It was a good day: cross-country skiing along Tahoe’s shore, then snowshoeing on the same route later in the day cause it was so beautiful. And what did I find as I retraced my tracks but a smiley face that jumped off the underside of my shoes. A good omen I think.

With my family en route tomorrow, the cutest Christmas tree ever (its trunk is so small it fits in a carafe) and another stellar gift-wrapping performance by Chris, I’m considering myself lucky this year! Happy Holidays!

I think my new house is trying to kill me.

It all began on Sunday morning when out of nowhere, as I went to grab a towel from a bucket on my bathroom floor, the slanted ceiling jumped out at my head. Five days later and I’m still feeling the post-concussive syndrome. Don’t worry, I finally went to the doctor and he saw nothing too amiss, but I cannot exercise (no walks even!) until the symptoms reside.

So pardon my silence on the blogosphere, but my home got me good.

For a Tahoe girl, I am pretty soft core. Though I can fairly adeptly carve my way around the local ski resorts, I’ve only backcountry skied twice. My boyfriend’s sport of choice, rock climbing, is my nemesis (we’ve climbed but once together in the some two years we’ve been a pair). And though I’ve certainly hiked up a few peaks, I had never “backpacked” into the woods until last weekend. (Yep, this is true. Blame it on Georgia if you will.)

We ventured into Desolation Wilderness, the 63,960-acre wilderness area right in our backyard, per say. We were the lone campers at Half Moon Lake, and scrambled cross-country up Jack’s Peak. I’ll spare you all the John Muir details—my pictures can speak those thousand words of beauty—but I will let you in a few things I learned about being a backpacker:

1) To state the obvious (as I did on our journey), cross-country hiking is way harder than straight-up trail hiking, and hiking with a pack is way harder than hiking without one.

2) Never ask passersby how far it is until your destination. It’s a total gaper move, says Chris, inquired by minds who are fixated on the end not the means that a true outdoorsman or woman cherishes. Guess who pulled that move?

3) Pooping in the woods is liberating. Yet don’t forget to bury your treasure.

4) Cooking and cleaning at camp is like being 7 again. Remember all those cute little kitchen sets? The thrill of “making” something? It all comes back again when you’re preparing packed-in food on a teensy stove with tiny pots and utensils.

5) Tea tastes better in the woods. It just does. Who knew that I would like chai without milk and sugar?

Ok, now to the good stuff, the pictures that do my work for me:

A map of where we were. I put a star at our camp.

Yep, I’m another year older. Just so you don’t miss out on the fun that was my birthday, here’s a quick recap of the weekend.

Friday morning: I wake up to the best wrapped present ever, from Chris.

Then, it was on to kayaking and paddleboarding off Sugar Pine Point.

Saturday was River Prom, an annual Truckee River float in formal attire. EPIC

Saturday night we camped at Lover’s Leap, then climbed the next day. Here I am on Pop Bottle, clinging for dear life. SO HAPPY to say that I totally enjoyed the experience in the end. (For those of you who don’t know: rock climbing was formerly my nemesis, taking me out for a summer after breaking my ankle on this very same route.)

<THE END>

Yesterday, I got a phone call from a concerned friend: “What is up with your picture in Moonshine Ink?”

Yesterday also brought an email from another concerned friend: “I saw your article in Moonshine, it was good. You need a new photo though, it doesn’t look like you. Aren’t you a model???”

And they weren’t alone… just straws that broke the camel’s back. Thus, I promptly called up my friend and photographer extraordinaire Ryan Salm (look for his new blog soon) for a quick photo session. And voila, no more hideous self-portrait. I hope you enjoy its debut in my upcoming column, out July 16. And I hope this means no more complaints…

ahh… the Fourth of July. While droves of tourists are traveling miles to lounge by the lake, and throngs of lake locals are traveling miles to get outta town (many I know to the High Sierra Music Festival), I have decided to stick around. And there’s no better way to spend the weekend than with the wind—no plans, no need to go anywhere or do anything (except work on that never-ending timeline feature for TQ).

Today’s breeze blew me into the Allen family boat, all the way over to a cove on the East Shore. 7 friends and 2 chihuahuas (the non-yippy kind) = happy.

Let’s take a look back at the past 36 hours:

Woke up @ 4:45 am EST, drive to airport, kiss mom goodbye, wait for the plane, 23^rd on list to get a seat, don’t make the cut.

Wait another hour, nab last seat on flight. Rush over to Reno gate to again be denied. Four hour wait until next plane… read, eat yogurt, drink water, type, edit, type. Too bad I don’t know anyone in Salt Lake City. Afraid of airport’s airport (can everyone online right now access my documents?). Log off. Browse magazines, read Chabon’s Kavalier & Clay—am now obsessed!

Finally, my 3:10 departure begins boarding. Things seem bleak as the attendant is saying they are looking for someone to give up a seat because they oversold the flight. Minutes pass, then miraculously my name is called. I’m handed a golden ticket, to which I hold on tight, navigating the jump flight hallway while texting friends and family that I’ve finally made it. Hooray for me. Get on the plane, putting my bag in the overhead bin, when I hear my name again. Uh oh. Yep, the cruel humans yank me from the flight to wait more hours upon end for more oversold situations. Oh the emotional roller coaster of standby. (note I use no exclamation mark because I am now emotionally blank after the ordeal)

Needless to say, I left my Delta standby dreams at that awful E72 gate, then caught the next Southwest flight outta there (which was delayed 45 minutes). Some twelve hours later, I am still trying to get ahold of a Reno Delta agent to obtain my checked luggage. sigh.