Trackless

I don’t understand those who won’t Nordic ski unless tracks are set. Obviously, if you’re a skate skier, you need groomed trails. For us old fashioned folks who like to diagonal stride, I think a solitary spring afternoon in the forest beats a $45 trail pass and the lycra parade, hands down.

If you’re lucky enough to live in the Sierra, there are all kinds of adventures to be had next to almost any old roadside parking spot. Here in Mammoth Lakes we have an auto escape route (for when the volcano blows, spilling lava on to the main highway?) called the Scenic Loop. This road was just widened to make room for a bike lane and parked cars. The route cuts through a Jeffrey Pine forest with soft undulating hills which open up here and there to spectacular vistas of Mammoth Mountain and the San Joaquin Ridge. With slide-y, set-up spring snow, it’s cross-country heaven, and yet I’ve never seen another soul out there on skis, except at the Inyo Craters trailhead area.

Lucky for me. Setting out around noon with Sigur Ros and Broken Social Scene loaded into my cassette Walkman (as old school as my diagonal stride, touring skis and gaiters) I set out over familiar terrain with a plan to follow my instincts into a new quadrant.

The beauty of off-piste skiing on a cloudless spring day is that it’s impossible to get lost. Your tracks always lead back to your car in a more reliable way than Hansel and Gretel’s crumbs. So I can explore with abandon, trying to bushwhack through some firs, heading up over an unfamiliar hill or following what looks like a creek bed. Today, there’s lots of gliding through the forest of pine sentinels – Jeffreys so evenly rigid that they give the appearance of a plantation

There’s always a payoff. Usually a sunny spot sheltered from the breeze, with an awesome view of peaks, sparkly snow and the deep green of pine boughs against an azure sky. Here I stop, make a seating platform of my skis and a rolled up fleece and pull the apple and tattered copy of John Muir from my pack. I turn to a page from “My First Summer in the Sierra” where he describes the rattling whoop-de-doos made by a grasshopper on a July day: “grasshopper, crisp, electric spark of joy enlivening the massy sublimity of the mountains like the laugh of a child.”

And like a child, I have the pleasure of knowing that this is the spot I found. No blue diamond markers or manicured grooves led me here. I discovered this place on my own and for this afternoon, it’s mine. Thanks to those of you at the Nordic ski-center, I guess, who let me have this peaceful glade all to myself.

Musings from last summer

Just like that, it’s over. The costumes and props are in a paper bag ready to be returned to storage. The script is set aside: no last minute brush up on lines required. The cast party hangover has subsided and it’s back to life without rehearsals. What an interesting journey.

It began when I learned that Sierra Classic Theatre was going to mount an outdoor production of Merry Wives of Windsor. What a great feeling to know that the company I had abandoned over “creative differences” was going to back to its roots. Then, I read the play – certainly not Shakespeare’s most erudite work, but, oh ho! -- funny pranks! And three really nice comedic roles for middle age women – a rarity in any play, let alone an Elizabethan one. But since legend has it that this play was written for Queen Elizabeth’s birthday, the theme of funny, smart women outwitting their unsuspecting male cohorts makes sense.

So I impulsively auditioned, not knowing whether I’d be cast, but wanting to try. Especially given that the newly found director had professional experience and might be someone I could learn from. When only three of us showed up at the first call, I knew I had a pretty good chance of getting a role.

So Mistress Ford I became. A woman so convinced of her charms that I questioned my ability to exude her confidence. A set of giant fake boobs helped my cause and soon I was giggling, swooning, winking and mugging like a cross between Lucille Ball and Anna Nicole Smith. Our patched-together cast attacked the massively edited play with gusto. Per usual, the final week of prep came all too soon, and we were terrified of opening night.

This was not made easier by the fact that 150 people showed up to view our little farce! I can’t remember ever feeling so ill before stepping out to deliver my first line, but naturally, I got through it, got some laughs and didn’t mess up anything. Each performance got easier and it became fun to be on stage, ham acting to the max and gazing out on a sea of smiling faces. Not a bad way to spend Mosquito Month.

Summer Yet?

It’s hard to describe what it feels like after seven months of winter. Especially if you’re a Southern Californian who grew up enjoying sandal weather every December. But now, living at 8000’ in a ski town that received almost 600 inches of snow this season, the deep longing for spring is intense. Which made the snowfall that came the Tuesday before Memorial Day weekend particularly depressing.

