It Snows in Truckee

“Go to Northstar,” my son said, “the snow there is a lot cleaner than in Truckee.”

And all but Mother wondered why I would want to take a trip to Truckee, a town everybody else just passes through. Mother understands that I find inspiration in the most unlikely places. She made me laugh on the phone with her prediction that relies on my capability to make a mountain out of a rock garden.

“I know you; you’ll put Truckee on the map.”

Of course, the ill-fated Donner party had already done that in 1847 and I would only be another curious visitor who would look for extra insight into published material.

But my main interest in Truckee was not to revive the Wild West or rumors of flesh-eating survivors, I wanted to see, touch, breathe …..SNOW.

I had tried to feed my craving for snow a few times before and though my family claims that I have tasted plenty, according to my photographs, I did not feel the tiny nip of snow flakes in my face. Not once since childhood. At the end of March 2005 I took a trip to the Alpine foothills near Munich and though I caught patches of snow with my camera, most of it had already melted. In December of 2005 I felt a quick surge of joy over early morning flakes trickling down on the rooftops of Nürnberg, but by the time I finished breakfast they had settled into small picturesque mounds that barely waited long enough to be photographed before they transformed themselves into icy threads between cobblestones.

In 2007 I rode the train to Denver and was rewarded with a snowy landscape along the route of the California Zephyr, but again did not become a part of it. When the train made a brief stop in Truckee I saw, from the warmth of my roomette, the winter wonderland I had imagined and promised myself to return to this town some day to witness the “real thing.”

On Monday, March 2, 2009, I got up at 4:29 in the morning, beating three alarm clocks, only because I hadn’t slept all night. It seems that my pre-trip mental nightlife increases with each year I age. Did I pack the long, purple scarf? The pencil set I never use? Is the suitcase too heavy to carry? Will I get rained on on my one-mile walk to the Light Rail Station? Should I bring the laptop? Do Tyana’s outfits add the right colors to snow photos? Are eight crackers enough of a cushion to absorb the negative effects of my daily pills?

As expected it was dark outside when I left home at 5:30 and the suitcase tipped over twice when I rolled it over a speed bump. By the time I reached the Light Rail I had begun to sweat under three layers of clothes. And the characters who shared my ride to the train station looked sinister, sleepy, unhappy. But eventually I was securely settled into the train that would take me to Emeryville where my real trip into snow country would begin. The California Zephyr runs all the way to Chicago and my five hours to Truckee would be just a small part of its journey, though a much anticipated one of mine.

But it rained all the way to Truckee, and with large drops splashing against the window my mood sank lower and lower. It couldn’t be. Not another failure. On my short walk to the River Street Inn I stared at the slushy ground in total frustration. Not even the sight of my 1885 accommodation with the tall bed, the claw foot tub, and the flat screen TV made me smile.
Where was the promised view of the Truckee River? Of course, the Internet “Recession Special” did not include a view. For one hundred and ten dollars a night I would only see the neighbor’s roof top.

Little did I know that this roof top would become a focal point of my evenings. Little did I know about snow, period. I pulled my new red umbrella from the suitcase and shot it open in defiance of superstition. What else could go wrong? My old black one, the one I had relied on for 29 years, had refused to open on the day before my trip and had forced me to drive to Wallgreen’s for a replacement. I bought a loudly advertised four-dollar “automatic” that I dropped into my luggage without much enthusiasm and without testing.

Hiding my face from the icy wind-driven rain under my bright red umbrella I headed across the railroad tracks toward the main street. Donner Pass Road. Downtown Truckee. Half a mile of storefronts. The Wagon Train Coffee Shop. It was on my list of things to do. “Eat at the Wagon Train.” The reviews slanted toward the mediocre, but I don’t always believe people who let out their frustrations on yelp.com and wanted to see for myself. Before I entered the coffee shop the wind blew my new umbrella inside out and several spines separated from the plastic material.

“Easy come, easy go,” I told myself, slightly embarrassed over the mishap, trying to close the contraption and stuffing it in the outer pocket of my backpack.

