Jewel of the Sierra

That's what John Muir called it.  Once you see Lake Tahoe, and not just see but hear and smell this alpine wonderland, you will not argue.  This afternoon my best friend and I headed east on I-80, crested the Sierra Nevada Range on Donner Pass, and descended into the Tahoe Basin.  Stephanie says that Big Bear is a poor substitute for Tahoe, and I won't argue with her either.  Big Bear does have altitude, trees, and a ski resort, but all its amenities are Lilliputian compared to what lies 500 miles north.  Lake Tahoe is blue, clean, and deep.  I can remember as a kid looking down from a power boat to see submerged logs beneath the lake's cold and crystalline waters.  In my teenage years, Tahoe was ground zero for fun.  I learned to ski at Squaw Valley on the annual ski trips organized by St. Robert's.  In the summers, I learned to water ski on north shore's Crystal Bay.  Desolation Wilderness, just west of the lake, was where I backpacked with high school friends.  On that trek, the forests were so dry that open fires were prohibited, which meant we had to eat our hamburger meat raw.  Aside from all the fantastic possibilities for recreation that Tahoe presents, it's really the multi-sensory natural beauty that brings me the most pleasure.  As I write from our little one bedroom retreat a hundred feet or so from the water's edge, I feel a relaxed anticipation of the coming week.  In the 1800s, John Muir knew the Sierra Nevada mountains better than anyone.  I know why he had a special regard for this place.