Sacramento to Tahoe and Back
Years of drought had been brutal, scalding the landscape,
drying rivers to a trickle, remarkable items discovered as
lakebeds receded, reservoirs depleted. Thus unexpected
was the constant deluge, week after week of rain, snow
at record levels through the Sierras, some rural residents
trapped in homes. When the storms thankfully subsided
I determined it an ideal opportunity to flee the bowels
of my still-soaked city and head up to the high country
Every year it’s like a pilgrimage. I must sink my feet
into the crunchy snow at Truckee on my way to Reno
at peak elevation, piercing the sky, on top of the world,
imbibing luxurious cold mountain air. The valley life
is orderly, though typically monotonous. So I’d scram,
go visit the tallest snowpack seen in decades, seldom
equaled in history. I got an early start and after a short
stay in Truckee motored across the Nevada state line.
I zipped into Reno past deteriorated casinos, followed
Virginia Street, snapped pictures inside the Peppermill,
most progressive gambling hall in town. It’s high tech
to the max, the entire interior a flowing panoramic sea
of illuminated color, with slot machines flashing madly
and huge video screens mounted along most walls that
continuously stream majestic images of nature. Exiting
Reno, I traveled highway 395 south toward Lake Tahoe.
Alpine vibes while I careened along the Sierra’s edge
sustained by buoyancy of air, a blue crystal sky, crisp
gusts of wind that swept across green spring meadows
to swoop up mountain ridges buried in deep snowdrifts.
At Carson City I stopped to take a shot of Cactus Jack,
the iconic sign, now weather-beaten over many decades,
and faded, but he the old silver prospector still grinning,
having hit a major jackpot and happy with his winnings.
From Carson it’s a straight shot west, 40 mile corridor
to Tahoe, quite an incline, steady rise, 3000 foot gain
in elevation. I was wary of avalanches, but only a little
tumble of snow onto the road along the way, and water
from the virgin melt dribbling in rivulets down slopes.
A first sight of the lake almost knocked my socks off.
Nothing invigorates me more than casting my eyes on
the Lake Tahoe region blanketed so in its winter white.
I proceeded along the shimmering lake’s frontage,
noted the custom home roofs that strained beneath
three feet of snow. Fortunately driveways cleared,
allowing for normal access and egress. Mesmerized
by the stunning view at Zephyr Cove, I pulled aside
and framed a shot of a large boat lazily making its
way to a destination unbeknown to me. Quick click
and I captured it on my camera, saved for posterity.
Soon I’d reach Stateline, infamous zone known for
make-or-break luck running high or low as people
from the world over seek liberation all year round,
to roll dice, take a crack at blackjack, hypnotized
by the slot machines once manual one-arm-bandits
gone electronic that directly drain bank accounts.
I didn’t intend to stop inasmuch as gambling isn’t
an activity I’d waste my time nor money pursuing.
Moonroof open to the full sun, and with pristine sky
above instilling wonderment, I rolled toward casino
row, thinking about how I’d tool along the opposite
shore, a stretch of unparalleled natural beauty, pines
that reach half way to the stratosphere, and mansions
on the lakefront worth mega millions, onto the tip of
North Shore, then to descend through Downieville
and the magically snow-kissed Gold Country range.
Cruising along at about 30 miles an hour, of a sudden
my right front wheel hit a huge pothole. The loud slam
that ensued shocked and alarmed me as an emergency.
I pulled over posthaste. Luckily the Hard Rock Hotel
and Casino entry was right there. I got out, examined
the front tire, and as I suspected it had gone flat, blown
a sidewall I reckoned. Terribly shaken, I sat to collect
my thoughts on how to best handle this ruinous mess.
I’d left my cell at home so had to use the lobby phone.
I called road service, my hand shaking, voiced cracked,
still stunned by the suddenness of the event. It was like
hitting a brick wall at a hundred miles an hour, my plans
out the window, this memorable day become nightmare,
stranded, not knowing how I’d manage to make it home.