Nevertheless, I was taking the tent to Tahoe State Recreation Area (supposedly the first State Park in California) for the holiday. Tucked in the heart of Tahoe City, next to the Safeway shopping center, it offers a great combination of lake vistas and convenience. Why set up the camp stove when you can stroll a hundred yards to McDonalds for their top-rated coffee?

To get into the spring mode, I started out in Gardnerville – doing a lazy bike ride alongside verdant fields filled with birdsong. The wall of gray granite in this northern section of the Sierra divides the semi-urban Tahoe lands from the desert expanse of the Great Basin. The lush green valley at the base of the mountains seems an anomaly.

On the way to Tahoe’s west shore, I sampled Sprouts, a delectable healthy food restaurant just past Regan Beach. It’s obviously popular and for good reason – fresh, cared for food at reasonable prices. I ordered a California Crunch sandwich with cream cheese: an array of crisp vegetables topped with avocado on soft wheat bread. Combined with strong unsweetened iced tea, I felt fortified for the next jaunt.

It was relief to see there was no snow along the lakeshore, even though a storm had come through just a few days before. After stretching my legs at DL Bliss State Park, I continued on to Tahoe SRA and set up at #!2, a tent-only site with a nice view of the lake and not too close to the highway. I popped open a red ale, poured it into my camp cup and strolled to the end of the campground pier to breathe some distinctive Tahoe air. The rich lake moisture takes the bite out of the dry high mountain atmosphere. I felt my muscles relax as the warm sun hit my back and I took in the watery view toward snow covered peaks.

The evening in Reno proved quite a contrast, with a center seat for “Great American Trailer Park Musical” at Bruka Theater (decent, weak-score) and a meet up with friends at Enoteca in the Siena for $3 martinis and some gypsy flavored acoustic music by the local musicians that make up SolJibe. Who could resist a little dance at the back of the room?

The next day brought high clouds and cool temps. Perfect conditions to tackle a stretch of the Rim Trail – the circular route that follows the ridges of the peaks surrounding Lake Tahoe. I utilized the trailhead right at Tahoe City (turn right at the gas station just north of Fanny Bridge and park at the Community Center) and headed up through pine and cedar. I loaded “Steel Pulse” into my vintage cassette Walkman and reggaed on up the hill. After losing the trail through patches of shady snow, I caught it again when a mountain biker whizzed by in the distance. Although not a wilderness stretch (with highway noises drifting up from the thoroughfares below), the vistas were outstanding. Just limbering up the winter weary legs felt great.

After a little wind down at the SRA, I drove over to Incline Village, won $12 on slots at the Hyatt which morphed into a Mexican dinner at The Hacienda. Very friendly folks there and the kind of cheesy, greasy Mexican food I remember from my youth in LA. It worked great after an afternoon on the trail. Then, a band called Lubriphonic was doing a gig at Crystal Bay Club.

Crystal Bay has introduced me to a lot of great music– and in the spirit of Bohemia Players, all of it has been free. It’s where I first heard SolJibe and where I fell in love with Greensky Bluegrass. Lubriphonic provided another great aural adventure. Mix a chubby white singer guitarist guy with a horn section from the South Side of Chicago and a sound that blends James Brown with Sly and you have a fun Sunday night. Funkadelic! I wanted to hang till late – but after my “up ‘til 3:30” from the night before, the air mattress and double thick sleeping bags were calling.

I awoke to the voices of Persia emanating from the adjacent campsite. I washed the bird poop off my tent and camp chair, savored coffee at the picnic table with the lake view, and loaded up the car, After two great days, I headed home, taking the familiar Hwy 395 south past green pastures and melt-filled rushing rivers. It felt just like the onset of Spring. Except that it’s really the start of Summer. I am so ready. Many of us put with the ridiculous cold weather here in Mammoth because of the glorious brief high mountain summer that follows. It dares to be savored, like a wine that costs $1 per sip. Bring it on.

P.S. I love you

The impossible happened. I took a week off work in order to tackle a home improvement project. For someone with a serious jones for travel, the idea of using valuable time off for physical labor is incomprehensible. Yet I had been talking about redoing my bedroom for years and it was time to walk the walk.

After watching many episodes of Trading Spaces and various HGTV fodder, I had limitless ideas and a limited budget - $1000 to be exact. Just like on TV. It became apparent that the only way this room re-do would actually happen, was if I took a week off work, slaved away until finished and then hit the road with whatever remaining days I had left. The prospect of burning vacation days would spur me on to completion.

