Circumnavigation (Lake Tahoe)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Twenty, Friday June 22

It’s taken over two hours, a walk to the drip coffee bar and barely functional computers at Vicky’s Cyber Cafe, lengthy consultation with my camp hosts, and the shuffling of my possessions across the campground, but I have tent space secured for the next two nights.  Today I’ll be at Tahoe State Recreation Area again, but in a different slot, and tomorrow I’ll move to Fallen Leaf Campground on the south end of the lake.  So while I am not free to change my plans on a whim, I can set aside the worry of where I’ll spend the next few nights, and simply enjoy my activities.  Around the lake I go!

I make my way toward the north end of sparkling, blue Tahoe.  A detour on the far side of King’s Beach has me wandering through wealthy neighborhoods, and as I finally make my way down the steep hill to the main road, my bike makes one brief, loud “clunk.” Hm. Perhaps I was sloppy in shifting?*

It seems wrong not to explore the twisty line on the map called NV 431/Mount Rose Scenic Byway, so I oblige. I chose wisely -  aside from good riding, there’s a fabulous vista of the lake.

Okay, yeah, I cheated and showed you this photo yesterday, but I actually took it today. Love the time warp that is the blogosphere!

I return back down NV 431 and head south on the Lake Tahoe Eastshore Drive National Scenic Byway.  I can see why it’s a candidate for “the most beautiful drive in America, ” and, as is so often the case, I suffer with the ever present question of whether to stop and take photos, or just sit back and enjoy the moment.  I may regret it later, but it seems for so much of this journey, I am choosing the latter.
 

Memorial Point

Crash!  It's physically startling how the majestic beauty of Lake Tahoe is abruptly shattered by the city of South Lake Tahoe, with its traffic and casinos, but it’s not long before I reach Emerald Bay. Inspiration Point is crowded, for good reason.

It’s hard to get the camera to peek through the trees at the lovely view beneath me.

Vikingsholm Castle is down below, but I know if I stop at every point of interest I’ll lose my flow.  There are just too many for one day.

Tahoe’s waters run clear, deep, and dangerously cold.

A short walk on the Rubicon Trail at DL Bliss State Park.

 

Rubicon Lighthouse: While it looks more like an outhouse than anything else, turns out it's the highest lighthouse in the world.

After my two-wheeled circumnavigation is complete, I decide to tackle it on two feet, or at least as much of the 165 mile Tahoe Rim Trail as I can manage before nightfall.

The few miles I do hike through tall trees is pleasant, although not remarkable. Even so, the physical exertion feels fantastic after having butt in seat all day.
 


My short trek may lack wide vistas, but I feel like a Girl Scout while discovering all the interesting items littering the forest floor.  I find these usual large red sprouts…




… and sticky pine cones the size of footballs.


 

After a short time, I reach what may or may not be the Paige Meadow hinted at by the trail markers. In any case, the meadow and the two mile marker feel like a destination, and my stomach is beginning to gently inquire about tonight’s dinner menu, so I turn around.    My discontent of yesterday has long faded, and I’m more than happy to take advantage of the benefits of urban camping tonight, sipping wine, eating pasta, charging my phone, and having light in which to write.
 

Zia Lina.  Pasta with caramelized onion, arugula and sausage.

*Yes, you will be hearing about this again.

Tahoe Arrival! (Grumpy Pants)

“Sort-of-Sabbatical” Day Nineteen, Thursday June 21

I catch my first glimpse of blue from CA 267 and I pump my fist in victory.  I don’t know if it’s from hearing my friend’s close held childhood memories about the area, or the fact that it is a landmark of the west still unknown to me, but I’ve been wanting to ride to Lake Tahoe for years.  At long last, I have arrived! 

This really wasn't my first view, but it felt just as grand!

