We stand at the top of the West Bowl asking two nice ski patrollers if the run is open.
“Yeah, yeah, it’s open. Just be careful,” said the one on the right. “Especially at the bottom, it’s all ice.”
“No it’s not” said the one on the left. “In order for it to be ice it needs to blue and you need to be able see yourself in it in.”
This is pretty much how our day went. We waited as long as we could for the good snow to fly in Northern California. But last week Robbie, Karissa and I made a pact—the minute we got back from CES in Las Vegas we were headed for the snow.
At an inhumane hour in the morning we loaded up and hit the road. We were all looking for our first turns of the season. I lucked out, as Robbie offered to drive so I could doze in the passenger seat and dream of knee-deep pow.
We arrived at the Sierra-at-Tahoe parking lot to find nary an auto. Sure it was a week day, but we were still expecting more desperate souls looking for desperate turns.
The “snow” on the backside bowl was definitely blue and we all agreed we saw ourselves, wide-eyed and mouth agape, in the shiny surface. Yet the mediocre conditions didn’t stop us from staying late into the afternoon.
The ride home consisted of stories of the crazy ways we have found our way to the mountain—bus rides and random carpools, flaking friends and Subarus. We would have preferred to tell a tale of endless powder and hot tubbing, but we settled for good friends making turns and pringles.