Things started well. Friday night (Halloween) I removed all the furniture, every last box of memorabilia and irrelevant knick knacks and emptied the closet. On Saturday I sprayed the popcorn ceiling, began spackling and sanding the walls and staining the baseboards. Sunday the doors and window frame were stained dark walnut and the room got painted a beautiful golden hue. But, I ran out of paint while completing the closet and realized the masking tape had adhered to the baseboards. So much for smooth sailing.

On Monday, I gratefully returned to the office for a day. While there, it became obvious that I needed out of the paint fume zone. Particularly, since the furniture I’d ordered had not arrived and I was dead in the water – since it required assembly. The call of the desert sounded between insurance quotes and before you could say Coachella Valley I had found a cheapo room at the Vagabond on South Palm Canyon in Palm Springs – where I had stayed thirty years ago during my married years.

I was unproductive Monday evening, except for doing laundry in a blizzard, but hit the paint can Tuesday morning, finishing the closet, touching up the room and starting the long slow process of sorting through piles of outdated paperwork.

On Wednesday, I arose early, put all my clothes and shoes back in the closet while simultaneously packing. I was out the door at 9:30 and on the road south towards sunshine. I foolishly took the back way through Lucerne Valley (a virgin highway to me) which resulted in arrival at Palm Springs near dusk. No time to hike Joshua Tree, darn.

After freshening up, I headed off to a little Belgian bistro on the main drag: Pommes Frites. There I had the most luscious mussels and frites ever. (Better than Bouchon and I told them so) That along with a Belgian Beer (leffe blonde) set me back only $32.00 including tax and tip, so the trip was off to a great start. Especially when the chefs wished me a charming "bon soir" as I departed. Then, I wandered into the stylish Spa Casino, dropped some minor coin and called it an evening.

The next morning, I strapped on my fanny pack and headed to Indian Canyons, a beloved hiking spot. It was a hot day, but the fan palm forest along the creek was cool and shady. It reminded me, for some weird reason, of the hike up Russian Gulch (near Mendocino) except that everything looked different. I sweated my way up a steep climb while listening to the Gypsy Kings version of “My Way” by Frank Sinatra. This is how I do the desert.

A gorgeous dusty brown vista awaited me as I came to the crest. I stepped off trail to grab some photos of cacti when I felt a sharp sting in my ankle. Yikes! I’d been attacked by a jumping cholla. I’d been warned by an ex-boyfriend of this fierce desert predator. It has apricot sized spike balls that detach from the plant and seemingly jump onto passersby. I definitely had not brushed against any kind of cactus, and yet these ouchy spines were embedded in my flesh, while trickles of blood headed toward my socks. How to remove? You can’t just yank 'em out, because they’ll attach to your hands. I picked up a flat stone and tried scraping it off, to no avail. Stumped but secluded, I removed my t-shirt, wadded it up enough to grasp the spikes without piercing my digits, and pulled off the offender. The remaining spears I removed singly, then rinsed off the area with my squirt water bottle, donned my top and decided to head back down to the car. Enough adventure for one day.

There’s nothing a root beer float from A&W won’t cure! That and a soak in the hot tub before heading out for the Thursday night street fair along the blocked off Palm Canyon Drive. There was good people watching there, although Palm Springs is not the best place to meet men if you’re a heterosexual. I had a scrumptious $2.40 tamale from Maria’s street stand, bought some fresh crop dates and watched the ubiquitous spray paint artist create a sci-fi moonrise. Next, I grabbed a pizza slice at Lotsa Mozza and crossed the street to Hotel Zoso to catch the jazz trio, who were breaking down just as arrived. Oh well, it was a good night to return to the motel and start “Eat, Pray, Love.”

Friday was another sunny, hot day and I pointed the car south once again. I was anxious to view the Salton Sea for the first time, and it was indeed impressive. It made me think of what the Dead Sea must look like; a vast expanse of sparking blue water with parched mountains all around. There was a great collection of shore birds along the salty beach, along with many desiccated dead fish that appeared to have been there since biblical times. What was lacking was people. The Visitors’ Center was deserted, there were about 3 campsites taken and I was the only one along the shore for miles. The midday sun was intense, so after a short hike on the nature trail, I headed back to civilization.

