Our Sierra

Tucked into South Lake Tahoe shopping centers, these two booksellers have existed quietly for the past two decades. But when it comes to selection, their diverse collections speak for themselves.

Keynote Used Records & Books
2660 Lake Tahoe Boulevard
South Lake Tahoe, CA
(530) 541-6967

Over 10,000 used books as well as rows of LPs, 78s and 45s stock this 1,000 square foot store dedicated to giving such media a second—or third, fourth, fifth—life. While there’s always an abundance of literary fiction, poetry, and jazz and rock records, the selection varies; currently, owner Ray Hadley says art books are in great supply. Most finds run in the $5 range, but rare and collectible items—like a 1928 Bennie Moten’s Kansas City Orchestra record—can reach triple digits.

Bookworks
3330 Lake Tahoe Boulevard Suite 9
South Lake Tahoe, CA
(530) 541-6818

It’s floor-to-ceiling books at this nonprofit shop, where donated book sales benefit the South Lake Tahoe Family Resource Center.  From kids’ stories and cookbooks, to robust Western and romance sections, the shelves are stacked with just about any type of read you could desire. And with a friendly volunteer staff, you’re sure to find just what you’re looking for—for a good cause.
Read about more Tahoe bookstores in our Spring 2008 issue…

If Pablo Neruda was right, and laughter really is the language of the soul, then spending a Tuesday night at the casino might actually save you. Every Tuesday, Tahoe Comedy North dishes up the funny in the Crown room at the Crystal Bay Club. I was skeptical that stand-up comedy could rally the crowds in Tahoe, but the room filled just as the host warmed up the mic, and the performers kept the jokes rolling from 8–10 pm. I have to admit that the opening comedian had Lis, Sue, Jim and I all squirming in our seats and glancing for the closest exit, but the following act and the headliner raised the bar significantly. Except perhaps for the old folks in front of us that maintained their stoic and disapproving demeanor throughout, headliner Adam Richmond had the room in stitches. Either the guy in front of us didn’t have his hearing aid loud enough or the drinks got stronger toward the end of the night, but I thought the jokes were funny. (It was probably both.) There’s just something remarkable about people who can remind you that even in Tahoe, we can take life way too seriously sometimes.

After the show, Sue split to tend to the kiddies at home and the rest of us grabbed a late night $1.99 breakfast at the Biltmore. For $2 the breakfast never disappoints, but I would probably skip the $4 milkshake next time. The night wouldn’t have been complete if we didn’t stop by the roulette table on the way out. Lady Luck was with us again and I tripled my minimum buy-in. I must confess that I lost $20 on roulette since the last time I blogged, but it’s way more fun to write about the winning moments.

Another great evening out, and we were in home and in bed by midnight. I’m not sure we found salvation, but it felt good to laugh out loud.

Smile — we live in Tahoe!

It’s hard enough working inside at a computer on a 60-plus-degree, bluebird day, but it is downright torture to be sitting here recounting the glorious time we pent-up office women here at TQ just spent out reveling in the prime weather. When my iGoogle weather widget told me that today would be so sunny and warm, I immediately declared it an office-wide picnic lunch day.

Since our ski lunch a few weeks ago at Diamond Peak, we’ve been craving therapeutic fresh air and activity to break up the workday. So around noon, girls and dogs all piled into two cars and headed up to the Mount Rose summit. All snow-booted up—except for poor Nicci, shod only in tennis shoes because we kidnapped her on our way out—we headed up a roughly packed sled run. The tumbleweed-like bundle of dogs defied gravity, somehow rolling and tackling each other up the hill. We came out atop the ridgeline on a nice, boot-packed trail.

The going was easy until I decided to lead us along the scenic route. Barring a few trap doors, the snowfield crossing was relatively firm. We came out on a sunbaked slope peppered with warm boulders and patches of sand and brush peeking through the snow. The view was spectacular and the entertainment unparalleled. There are few things more hilarious than a dog gang in the psychotic throes of a snow high.

