Heavenly days at Heavenly Valley

The first few flakes of snow swirled about my windshield as I began the long, winding climb -- in a rental car without chains, because I was too cheap to pay another $35 -- up out of Carson City. By the time I had crossed Spooner Pass and descended into South Lake Tahoe, about 2 p.m., the white stuff was coming down hard and sticking on the road.

Before driving to our rented cabin, I stopped at the lakeshore for a gourmet feast at Mickey D, but developed butterflies in my stomach, not entirely caused by my grilled chicken sandwich, as I watched the snow falling harder and harder and piling up deeper and deeper. Will I be unable to reach the cabin through the blizzard, I wondered, because I insisted on having a lousy sandwich?

Finishing the sandwich quickly, and tossing out most of the fries, I drove up Ski Run Blvd., near the base area on the California side of Heavenly Valley, streets and roads becoming ever more slippery and treacherous, and anxiously maneuvered my car into the cabin's driveway.

I was soon joined by the others. Relatives and friends from the Bay Area -- Sonoma, Healdsburg, and San Francisco. The word had gotten around that the Sierras were in for a major storm, and some of them prudently arrived hours earlier than they had originally planned. By 4 p.m., all nine of our group had arrived, bearing wine, food, skis and boards, and their ever present wit and enthusiasm.

That was Saturday. There was to be no skiing that day, nor any on Sunday, as the snow continued to fall. Instead, we shared that oddly cozy feeling of isolation, of being trapped even, in a warm house, with nothing to do but amuse ourselves, while the snow outside drifted ever deeper and we wondered if we would ever make it home again.

A few determined souls did find a cab driver willing to venture out to the cabin on Saturday night and haul them through the blizzard to a raucous rock show at one of the Nevada casinos. Those of us with more sense and gentility settled down to a peaceful regimen of billiards tournaments, wining and snacking, good talk, and a DVD marathon that lasted until 2:30 a.m. A magnificent trio of cinematic accomplishment: "West Side Story," "What About Bob," and "Terminator 2."

By Sunday afternoon, the snow began tapering off. Monday dawned brilliant with blue sky and sunshine. All lifts were open, all runs had been groomed overnight, and we were in, as it were, Heaven! We skied a full day, interrupted only by open air lunch and beer breaks half way up the Nevada slopes. The air was warm enough for us to deem the experience "spring skiing." Dazzling sun required dark glasses or goggles, not to mention generous application of SPF 40 sunblock. The slopes were free of excessive weekend skiers, and the lift lines were just long enough to let leg muscles rest briefly before approaching another run. The snow had that special, fresh-fallen, non-icy quality that makes you think that maybe you've always been a far better skier than you remembered.

We were happy peeps.

Back at the cabin, once Denny had bravely shoveled a foot of snow from its cover, the hot tub awaited. One by one, each of us laughed and squealed his or her barefoot way across the snowy deck and jumped, beer clutched in hand, into the super-heated water. Aching quads immersed in boiling water. T'was good.

Heaven may prove to have as many facets as it has inhabitants. If so, I'm sure there's some heavenly corner, for those of us so inclined, where you can sit immersed in bubbling, steaming water with your friends and relatives, a cold beer in hand, watching distant snow-covered mountains grow fiery in the dying sun.