And what sums up contemporary American culture better than gorging at a casino buffet? I was checking out Fantasy Springs near Indio and again saw that there’s little difference these days between Las Vegas and California-style Indian Casinos. The lunch was fine and ample, the slots slightly accommodating and the pool area gorgeous and inviting. After the tour, I got back in the car and drove toward Palm Springs along Highway 111, noting the changes in the 4 years since my last visit.

Still unsuccessful at happening upon a dark and cozy jazz club that was intended to cap my day, instead I bought a ticket at Regal 9 theatres to see “Rachel Getting Married.” I settled in to the large leather recliner with popcorn and a Diet Coke treat (a rare splurge for miserly me). This was my first experience at a screening room style cinema, and I liked it a lot. I couldn’t believe this luxe environment cost only 50 cents more than the price of admission to our dated movie house in Mammoth. And the little jazz club I was seeking was right around the corner in The Courtyard. Ah well, next trip – the movie didn’t let out until 11:30.

I was motivated to cram it all in on the last morning, so I strolled the adjacent Moorten Botanical Gardens. Here I learned that the original owner, a well known photographer, left Palm Springs when it got too developed (in the 1940’s!) and relocated to the Owens Valley. Next, I jumped on my bike for an hour and cruised quiet golf course-lined neighborhoods. After that, a refreshing swim before packing up the car and heading out. I stopped by an estate sale that I had spotted while cycling and bought some home decor, for the project waiting for me back home. I squeezed in one more casino stop, the Morongo in Cabazon – this was the largest, featuring an incredible pool with a lazy river and small water slide. There were too many smokers there and too few penny slots, so I continued on toward Redlands. I found a welcoming sports bar right downtown to watch UCLA get spanked by Oregon State. The Greek salad was tasty as was the local brew, Hangar 49. They make an orange wheat concoction that’s pretty amazing. I sat next to a talkative self-avowed millionaire, class of ‘76, friend of Mark Harmon.

At six, I left the game, my new friend and Redlands to hit the long road home. My sandals weren’t the best footwear choice for the blizzard I encountered upon return to the homestead. I guess it’s time to deal with winter now.

And the unfinished bedroom project? So much to be done . . . How can they do it in a weekend on TV? Oh right, they have a carpenter. a designer, a host who pitches in and two able-bodied homeowners. Not to mention power tools. It’s a little harder tackling a room solo, but I managed to paint the bookshelf, assemble a night stand and toss out twenty years worth of old tax returns on my final vacation day. I’m sure I can finish next weekend. . . .

It’s now one month later:

I just spent the morning bolting together a manager’s chair, sorting photos, tossing out more tax returns and enjoying my desk, which as planned, has a view of Mammoth Rock. At the moment, as I type in my comfortable leather throne, I feel rather Carrie Bradshaw-esque.

But it’s been a month and I still have boxes in my living room, no artwork is up, shelves need to be installed and my enthusiasm is waning. Yet, I’ve come so far and when I spin around and look at everything I’ve done, and how much I like the results, it motivates me to keep moving forward.

In fact, today I found the courage to open the Craftsman inspired iron candle sconces that I bought at the very beginning of the endeavor to go on the wall. I laid them out on the floor with art work I had culled from my collection and BINGO! – the perfect arrangement. The pieces work together and make sense and will add just the focal point and tone I was looking for in the room. It’s cool that this space has become an art project in itself.

Best of all, for the first time in my life, I have a wonderful place to write and study. It features a large new maple desk, a rich leather chair, a view of the Sherwin range, and as dusk falls and the moon rises, the sound of coyotes howling in the meadow. A room of one's own, as Virginia Woolf advocated. Now, if I can just find the time to hang the bookshelves.

Jiayou

Every true man is a cause, a country, and an age; requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully to accomplish his design; and posterity seem to follow his steps as a train of clients.

Ralph Waldo Emerson (from "Self-Reliance")

As I read that phrase along the shores of Crystal Lake yesterday, my mind immediately went to Michael Phelps. The forest hike was a brief respite from my Olympaholism, in which I’ve sat staring at my non-HDTV for days on end – fascinated by virtually everything. Women’s volleyball? Go Bownes. Will the Kiwi bloke win in single sculls? Darn, relegated to the Silver. Thanks for the inspiration, Dara. There is no age limit on dreams.

I sat zombified in front of the Women’s Marathon for two and half hours last night, even though our local hero Deena Kastor pulled out early with a foot injury. I’m rethinking my judgement of Kobe’s arrogance and believing that Olympic spirit is magically transformative. It certainly was for Jonathan Horton the night of gymnastic team finals.

