Since I left Chicago, Chicago, My Kind of Town several years ago, and consequently Left My Heart in San Francisco, I miss snow. Strangely as it sounds… Of course, there is nothing you might miss, wish, or crave that wouldn’t be readily available in California. So there I was, stuck in a Friday after-hours traffic heading up north to the wintery Tahoe for a long President’s Day, Valentine’s Day, and Chinese New Year’s Day weekend. I was looking forward to seeing my hospitable friends Inga Aksamit (Sierras Travel Examiner on examiner.com) and Steve Mullen in their “rustic” three-bedroom cabin with all the modern conveniences and a view of the avalanche path. I thought about the real and pretend-believe pleasures of the upcoming long weekend. Sipping wine by the fireplace and watching Apolo Ohno gliding through the Winter Olympics in Vancouver – definitely a pleasure. Cooking my signature chicken vegetable soup for my awesome friends – obviously a pleasure, too. Trying historic diners’ fare in Truckee at Smokey’s Kitchen and JAX at the Tracks – yes and yes. Skiing… um... that was the reason for going to Tahoe in the first place. 
However, I had yet to confess to Inga and Steve who hold season passes, jump off a helicopter or a snow-cat on skis and hang out with the Olympians that I am more of a city girl and that my measly attempts at cross country are still on the same level as they were when I was a 5th grader, and my father tried to make me ski along in a snowy park in my native Kiev… to little avail. Naively, my friends tried to suggest the most exciting trails around their dwelling in Alpine Meadows, while I insisted on my chosen beginners’ trail at the serene Resort at Squaw Creek (squawcreek.com). 
The beauty of this unpretentious XC oasis located at a golf course area lies in its picturesque natural calm, its solitude, and its ability to accommodate all kinds of skiers. I always feel at ease there, taking my sweet time to contemplate a five-degree downgrade, or watching dog sleds and horse sleigh passing by, or making way for a rare fellow skier who inevitably would be oh so much better than me. 
Sure enough, when I skied there Saturday morning, the sun was shining brightly, the air was intoxicatingly fresh, and the snow around the creek was of the tenderest blue shade akin to milk bottle glass. I fell three times during my short loop, but I managed to get up on my own with my skies still attached and, more importantly, no one was around to pity or ridicule me. 
For lunch, my husband Yuri and I stopped at Smokey’s Kitchen (smokeyskitchen.com), where we met the owner, Michael Lathbury, and enjoyed his hospitable and cheerful crowded diner, and some of his specialties – tender St. Louis pork ribs and a Smokey salad of mixed greens, tomatoes, cucumbers, red onions, carrots and croutons. The food restored my strength and all the lost calories, and made me look forward to my next skiing adventure with hope and anticipation. My Sunday ordeal proved to be more trying though. We headed for the North America’s largest cross country ski resort Royal Gorge (royalgorge.com). The rental ski area resembled a bee hive with its cheerful buzzing, well-organized line of renters, kids and adults putting on their ski boots hurrying to get out to the new snow glistening under the sun. I asked about Ice Lakes Lodge at Royal Gorge, where Yuri and I had a lunch reservation, and a smiling clerk suggested, “Oh, you can ski to lunch”… No, I couldn’t. I asked about the flattest trail around and they told me that beyond the skiing school area I could find one. O, the shame of letting those little kiddies just out of the school pass me by; the agony of watching women old enough to be my mothers sliding past like there is no tomorrow; the overwhelming feeling of getting in the way of practically any other skier. 
Gradually, after some cheering and promises from my dear husband to be near all the time and to catch me if I fell, I managed to slide and glide along the loop, feeling more confident in the process, and even enjoying the view of the powerful redwoods covered in salad-green moss, and dropping loads of heavy snow here and there in the silence of the woods. An hour and a half later, I felt sore, exhausted, and as happy as can be at my achievement. Yuri told me to go ahead and return my rental skis, while he would go on the loop again “to warm up a bit.” I was so grateful for all his support, and so sweaty, tired, and content, that I gladly prepared to sit and wait for him for another hour. The moment I changed into my regular boots, he appeared in front of me. I chose not to think about how that could happen that he repeated our entire route in fifteen minutes time... 
For lunch, we shared a bowl of French onion soup and a wonderful melt-in-your-mouth French dip sandwich. I couldn’t remember myself being so hungry in a long time! 
Maybe it was an unusual amount of physical exercise I had to endure, or just fresh mountain air, but when at night our gracious host Steve cooked a leg of lamb on the grill, and Inga baked her wonderful potatoes au gratin, I felt ready to eat again, and I did. On Monday, before we headed home, Yuri finally felt he’s done enough as a good husband, so he left me to my own devises (not that I would mind) and joined Inga and Steve on the Black Diamond downhill extravaganza. At Inga’s suggestion, I just went for a walk around the neighborhood – no skis, just good old leisurely walking. On my way, I met a fellow walker who said he used to bike here in summer (I guess, not a skier, huh?) and a big playful dog, healthy-looking and with a collar, obviously bored out of his mind while his mommy and daddy were most likely skiing around. Happy skiers returned from their adventure, and we all had to get back home. Anticipating some daunting after-weekend driving to the Bay Area, we stopped for lunch at JAX at the Tracks (jaxtruckee.com) in nearby Truckee. The diner is a local institution, manufactured in an East Coast factory and transported here cross-country (pun intended). 
It is designed to resemble a railroad dining car as a tribute to a bygone era when dining out was a fun experience, not a necessity. Its owner, Bud Haley, is known for his saying, “The diner flourished during the Depression, and we plan to see JAX flourish now – I believe classic Americana and great food will never go out of style.” True to his words, a beautiful all-American waitress Donna greeted us at the door, and an ex-New-Zealander executive chef Phil Brown fed us his braised pork BBQ and cheddar sandwich, and a corned beef Reuben on house-made bread.
Stuck in heavy traffic on our way back, I was musing about the wonderful weekend we just happened to have. So what that some of us were conquering the avalanche threatened mountain slopes, and others were just fighting panic attacks on slight downgrades of a snow covered golf course. I was sure we all felt equally spent yet adventurous and we equally enjoyed our respective escapades.
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