The coffee shop confirmed its online reputation. Overpriced. Unidentifiable soup. Boring salad bar. Nice waitress. She promised snow by evening. I came back two days later in the afternoon and thanked her for that, ordered a lumberjack breakfast, took her picture with my teddy bear, and chatted with her for a while. She invited me for coffee on the day of my departure

Yes, snow started to fall by seven. I pushed aside the curtain, pulled up the slatted blind, and watched the roof across from my window. By ten I even opened the window and breathed in the clean mountain air. Judging by the accumulation of the white stuff on the sharply slanted roof and the transformation of nearby trees I felt assured that I would get my share of snow the next morning.

When I woke my first look was to the roof. At least a foot of snow. And it was still coming down. As far as I could see everything was covered . I could hardly contain my enthusiasm but forced myself to participate in the Inn’s continental breakfast. Sitting at the communal table I noted the lack of attention the young owners afford their establishment. How easy it would be to polish the image. Fresh rolls in a basket instead of frozen white bread in its plastic sack. Individual packets of jam instead of a Costco sized jar. A toaster without smashed raisins glued to its sides. A stack of napkins. Six napkins, laid out for six guests certainly don’t spell luxury. But then I remembered that Truckee, as my son had said, is only a stopping point for most people. I am one of the odd ones who came to explore the town. So did my neighbors in room 87. He is a railroad buff and would spend a great deal of time reading in the lounge, or filling me in on the history of the area. He and his wife were return visitors.

“Not many old people live here,” he noted after we discussed our backgrounds and our experiences with train trips and cold weather and mountains.

It would take a day of getting reacquainted with snow to make me think about his words. My memories are those of images encountered as a child in the Black Forest. Opening the front door in the morning and being enclosed in a wall of snow. Helping my mother and grandfather shovel a pathway. Later, in the Odenwald, sledding down mountain roads. Building fat snowmen by the fountain on the plaza. Watching snow settle on the tall public Christmas tree in the moonlight. Imprinting my footsteps in a pristine, soft, white carpet. Opening my mouth to the watery remnants of twirling flakes. And always – always – being aware of the deep silence of a freshly powdered winter landscape.

Now I am an old California city person; all my childhood memories are vivid, but I lack the practical experience that accumulates with yearly preparations for the cold season. I became aware of this when my hands froze into red and clumsy while I took pictures of Tyana. Posing her in avalanche-size mountains of snow was the highlight of my trip, except that my finger was not able to push the button on the camera. I dug through my backpack for gloves but soon realized that icy hands in gloves don’t instantly regain dexterity. When snowflakes settled on my camera lens I wondered how to shield it without losing light. I should have brought a plastic bag.

After I unpacked Tyana’s skis, made from paint stirrers and sprayed purple just a few days ago, I dropped them and they immediately opened their own hole to sink into. And as I was searching for a penny I had intended to use as an eye for a snowman, I learned that wet snow allows objects to slide all the way to the bottom without leaving a trace. Later I stumbled and slipped into a ditch and watched my camera disappear. I dug it out of its wet grave quickly, concerned that it had suffered damage, but so far it still works.

There were other things I learned about snow. It is slippery when it is compacted by tires. It becomes slush when sprinkled with de-icers. I also understand why the snow in Truckee is dirty to those who drive through town. All day it is moved to the side by snow plows and all day cars spray slush against the piles that accumulate next to the road. I tried to walk along Donner Pass because I wanted to visit places on my list that were located a mile out of town. Once the sidewalk ended, I was splashed repeatedly and after a hundred steps I turned around. Walking on the street was annoying; drivers didn’t pay attention to me, but the alternative was to stomp through several feet of snow. I could see the headline in my mind, “Old woman dies of heart attack on her way to Wild Cherries Coffee Shop.”

And so I opted for what would become my favorite indoor spot in Truckee, the “Book and Bean” just across the street from the River Street Inn.

The first time I entered the “Book and Bean” I couldn’t see a thing. Another strike against old people – we will all be snow blind because we forget to wear our goggles. After my eyes had recovered I bought a cappuccino and six books, most about the Donner Party. Until then I hadn’t given the tragedy much thought, except for reading James D. Houston’s “Snow Mountain Passage” in my “Exploring Literature” group. Cannibalism is as difficult a subject as incest, defying imagination, and therefore not something I dwell upon. But Truckee and Donner Lake have played a major part in this story; only half of eighty-some pioneers survived the winter of 1846; traveling past the lake made it impossible not to think about their fate. I wanted to compare Houston’s novel to a historical document and bought the original full account by C. F. McGlashan. Published in 1880, McGlashan consulted 24 of 26 living survivors, cited diary entries, letters and newspapers, to give this tragic episode in California history the respect that is missing from many other accounts by authors who craft their sentences around the consumption of human flesh.

