Silver and Cold

The twisting valleys of northern California, lined with pine trees—the tall, proud evergreens lined the rolling hills—gave a sense of tranquility. The majestic mountains sat stalwart and patient under their seasonal blanketing of ephemeral, powdery snow. Within the proximity of our lovely redwood cabin, the minute, individual flakes glistened and shimmered in the cold light of the sun: they danced, pranced and shined—that is, until my gloved hands excitedly punched and slapped the happiness right out of them. The fifteen-foot high snow bank felt my happiness-induced wrath, and the beauty of snowflakes quickly transformed into the beauty of enjoying oneself; it was Tahoe after all.

The city of Truckee lay under a variable desert of snow; it lay claim to the gas station, to the restaurants, to the poor cars left to freeze, and most ironically, the ski and chain shops. The inhabitants, temporary as the snow or permanent as the mountains, didn’t care; it was something they had adjusted to: scraping the ice off their vehicles day in and day out, plowing their driveways, putting chains on their cars—it was all routine. The buildings (rather, what was visible of them) in town were mostly cookie cutter, standard, plain, however one may say it; they were ordinary. There was, of course, the occasional exception (most often restaurants); it would be campy to the point of being ridiculous. A false redwood front that had seen too many seasons for what it was worth, usually accompanied by an obscenely tacky, tourist-trap friendly mascot and cheesy name; the inside could not be much better. Thin, multi-colored carpeting lined the linear walkways; stereotypical pictures of skiers, bears, moose and the like adorned the cheap walls, made of a material resembling vinyl; the waitresses, young and careless, pretend to care for your needs, when all that goes through their minds is receiving that paycheck that will hopefully—but never—get them out of the frozen hole in which they work.

Out of the cynical town and into the alluring outskirts lay the cozy cabins in which many reside to take advantage of nature’s frozen, wintery glory. The lovely, authentic redwood of our cabin (it, for sure, put the shops of town to shame) lay somewhat precariously engulfed under banks of snow, as inflated and oversized as banks of modern society, the silk-soft snow sitting on every possible ledge, window sill, and lay in mounds surrounding the tiny refuge; it was a sad sight until one entered through the kindly worn front door. The first hallway, more resemblant of an antechamber, was lined with old linoleum with an accompanying wooden bench, for the sole purpose of drying one’s feet off; off of that and into the main living space lay soft, caressing carpet that warms the icy feet, beds that comfort the tired body, and an incomparable wood stove that softly illuminates the house with tender heat. Sure, the decorations were a little silly, the appliances of a bygone era, the linoleum kitchen irritating. All of that was negligible in consideration of the value of such a refuge; a refuge which served as a home away from home, a place of new memories, and a place to strengthen family bonds.

As we left the snow-bound community, the ice that had laced the truck’s windowsills—not gracefully, but rather a large, singular vein of sorts—began to melt, as our descent continued. It reminded me of a saddened child, as a stream of pure, cold water surged down the side of the truck. It appeared as if the truck was shedding the imaginary tear. I later ripped off that melting bar of ice and threw it into a dingy parking lot of some redneck, mid-way town--rather ungraciously I might add—and smiled as it shattered on the hot, black pavement.

--Spencaa