by Mick Rhodes | editor@claremont-courier.com

Well, all my worrying turned out to be somewhat justified, as the bears of Lake Tahoe were indeed quite active during our recent trip. Thankfully though, they left us alone.

The journey north on the 395 was more beautiful than ever. The kids and I saw the sunrise over star-crossed Owens Lake, slowly illuminating the magnificent snow-capped eastern Sierra Nevada. The landscape came into full view as we passed through Lone Pine, just in time to admire the highest peak in the lower 48, Mt. Whitney, at 14,505 feet, jutting up behind it. We continued north, talking about California’s water wars of the 1920s and how the Owens Valley got the shaft from a corrupt City of Los Angeles. We passed Manzanar National Historic Site, with the kids remembering our earlier somber visit to the museum there. Then came Independence, Fish Springs, and Big Pine. We stopped for breakfast in Bishop, our halfway point, elevation 4,100 feet.

The 395 makes an abrupt westerly turn north of Bishop, skirting along the foot of the Sierra Nevada then climbing to Mammoth Lakes, eventually reaching Conway Summit at 8,143 feet. There we were surrounded by stunning peaks, trees, and meadows, all blanketed in snow. The kids, though punch drunk from lack of sleep, were in awe.

We passed through Lee Vining, the positively otherworldly Mono Lake, Bridgeport, cruised alongside the beautiful Walker River, then hit the Nevada border at Topaz Lake. The fabulous 395 then took us through the relative metropolises of Minden, Gardnerville, Carson City, then finally, just south of Reno, to the 431 Mt. Rose Highway, which meanders over the 8,911-foot Mt. Rose summit.

My kids had never been at high elevation during a snowstorm, so when it started falling on our climb up the Mt. Rose Highway they were giddy. They got pretty quiet though as the snow began falling in big clumps, covering the road. We slowed to a crawl, eventually reaching the summit with the snow blowing sideways. The descent into Incline Village was a little hairy, with some slipping and sliding. But, after a few tense minutes the temperature rose, and the snow got lighter. Soon the asphalt reappeared, black and solid, and the kids resumed talking. And breathing. Then Lake Tahoe bloomed gray and brooding through the windshield, its usual stunning azure dulled by the storm.

We made it to our rented condo in Tahoe City, on the west shore, unloaded the car, and settled in for the night after our nine-hour, near 500-mile drive.

I woke early and made a pot of good coffee. Outside, bright sunshine mingled with storm clouds. The lake was blue again, magnificent, massive, and soothing. The condo had three east-facing balconies, each with a 180-degree view of the lake. I stepped outside on the top floor to take it in. Deep breaths. Gratitude. My quasi-spiritual moment was interrupted when I noticed a set of very large bear tracks in the fresh snow below, trailed by a smaller set. I alerted the kids. They were a little shaken. It seemed dad’s weekslong nagging about ursine etiquette suddenly made sense. The large tracks had thin indentations from almost comically long, spiny claws extending out from the toes. After seeing those tracks the first morning, the kids got serious about locking doors and securing food.

A couple nights later I returned home after being out for a bit. Snow was falling. It was profoundly quiet, and very dark. I had some difficulty getting the key into the lock, fumbling for a minute. Once inside I was greeted by my wide-eyed and ashen son, who had been convinced my scratching and grunting was a bear trying to get in. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him happier to see his bear-like but unthreatening father.

When it wasn’t snowing, we explored. We made the 72-mile drive around the lake, with its sweeping views, jagged peaks, and the aptly named Emerald Bay. We ventured down to South Lake Tahoe to see the fabulous new Bob Dylan biopic, “A Complete Unknown.” But most of our time was spent hanging around the condo. I cooked. We watched movies. They slept late and I got to hang out in the mornings and drink coffee and watch the snow fall on the lake. We saw several rainbows. Sometimes the snow fell delicately, other times in big, heavy clumps. It was heaven.

Driving home from Tahoe is usually a trudge. This time was different. We were all wide awake, and the first half of the drive was in daylight. We traded off picking songs, from AC/DC to Leo Sayer, Conor Oberst to Leonard Cohen, and everything in between. It was an eight-hour intergenerational musical conversation, interrupted by a surprisingly good meal at a little Mexican spot in Bishop.

I’d planned this trip with the hope of spending some quiet time with my kids hanging out in one of our favorite places on earth. I wanted a reset, to relax, laugh, and enjoy my children. I would have settled for a couple of those, but I got them all. Sometimes the best laid plans … actually work out.

I could not have dreamed up a more lovely way to say goodbye to 2024.

The Eaton Fire, close-up

I wrote the bulk of this column before the scale of the devastating, wind-whipped firestorms in Altadena, Pacific Palisades, and elsewhere was clear.

A home on Braeburn Road in Altadena lies in ruins Wednesday night. The home, and others on the block, “exploded” as winds, some in excess of 70 mph, drove the Eaton Fire through the neighborhood early Wednesday. Courier photo/Mick Rhodes

On Wednesday I was in Altadena helping my best friend try to save her home. The life-or-death drama was mostly over by the time I got there, and at press time, her home was still standing.

The devastation in that lovely old foothill community is apocalyptic. Check the photos in this issue for proof. At least five people died there, and after walking the streets Wednesday night and seeing the destruction and hearing how fast it all happened, it’s a miracle more weren’t killed.

My heart is with the people suffering in Altadena, Pacific Palisades, and elsewhere across Southern California.

More on this in next week’s column.