I returned twice to the mix of lap top computers, used books, and gourmet coffee at the “Book and Bean” and each time I discovered something else that I liked.
.
On my second day in Truckee I examined some of the back roads. Jiboom, where the brothels used to line up, East River Street where Chinese railroad workers lived, West River Street that ends somewhere half a mile from the River Street Inn, according to the sign. I walked my boot prints into the new snow, posed Tyana on a mountain of snow across the street from the Chinese Herb Shop, and watched the crows play near the “Totally Board” which, I assumed, is a bar. After eating a Kilimanjaro Ken that included avocado slices, spinach and cheese at the “Squeeze Inn,” possibly the most bizarrely decorated restaurant I have ever seen – a graffiti artist’s heaven – I took a local bus to Northstar Resort and Crystal Bay, Lake Tahoe. I laughed when I read the bus schedule at the Visitor Center in the train depot: Dallas has DART; San Francisco has BART; Truckee has TART; it seems fitting for the remnants of a bawdy, rowdy, tough Old West town. TART (Tahoe Area Regional Transit) took me to the winter wonderland of the young and restless: a ski resort 7,350 feet above sea level, with 39 shops and restaurants, and a golf club. What else could one want?

“The snow is beautiful, but what about history?” I asked.

I got a look of pity from two young men in designer boots and wraparound sunshades. The narrow-shouldered girl with long blond hair, a British accent, and a huge backpack talked about a dip in the hot tub after a morning of running the slopes. The bus driver tilted his head; I imagined his eyes looking at me from behind reflective sunglasses. At the end of the route, at the north shore of Lake Tahoe, he turned on his radio and paused for a few minutes. He clearly was not in a talking mood and while I didn’t make real contact with anyone, this two-hour roundtrip provided me with the answer I needed: Truckee is the right place for me. Northstar is somebody else’s dream.

On my way back to the River Street Inn the mini-mart at the corner gas station winked at me with dinner to go: mozzarella cheese, low salt crackers, a diet coke. Add to this the cookie and apple sauce left over from the train ride, and I would be happy for the evening. Though I had planned on Moody’s, probably Truckee’s best restaurant, I suddenly felt the need to protect my pocket book from “haute cuisine” and my heart from cholesterol and salt. With great delight I sat on the bed, surrounded by books, snacks, a pleasant décor, and a most interesting view of snow sliding off the neighboring roof. I watched for almost two hours. Sheets, sprinkles, dust, rolls, drips. It was an ever-changing spectacle of movement. McGlashan is credited with designing the perfect roof slant for Truckee, which I, a child observer of the German roof avalanche, can appreciate. We used to hear it all the time, “Be careful; the roofs are full of snow.” Sloped not quite at the right angle, I assume, they would suddenly rid themselves of a ton of snow that could bury you alive. On my trip through the foothills of the Alps I saw the warning signs on many houses “Danger. Roof Avalanche.” But here it was a gradual process, releasing only portions of snow, and when I woke in the morning the roof glistened in the early morning sun. Warmed from the inside and from the outside it was bare except for a couple of small patches.

The town, too, shimmered under a blue sky when I took my last lap around the main strip. The sidewalk was empty of snow. Stores were still closed; only breakfast places were open. I wanted to say goodbye to Rose the waitress at the Wagon Train but she hadn’t come in yet. As I was walking through town I read the advertisements. Snowboard Rentals. Dog Biscuits. Massages. Beads. Everything except fresh bread I thought.

And everybody except old women, I added after I carefully tested the hard-packed, smoothly shiny, trampled path between sidewalk and street. Place your foot firmly, I told myself; you don’t want to slip and fall. Only a few feet from the train station.

Old women lived here a century ago; I read about them in the books I bought yesterday and the day before. They probably didn’t have much of a choice. Nona McGlashan who wrote the memoir about her grandfather grew up here, but the book jacket says she retired in Auburn.

As I picked my seat for the trip home I wondered how much time she spent in Truckee after her grandfather’s death in 1911. I wondered if she is still alive at 98.

Auburn, hmmm? Maybe when it gets a little warmer.