But when it comes to Mr. Phelps, I’m at a loss of words (sic). How does a human channel every mouth drawn breath toward excellence? It’s tough to imagine a life so insular and mundane. If I were to possess such single-mindedness – what couldn’t be accomplished? Yet I savor life’s banquet like Alice Waters in an herb garden. I choose not to subvert variety in the quest for achievement. Does this make me a loser?

The Olympics force us to confront our unrealized dreams. And turn those willing to forsake everything save one goal into heroes. Or in Michael Phelps case: eight goals. In the most unbelievable and surprising way, he met every one. He is a man, cause and a country – and we celebrate his achievement as though it were our own. There is no doubt posterity will shadow him.

For the rest of us, mortals that we are, will we find our cause? Stay tuned: the Redeem Team highlights are on at eleven.

Leaving Las Vegas

(a phone picture)

12:30 a.m. What the hell day is it? (11/19) Ah, Vegas . . . where folks escape into an alternate reality. I have succumbed.

I arose at 3:40 a.m. on Saturday (11/17). The sunrise drive to Sin City was gorgeous except for the thousands of “pee bottles” strewn along Highway 95 in Nevada. I kept trying to focus on the mountains and horizon, but actually began gagging at the proliferation of liquid offerings left by uncivilized truckers.

My arrival at the Excalibur parking lot at 10:05 a.m. was exactly five hours and ten minutes after leaving Mammoth. I hustled across the street to meet friends at ESPN Zone with no time to waste, as the Ohio State/Michigan game had just started. The purpose of this trip was to reunite with former Mammothites Jeff, Mark, Kirk and Doug (with a few extras) and enjoy some football. It was a fun beginning. I felt animated despite the lack of sleep and Michigan lost.

After the game, the boys wanted to gamble, so I left in search of Pineapple King in New York New York for a Philly Cheesesteak, but couldn’t locate it in the winding faux streets of lower Manhattan. I settled for fried clams from Fulton’s Fish Fry (a bit chewy, but satisfying). Then I crossed the street to check into a hip and stylish “Widescreen Room” at the Excalibur. Better than the photos, the newly refurbished floors have neat accommodations with flat screen TVs. Mine had an eye-catching view of Red Rock Canyon.

The boys and I met up later at Dick’s Last Resort. It’s not every evening that I dine with six men. The place was loud and crazy and the food just so-so, but I did get a $1.00 draft Pilsner Urquell with an Excalibur coupon. There was a burly beer-bellied guy (patron/employee?) who would shake his thong-clad hiney and yell “make some noise” whenever someone admitted it was their birthday. A giant paper hat was placed on my head which pronounced something along the lines of “I like to spread’em.” After a while, I handed the hat to Jeff who wore it for a time, commenting it wasn’t funny on a guy. Unless you’re a senator from Idaho, I quipped.

After the meal-o-tainment, four of us cabbed it over to Caesars. I had a ticket for Eddie Izzard at the Comedy Festival and the rest were hoping to grab a last minute seat. After some furtive negotiations with a scalper, the boys were in and we got in line early enough to nab a prime location for the show.

The performance was cathartic. It’s been years since I laughed that hard and that long. With Eddie, it’s all about the performance - which seemed spontaneous and random but which I’m sure was meticulously rehearsed. On the written page, I doubt his monologue would seem that funny, but once animated – watch out. The guy’s on fire.

We exited the crowded ballroom and went our separate ways as the guys wanted to play poker. My plan was to stroll back to the Excalibur (about a mile and a half?) with three
casino/free cocktail stops on the way. I planned to spend $5 at each casino – which allowed $4.00 in slots and a $1.00 drink tip. It worked at Caesar’s and I got a pretty strong bourbon & seven. Then I checked out the new Planet Hollywood, but was unable to find a cocktail waitress there. I got sidetracked in the 24-hour Walgreens and spent the last of my wad on cashews and M&Ms instead of a one-armed bandit. I got back to the widescreen at about 1:30 a.m. and watched a little telly while munching my treats.

I was up on Sunday by 9:00 and headed to Krispy Kreme for a guilty “big city” pleasure. While perusing the Sunday paper, I called Mark and found out that the Orange County contingent was downstairs in the Excalibur Sports Book. I connected with them, chatted a bit, and then the four of us decided to have lunch at the Monte Carlo Brew Pub.