The fly in the ointment is that I’m rolling in at the start of the weekend and, having been away from reliable internet for too many days, have no camping reservation.  Between my earlier experiences with “Campground Full” signs in CA, and the fact that more than one person raised an eyebrow upon hearing I planned to camp at Tahoe tonight without a reservation, I should feel lucky I’ve nabbed a spot only a few steps from the lake’s edge.  While Tahoe State Recreation Area is not the loveliest of campgrounds, there are countless diversions for me to pass the time between the moment my bike is safely parked before sunset and the time my head hits the stuff sack.    I can have an actual shower for the low, low price of 50 cents, watch the setting sun cast its colors on the mountains across the lake, dabble my feet in the cool waters of the Truckee River, watch ducklings catch a ride on momma’s back, find myself surrounded, at close range, by well over 50 Canada geese, access the 150 mile Tahoe Rim trail, and (how often does this happen?), later tonight, have just about anything I can imagine to eat (and drink!) all a few steps from my tent.  Tonight is a night of urban camping, and although it’s not my usual choice, it can occasionally be a welcome change from a cold granola dinner in the middle of the forest.  And while I enjoy the rhythm of rolling until mid-afternoon and hiking until sundown, tonight, my frustration with my inability to ride at night, usually a background grumble, chooses to surface to the forefront with a ferocity that takes me by surprise.

Mom gives her ducklings a ride in the Truckee River.

To those of you who would say “Oh, just this once” or “It’s only a few miles,” I invite you to squint such that your eyelids are open no more than a atom’s width.  Really.  Got it?   Now, ride your motorcycle (or bicycle, or whatever) just this once, or just for a few miles. What'?  You can only see 10 feet in front of you?  Kind of-sort of-ish?  Now  you get it. Because that’s pretty much what I’m working with. Even deep shade disorients me. After dropping my bike in a familiar but dimly lit parking garage, unable to judge the turn into my space, I now know to stop, plant feet (I have to guess when to actually take my feet off the pegs, because I can’t really judge my speed when I’m coming to a stop), and paddle my way to safety.  Tunnels are no better, and as soon as I enter one, I am floating ten feet above my ride, no longer in contact with the road, or having any understanding of where my body (or motorcycle) is in space.  My eyes cling to the light at the end if I am, indeed lucky enough to be able to see it, or, perhaps, to the brake lights in front of me if there are some.  I am suddenly proverbially and literally religious. If you can now grasp the terror I have at being stranded after nightfall, perhaps now you understand why I opted to grab the first available campsite today, no matter what.  Whenever the topic arises in casual conversation with other riders, they always nod in agreement.  “I never ride at night.”  And then,  “Unless I can’t find a hotel, or I’m out for a late dinner.”   How nice to be able to make exceptions!  For me there are none.  Period.   A few days ago, I met a fellow rider who did, in fact, get it.  “I never ride without a tent.  It’s just too damn terrifying.”  I can’t tell you how validating it was to hear that.  To date, ophthalmologists offer a shrug, but no real assistance. Perhaps my eyes are dry. That is about as ludicrous as offering a starving child in Africa an oyster cracker for lunch.  Or a slight adjustment in my prescription?  Laughable.   “Huh,” the last one said.  “You lose depth perception, too? Interesting.” 

The "Tahoe Gal."

While I generally make peace with this handicap, tonight I can not seem to manage it.  I’m all too aware that while I can enjoy the benefits of my current accommodations, I am practically without free will in choosing them.  My riding plans have me staying in the Tahoe area for three nights, and although I typically dislike the process of campsite “shopping,” today, for a change, I would like to scope out the various campgrounds before selecting one.  Quite simply, I am more than annoyed it’s not an option. In fact, I am so worried about not finding a site I not only pull into the first campground with vacancy, I feel I must grab the first available site without a preliminary survey loop, lest I be punished for my selectiveness. Tomorrow the hunt will begin again, because I am only allowed one night as a walk-in camper at my current location.

I am mad that my inability to ride at night seems to dictate my every move and that, despite the diversions I enjoy, they simply cover up the fact that I am, quite plainly, marooned until sunrise.  I might be in the Garden of Eden, but even so, I'm stuck there.  And if it's a creep-out campground, well I'm stuck there, too.  It’s not unusual for me to ride 400 miles with nothing more than one glove gas stops, (no time to take off the second glove!), to ensure I arrive at my destination in a timely fashion.

I am surrounded on all sides.

 If you've ever seen a goose on the attack, neck poised at a threatening angle, you know to be wary.

 Between my experiences at animal rescues, and the old video of my childhood dog being chased on a slippy slidey frozen pond - well, I know!

Long after nightfall, I look down at my meal at  Rosie’s Cafe and chuckle to myself at the absurdity of my complaint.  I should be here drinking this wine and eating this pizza not because I have to, but because I want to!