Lake Tahoe

Beautiful Lake Tahoe

Though I came to Lake Tahoe for business, it felt more like pleasure. Tahoe is a remarkably lush respite high above the Nevada deserts, 30 miles southwest of Reno and 20 miles west of Carson City. Its trees are young, less than 150 years old, because the region was logged, during the mining years. But this history takes nothing away from the magnificence of the trees, most over 100 feet tall. As for the lakeshores, they’re filled with sun worshippers drawn towards the waters, crystal blue, inviting, with calming waves, and rocks big enough to lay out and nap on. All in all, Tahoe is incredibly beautiful. It’s a bit of an anomaly— abundant with wildlife, trout, bass, chipmunks, and squirrels— compared to the deserts which are only a short drive down the mountainside. It was here, high up in Tahoe, where I aspired to conquer its mountainous terrain.


Flume Trail

Mountain Biking: Man vs. Nature
I was dropped off up the mountain trail some 13 miles away, 7,000 feet above sea level, next to Spooner Lake (a smaller lake where signs warned “full of leaches”). Along for the ride was Jason, an experienced mountain biker, a local guy, and my personal sherpa-guide. We embarked onto Flume Trail, whose name derives from the gold rush days. Back then, the loggers built wooden flumes and rushed water through them so freshly cut timbers could slide effortlessly down to Carson City. The trail was still riddled with aged wood and square nails. Nowadays, the Flume trail is a biker's haven. It was supposed to be the easiest ride starting with a “small” incline 1,000 ft. up, followed by a downhill ride that traversed to a smaller lake (Marlette Lake), and then circled around to the easternmost side of the mountain overlooking Lake Tahoe in its totality.


Tahoe Meadow

We broke into the trailhead peddling hard across the rolling meadow…the scent of pine pervaded the air, sagebrush and wild flowers of lavender, yellow, and blue dotted the mountainside. I admired the blinding white bark of poplars reflecting the blazing sun, took in the blood red sequoias dripping down to the earth, and stared upwards into the spiny pine branches rising into the blue skies. Granite rocks ranging in size of small houses to large castles took their glorious places along the trail watching me during the ascent. I stopped to crush the leaves of fresh sagebrush in my hands for a fresh scent of the wild west. I have to admit, to an urban metro like me, the great outdoors of Tahoe were quite foreign. But I can see why people easily fall in love with this place. Even I was tempted to abandon my bike, find a quiet spot, hug a tree, and sing Kumbaya.

A Humble Ascent
I guess I was naïve to think that mountain biking in Tahoe would be easy. After all, I run 3 to 4 miles a day. I soon realized it all meant nothing when you're up in thin mountain air. Soon, my “hug a tree” visions turned into a nightmarish climb up Everest. I thought I packed everything - granola bars, water, Gatorade, helmet, gloves, camera, but I guess I forgot to pack a freakin’ Oxygen tank. To cope, I began a regiment that consisted of the following: peddle until you’re about to puke, stop & gasp for air, take a drink, walk 50 paces, stop & gasp, and repeat. The vicious cycle continued for an hour until I made it to the summit at 8,000 feet exhausted and defeated.

I’m sure it looked bad when two hikers effortlessly passed me by with mocking smiles, and also when a pack of hardcore bikers trekked along in syncopated rhythm…crank, crank, crank… I was pathetic! After awhile, all these mountain bikers started to look the same, especially when all I saw were their backs as they passed me. Even my sherpa guide got tired of waiting and charged ahead, but not without leaving a few words of wisdom, “Don’t feel too bad when the girls start to pass you.” Sure enough, not five minutes later, a mountain biking girl came barreling up the mountain behind me. Dude, she was more of a man than me. She punished the mountain with a Lance Armstrong like ferocity.


Sequoia Trees

Reaching the Summit
When I finally made it to the top, the trees opened up to the heavens and there stood my sherpa-guide Jason, and the mountain bike girl. In triumph they looked at the “You are here” map, sun-bleached, and framed in scratched plexi-glass. And so with a swallow of pride, I threw my bike down, limped towards them, and complimented them for a hard ride. After brief introductions, it wasn’t long before I noticed something peculiar about mountain bike girl… she had hairy armpits! And I’m not talking about just a little bit of fuzzy pit hair. These were hairy mothers… they were like shrubs, wild, Kramer-like hair extruding everywhere. In a word: distracting. I mean hard-to-carry-on-a-conversation distracting. Even sherpa-guide Jason thought the hair was a bit unusual.

Hairy armpit girl must be from out west, I thought. She fit the stereotype. Ironically, I found out she's from Cincinnati. How whacked out is that? Turns out she's a biologist studying a certain species of chipmunk that only lives up in the Lake Tahoe region. To think she actually made a living as a tree hugger. I kind of wondered if she ate a steady diet of nuts & wild berries too. Hairy armpit girl was a seriously crunchy granola tree hugger. I totally respect that. As for me, I suddenly realized that I am just a wanna-be tree hugger. Oh well, maybe I can find myself a little bumper sticker that says, “Have you hugged a tree today?”

-Marvin A