.The “World’s Best Fried Chicken Salad” was not, but it was good and the tower of Widmer Hefeweisen provided entertainment. I dumped the whole SCT saga on them and their supportive response was appreciated.. Next up, Mark and I walked over to the Tropicana to view the “Bodies” Exhibit. It presented preserved cadavers in various stages of dissection to give the viewer an “up close and personal” understanding of our anatomy. It was utterly amazing and brought newfound respect for our complex internal systems. That can’t help but have a positive effect. (As I’m writing this, I’m thinking of all the muscles, tendons and stringy nerves that go into creating my specific penmanship.)

We came out and returned to the MGM Grand to discover that Doug and Bob indeed intended to leave early – so Mark and I ran over to the bar to have a final “heart to heart” before sharing our farewells. Jeff called to trumpet the news that he won the poker tournament he had entered at the Venetian. His group was headed over to N9NE for dinner, so I raced back to Excalibur to change and primp and jetted over to The Palms.

The dinner with Jeff, Kirk and April was divine. Although they promised to cook my ahi medium rare it was delivered seared and raw, per usual (but still delicious). Kirk and I chose an Eberle Syrah for the table that was truly enjoyable and we all shared the sides of jalapeno potatoes, white truffle gnocchi, lobster mashed potatoes and garlic green beans. It was a pricey meal and Jeff generously picked up the tab. The best part was the company. It was a sharp and witty group with a raucous sense of humor. The high spirits and good cheer were infectious. We split up after dinner and I did a few laps around the Palms to walk off the Prosecco and wine. Then back to the Excal for another fine nights sleep in the spectacular bed.

Monday was my first day solo, so I cleaned up, put on walking shoes and jumped in the car to cruise down Flamingo Rd. to Blueberry Hill, which I found right where I left it. I was surprised how crowded it was at 11:30 on a Monday – these folks are running a successful business. I had a fabulous breakfast of French toast (drowning in butter) scrambled eggs and bacon. I think it came to $8.00 with coffee. Take that, Waffle Lady!

From there, I followed my preplanned agenda and drove to the Springs Preserve just northwest of the Strip. A recent “Sunset” blurb showcased this modern natural history/eco museum set in the spot of Sin City’s origin. The historic (and now dried up) springs created the namesake meadows of Las Vegas. The site was stunning from an architectural and conceptual standpoint. It must have cost a gazillion dollars to construct the LEED certified buildings with cooling towers, packed earth walls, cisterns, and self-contained sewage facilities. The gardens were lovely and the reconstructed wetlands provided a haven for birds. I quickly toured the Origins building, but since the day was fine, I was anxious to get out on the trails and so spent a leisurely hour trekking the outback (along the 95 freeway!)

Then, it was over to the Desert Living Center which had some nifty construction ideas and more exhibits. As the light waned, I returned to Origins to spend a little more time learning about Paiutes, spring mounds and Hoover Dam. I got a call from Mom on my cellphone while in the Indian section and didn’t hesitate to take it, as I was the only person in this gigantic museum!

It was an amazing complex, although no doubt designed by a casino architect: planned to be disorienting so you’d get lost! Entrances and exits where obscured and I got completely confused trying to leave. Nevertheless I was engaged for five hours and pleased that such a sizeable investment was made to demonstrate the exciting possibility of sustainable living. Nowhere is this needed more than in Las Vegas.

After finally figuring my way out of The Springs Preserve, I was feeling peckish, and decided to check out the restaurant at Ellis Island Casino. The Trip Advisor contributors rated this as the best deal in town. Admittedly, the Amber Ale was quite tasty and a meal is often more delicious when you’re up $5.50 up on Video Poker. It’s hard to beat a massive plate containing half a roast chicken in teriyaki sauce, mashed potatoes and country gravy along with a mound of steaming corn preceded by a large iceberg/cherry tomato/crouton salad for $7.95 – including the brew! Did I mention I love Las Vegas?

Unfortunately, I paid for the over-indulgence with a stomach ache, so instead of heading to the movies, I waddled back to my room and watched Ellen DeGeneres’ Big Show on the Big Screen, (which had just been filmed in Vegas two nights before).

On Tuesday morning, I realized a fast food combo breakfast was cheaper than a latte at Starbucks, so I broke down and had a Sausage McMuffin on the Excalibur Mezzanine.
It was a beautiful morning, so some pool time was in order. I sunned, swam and luxuriated in the desert warmth. There were thoughts of lazing the day away poolside, but after an hour and a half I was ready to start moving again.