Belly rumblings reminded us it was lunchtime. Elaine V. pulled out her bento box packed with brown rice, edamame and egg rolls complete with mini condiment dispensers and tiny utensils. Lis snacked on her veggie sushi, and Elaine D. demurely crunched crackers while Nicci and I mawwed through our sandwiches.

With the sun starting to burn our pasty winter complexions, we turned reluctantly back. Trekking back through the ever-softening and aptly dubbed (by Elaine V.) “memory foam” snow left us with enough snow on our cuffs to drag a little hint of nature back to our desks.

As I sit here typing, I can still feel the slight burn on my cheeks, the warm tingle in my quads and the mountains calling me back. And the only reason I am back inside, staring whistfully through the glass, is to share this moment with you. So grab anyone who is looking a little droopy and get out there already!

Besides being talented, smart and ridiculously good looking, we at Tahoe Quarterly also pride ourselves on our big, generous hearts. Which is why Lis, Nicci and I walked over to the Incline Village fire station to donate blood today. I’m totally kidding—we went for the free donuts.

Anyway, it was a fine enough experience, at first. The nurses were all extremely professional (which I always imagine is hard when you have to ask every person about their drug sharing habits with prostitutes in third world countries). I do, however, prefer blood drives in Pennsylvania, where someone always dresses up as a blood droplet, looking like a giant red Hershey kiss.

It was Lis’s first donation, so Nicci and I waited until she had the needle in her arm to talk about donations-gone-wrong—veins that can’t be found, sadistic nurses, etc.

As the veteran blood donors, Nicci and I finished first, pumping it out quick and painlessly, then walking over to the snack stand to load up on carbs and fluids. Which is where I started feeling kind of funny. Suddenly I wasn’t in my chair anymore, but on the floor staring groggily at the ceiling while two men stuffed pillows under my head.

“So is she the first one to pass out today?” Nicci asked, and I was not proud to hear that I, indeed, was.

Regardless, drained and embarrassed, it felt nice to do a good deed. Luckily, the Tahoe Basin has plenty of other opportunities for those looking to volunteer. There’s the Bear League in Homewood, the Boys & Girls Club in South Lake Tahoe and Kings Beach, Project MANA in Incline Village, and numerous other foundations and community support networks surrounding The Lake. So whether you are helping the poor or unconscious on your back in a fire station while someone named Todd tries to get your blood pressure under control, please enjoy your service, as it makes our community a better place.

What is an average Tahoe winter? Statistically, that’s an easy question. Concerning snowfall: 8 feet by February 1 at Tahoe’s lake level; 11 feet by March 1; and over 14 feet by April 1, the day that statistics predict the deepest snowpack in the higher elevations.

But in my mind, the character of the winter is more important to its “average-ness” than any statistic. When you compare winters, did the inches of snowfall translate into bottomless powder days of skiing or riding, or did they dribble in mixed with rain? Was there in mid-February an incredible week of spring temps that produced corn snow, quickly followed by a bonding series of storms and two weeks of deep powder? This is the season’s character, and it tells more than statistics.

Out of the Tahoe winters I’ve known, the two from 1981 to ‘83 are instructive of averages. Everyone talks about the winter of 1981–82 because of the Alpine Meadows, Jakes Peak and Freel Peak avalanches, but the next winter, ‘82–’83, had almost the same amount of snowfall. The way I experienced them, things were rolling along in more-or-less average fashion in ‘81–’82 until late-March, when the heavens opened up and dumped 19 feet of snow at my West Shore home. The next winter, it seemed to just piddled all the time. Sure, we had a few good powder days, but the continual gray skies made ‘82–’83 much below average.

This winter, the snow clouds of late-January finally ended what had been a statistically dry year, putting precipitation totals at or above average in most of the Sierra. And on the whole, at mid-season, this winter feels pretty average; in other words, the conditions are great, with a handful of memorable powder days. After all, one’s memories of an average year may be anything but average. And at Tahoe, average is plenty good!

