It was a Thursday the day I followed “Keep Tahoe Blue” bumper stickers up Highway 88 until the flat farmlands turned into a mountainous landscape of pine trees. At the center of those trees, beyond the ski resorts and between big-shot casinos and mom-and-pop hole-in-the-walls with a few slots in the corner, is Lake Tahoe.
I’m not a Tahoe aficionado. I’ve only been there twice, not counting the time time when I was five and cried on the bunny slope (I don’t count that time). But I’ve definitely fallen hard for that cold, crisp water, subtle breeze and course beach sand in the way that most people do when they are first introduced (note: the high school dudes who got in a fight on the beach probably don’t have that same wondrous vision that I do … especially considering I was oblivious to the rumble as I stood with my back to it, my feet buried the wet sand and my eyes totally mesmerized by the flickering of the sun flares on the water).