I jumped in the car and maneuvered the 215 to Charleston Blvd. and was surprised that it took less than a half hour to get to Red Rock Canyon. The Calico Hills turnout was humming with tourists, so I opted for the Keystone Thrust Trailhead instead. It was a bit of a silly path, well marked at the outset and climbing to a ridge with a beautiful vista, but then disappearing into a wide wash, never to be uncovered again. I had been forewarned by a pair of (cute) hikers that I bumped into who had lost the trail. None of us could determine what Keystone Thrust was – even though it’s supposedly the most significant geologic feature in Red Rock. I spent a solid stubborn hour trying to trace the route using binoculars, scrambling over boulders, trekking through desert scrub and hiking up the stream bed, to no avail. Defeated, I returned to the car and made the short hike down to White Rock Springs. These were quite unimpressive, so I decided to hunt for petroglyphs in the neighboring canyon.

As I was inspecting a large agave bowl (a huge mound built up over years by the ancient Indians as they roasted agave, swept aside the rocks and ashes and roasted some more) I spotted a fox out of the corner of my eye. As soon as he saw me he darted behind a rock and up into the brush. I moved over to the handprint pictographs on an adjacent sandstone crag and the fox reappeared. This time, he came out into the open, faced me head on and let out what sounded like a scream. He (she?) was too small to be threatening, but my hairs stood on end as this gorgeous little creature called me out, clearly asking me to leave. Of course I stayed. He left, only to come back in a minute, squealing even more ferociously. Was a native spirit upset by my presence? He disappeared for good as some British tourists arrived and I continued on to the petroglyphs up canyon. They were fine, but I was unsettled by a rustling in the brush. As I returned to the paved road I was greeted by a line of vacationers, cameras poised, eager to snap photos of the fox they had just seen near the rock art. This was about ½ mile from the roasting pit. Had he followed me? Of the many unusual encounters I’ve had with fauna on the trail, this November afternoon ranks at the top.

As the winter sun slunk low, I returned to the Strip and realized I hadn’t left enough time for dinner. So I did a quick change and jumped back into the car for the dash over to Green Valley Ranch. I was determined to see “Into the Wild” and made it with enough time to grab a cup of Dreyer’s ice cream pre-show. I really wanted popcorn, but couldn’t justify the $8.00 tab (although I don’t balk at an $8.00 Martini!)

The movie was great and I fell in love with Emile Hirsch. It’s been a while since I’ve seen such a likeable and well crafted performance. Then, back at the Excalibur I decided to sample the $5.00 New York Steak Dinner in the Sherwood Forest Café.. This was an incredible bargain – really quite tasty. I found it amusing that a steak, veggies and baked potato meal cost less than the glass of mediocre Merlot I ordered to accompany it!

Since this was now my last night in Sin City, I decided to meander over to Mandalay Bay in search of a party – dropping pennies and quarters in slot machines as I moseyed along.
I ended up at the Kit Kat Club or Pussycat Dollhouse or some such sexist entitled lounge where a live all-girl band was playing. They were actually decent. A White Russian cost $12.00 but there was no cover and the Hawaii/Boise St game was showing on the TV above the bar. It was briefly amusing to watch the “pick-up” to my right and the woman on my left flirting with the bartender. (“I find traveling alone so liberating,” said she.) Since I couldn’t afford another cocktail, I gathered up my spinstery old self and headed back for one more peek at the gorgeous view from my room at the castle.

It’s strange how I thought I might have a hard time filling four days in Vegas, but all too soon it was time to pack-up with a million things undone. I left around noon on Wednesday, the day before Thanksgiving, enroute to L.A, with a lunch stop at the Mad Greek in Baker for a “to die for” gyro sandwich. The drive through the desert was uneventful. I abandoned the planned detour to Calico Ghost Town as the light was fading, and made it to the Valley safe and sound.

There were four days left of my holiday and they were filled with activities. I cooked the turkey dinner on Thursday, and on Friday ventured to Venice to snap photos of a duplex that was soon to be insured. Along the way I strolled the canals, ventured out on to the Santa Monica Pier and that evening saw a shocking and depressing (but good) play in NoHo.

Saturday was the perfect fall football afternoon at the Rose Bowl watching UCLA shut out the Ducks. On Sunday I hosted a brunch for some old time SoCal friends which featured mango/berry fruit skewers, broccoli, cheese and hash brown strata, mushroom ragout, spiral apple dumplings, turkey bacon, fresh rolls and champagne and coffee. It was a lovely sit down affair for nine and I was pleased with how smoothly it came off. How appropriate that my vacation started with seven friends from Mammoth and concluded by sharing the company of eight friends from the Valley. All too soon it was time to load up Virginella and hit the long road home. Kiss the warm sunshine goodbye: there’s a long winter ahead.