One thing I might remember about this winter to date is something my fellow TQ blogger, Alison, points out: It has been damn cold. There were multiple minus-zero nights at my house in January. The average low for Tahoe during January is 19 degrees, so it’s not like it doesn’t get cold at this time of year. But it does seem to me that during recent winters we’ve seen more storms head straight south from Alaska than in the past, rather than traveling West to East. At times, the jet stream has zig-zagged north and south across the continent like the switchbacks of a mountain road. Is this part of the unpredictability of global warming? How should I know?

Even if global warming, for some perverse reason, brings Tahoe more cold, dry snow, it still sucks. But then again, my mantra is: Enjoy the present.

With a husband catskiing in Oregon and a boyfriend couch-bound with a busted knee, what are two Tahoe ladies to do on a Friday night?

Lis and I left the TQ office Friday afternoon and headed to MontBleu not knowing exactly what to expect from the evening ahead. As working girls, we’re not routine patrons to Tahoe’s high-end cuisine scene, so it was a treat to be attending the inaugural night of Ciera Steakhouse’s quarterly food and wine pairing. The event proved to be a wonderfully decadent affair. Our jovial sommelier guided us through a five course meal with descriptive insights into our gastronomical experience. From the caviar and Champagne to the foie gras and Sauterne, the rich flavors indeed hosted “a party in our mouths,” just as our guide had promised. By the time the desserts, cheeses and port arrived, the volume and laughter had increased tenfold and our tablemates regaled us with funny historic anecdotes and intriguing Tahoe lore.

Dinner wasn’t the only success of the evening. Neither Lis nor I are gamblers per se, but I introduced her to the roulette table and it wasn’t long before we’d quintupled our humble minimum buy-in. (Don’t ask questions, just make sure you always have a chip on 23 when Eric is spinning.) We walked away from the table floating on the high from Lady Luck’s presence, and I’m afraid I may have ignited a new infatuation in Lis.

An invitation to join the Blue Gay-La pub crawl was a tempting way to keep the night going, but, alas, my golden/chow puppy awaited us in the car, eager to scarf down the remains of my excellent dinner. No doubt the delicacy of the Kobe beef steak was not lost on his refined 8-month-old palette.

We headed home with excessively full tummies and some extra cash in our wallets. I don’t think we need to make the boys envious by telling them all the details. Ok, that’s a lie. I do think my able-bodied, powder-catskiing husband deserves to feel a little jealous.

So Lis, what are you doing next Friday?

This is my first real winter in Tahoe. It’s great. Alpine Meadows has had terrific snow, and all the lifts have been open—even Sherwood. I just got cross-country skis and I’ve already been sledding. It’s just that… oh my god, is it cold!

I’m originally from Pennsylvania, and we know cold there. But this—this bone-chilling, marrow-freezing, arctic chill is something that no one in their right mind should live in.

I think maybe the problem is that my drafty little house has no heat—just an upstairs fireplace. When I moved here, in June, it didn’t seem like a big deal. But now, when I get home from work, it’s a little different. It is really hard to start a fire while wearing gloves, even harder without gloves when my fingers are too numb to flick the lighter.

We had a mini-crisis the last big snow. (“A 50-year snow,” the experts said. Made me feel special.) It just so happened that we ran out of the firewood our home’s predecessors had left behind, go figure, just as the snow started to fall. Luckily, I called down to the Pizza Shack in Truckee, which often has big trucks full of lumber sitting outside. The guy, Brian, told me that I could have some, about $40 worth of wood. The rest was saved for little old ladies who, like me, forgot to restock and would freeze otherwise.

The snow was nice. Not so much for my fiancé, who is the official shoveler in our home, but for me, who didn’t leave the couch that entire day and most of the next. It’s alright, though; it’s a comfortable couch. I don’t mind waiting there until spring.