years ago.

When my wife and I originally considered Truckee as our next place to live, I was somewhat worried. She grew up in a very small town in the Eastern Sierra, surrounded by big, empty peaks, and I had lived in suburbs or cities all my life, escaping deep into the wilds when I could. We wanted to really get away. We wanted big, uncrowded backcountry. We were concerned that Truckee and North Tahoe were too busy, not remote enough. Maybe we had compromised. But, after living here for awhile, we are truly surprised and encouraged.

We each have our own reasons for being here—the subtly profound, the simple, the extraordinary—but what really keeps me psyched and driven is that it remains so easy to lose myself on an adventure only a couple of miles from the safety of my house and family. I need this possibility in my life; it keeps me alive, glad to be in Tahoe and free to live the promises it affords.

So while the population is growing, and places like Truckee threaten to become Truckee City, right next door is a world that is as remote as you want it to be, sometimes even more. These areas aren't wildernesses—far from them. The land has been logged, dammed, graded and diverted. But these pockets offer glimpses of—and feed our curiosity with—what lies beyond our every day, what we are capable of and what we have no clue about. They inspire, and that is always enough.

Despite the population and traffic pressures our small communities face, it is important—vital even—to know that these empty places remain. These special zones and islands are found amidst it all. We can escape, forget and lose ourselves in a simple moment of joy, fear, pain or beauty—all while the traffic and hammers drone somewhere that feels far away. It isn't even that hard. Just open your door and go.