Moody Reno

Many of us identify with a rock and roll band that helped shape and define our youths. For some it’s the Beatles, the Stones, Dylan or more recently Nirvana or Green Day. My band was the Moody Blues for reasons important to a searching sixteen year old girl: their romantic ballads swirled with images of Camelot, a flute and mellotron laden pseudo-classical style, and a brooding blonde lead singer. Their lush songs of hope and redemption helped me through some rough patches on my journey toward adulthood.

Almost forty years later, when I’d switched out “Days of Future Passed” for Arcade Fire’s “Neon Bible” in my soon-to-be-archaic CD-player, I wondered if The Moodies still had relevance. It was that and the fear that they might start croaking soon that led me to The Silver Legacy Resort for their show in Reno last Saturday night. Would facing my former heroes be a depressing experience as we’re struggling to hang on to our vitality? Would a tired performance blur my memories of inspiring past shows?

A certain amount of trepidation attended my early morning drive up Highway 395, but it was a beautiful day and the prospect of adventure always brings optimism. I bumped into some friends at Rhino Bar in Bridgeport, where I stopped for an old-fashioned iconic diner breakfast (soft fresh wheat toast, perfectly done over-medium eggs, served with hard crunchy bacon and once-frozen hash browns). The young guy at Office Depot in Carson City handed me a $10.00 off coupon for Turbo Tax, I found some rare vitamins I’d been seeking for months at the CVS across the parking lot, and when I got to Circus Circus they gave me a very nice corner room, newly renovated with a cool view of UNR. Things only got better when I sidled up to the bar at Brews Brothers in the Eldorado and had two tasty microbrews for free while losing all of $2.50 in the quarter video poker machine and enjoying a grilled shrimp Caesar salad and an obscure NCAA basketball game.

After returning to the room to primp, the appointed hour arrived and I headed down into the convention center, grabbing a frozen Margarita for fortification. The 14th row seat was decent and I looked out over a sea of bald pates and gray hair in anticipation of my former heroes. Soon the strains of “Lovely to See You Again” filled the hall and I knew everything would work out all right.

The guys attacked their familiar repertoire with vitality. Their flute player had retired but was replaced by a talented thirty-ish woman and they also added a young blonde girl to play keyboards and sing. The guitar work was better than I remembered. Best of all, Justin Hayward’s voice held clear and strong and the passing years had not diluted the poignancy of “Question.” And yeah, he’s still hot. I never thought I’d say that about a 63 year old!

The two hours whizzed by and soon I was back on the floor of the casino, wondering what to do with my new found energy. After strolling past a few clubs, I wandered into Aura, the new ultra lounge at Silver Legacy. It was a busy Saturday night, but I lucked into a seat at the bar and enjoyed a Dewars and Soda while watching the twenty somethings dance and meeting some local girls and Yreka cowboys. Soon I struck out on to the architecturally hip dance floor and spent a good long while busting some moves.

Returning to the room at 1:30, I realized a bit too late that it was time to move the clock ahead for daylight savings. Suffice it so say, the 7:00 a.m. wake up buzzer came way too soon, but there was no time to lose since I had to shower and pack-up, grab a free buffet breakfast, stop at Chez Josef (an Austrian bakery on Moana) and make it to Jeff and Jan’s house in Carson City by 10:30 a.m.

The next few hours were spent visiting and then I decided to cap off the weekend with a stop in Virginia City. I strolled the boardwalk there and tried to locate the old depot. It was cold in the shade but warm in the sun and I used every opportunity to warm my tired bones on bright benches. It turns out the steam train doesn’t run during the winter and I wasn’t hungry enough to dine at the Palace Saloon restaurant as planned, so I killed an hour or so in the kitschy “The Way It Was” museum. It provided some insight into life in the Comstock Lode and only set me back $3.00.

I ended up on hillside overlooking the mining town. Gazing over the local cemetery it became evident that even graves aren’t permanent – many marble tombstones had toppled and wooden markers decayed. I stood in the brisk air pondering mortality. Each day is a step closer to this ultimate end, yet there are so many songs left to sing.

“One more time to live and I have made it mine…”