I’d use my wits as best I could, but doubt and fear crept
stealthily into the dark sanctums of my riddled cranium.
I could do nothing else but wait for a tow truck driver
to come, change the flat to my donut spare. I could then
be on my way to obtaining a new tire and perhaps make
something of the rest of the day. However to my dismay
no driver showed for an hour and a half, though I’d been
promised that assistance would arrive in just 45 minutes.
Frustrated, flummoxed, perturbed, I trudged on back to
the hotel lobby and placed another urgent call to Geico.
Passably patient, I navigated through the nauseating
series of prerecorded questions for the second time,
reached a customer service representative from out
of state who knew squat about the area, had trouble
locating an available driver, then said she had one so
put me on hold to verify the lead time. After listening
to ads for Geico and elevator music some 20 minutes,
fed up I hung up, and stomped out to wait some more.
By this time I’d grown quite grumpy. Watching cars
go by is no pastime. And I hadn’t interest in reading
from the poetry anthology I brought along. Perhaps
this experience was the poem itself. That remained
to be seen. I fidgeted and loitered for an hour, paced,
alternately sitting on a bench beside the street where
the traffic was virtually nonstop, a consistent stream
of people getting a load of the eye-popping scenery.
Once again I phoned Geico. This time upon extensive
tracking customer service confirmed a driver was on
his way, due to arrive any minute, and would in 15 at
the very most. Slightly relieved but unconvinced, my
hope glimmered, then died most decidedly when after
30 minutes nobody appeared. A fourth call confirmed
someone had been dispatched, must surely be nearby.
I weary, and disgruntled way beyond words, lingered.
Oh miracle of miracles! A tow truck pulled into the lot!
I waved frantically at the driver. He parked and got out.
I rushed over and urged him to confirm that he’d been
sent to rescue me. But to my utter chagrin, he hadn’t.
I confided details of my dilemma to him. He explained
that drivers scam the cheap companies like Geico by
claiming they made a pass and nobody was there, then
billing the company for bogus services. I stood amazed.
He was a compassionate man, years of local experience,
knew the ropes, sympathized, offered to change the tire
and no charge. As he was positioning the jack a fellow
from an unmarked black pickup emerged, sent out from
Geico just now he claimed, taking over the job so as to
get paid. Discovering the rim was dented, tire ok, I was
tasked with finding a fix before sundown, so stopped at
an Auto Zone to ask where the tire dealers are located.
The guy behind the counter a Tahoe old timer, as told
by his jolly demeanor, casual hospitality, helpful soul
used to assisting the locals and travelers needing parts.
He informed me of two dealers, Ken’s up the road on
the left, and 3 blocks beyond on the right Les Schwab.
He recommended I try Ken’s first, advice I adhered to.
Pulling in at Ken’s I could see it was a hole-in-the-wall
smallish 50’s structure with but one long dimly-lit bay.
Ken greeted me cheerfully, seemed to be in great spirits.
He was a new age hippie, the type you often find living
way in the woods outside the reach of humanity, known
to harbor automatic weapons, drug addicted, potentially
dangerous when aroused. Despite his scraggly gray hair,
filthy beard, tattered shirt, scrawny build, hyper speech,
Ken seemed honest enough to be heard out. And oh boy
did he ever have a solution. All I needed was to follow.
He’d pound out the pesky dent in the rim, straighten it,
which would likely make a crack, but that no problem
since he knew a super welder who could button it up.
Then remount the tire and case dismissed, easy as pie.
I went along with him as it seemed reasonable, viable,
doable, if not necessarily advisable. Should this fizzle
it would be more time wasted to no avail and leave me
ere long with darkness cascading down around my ears.
The shop Ken directed me to located about a mile away.
I passed blocks of idyllic cabins and chalets, chiefly with
piles of snow beside driveways, packed thick across their
abundantly timbered properties. The woman in the office
most professional, took down name, address and email,
wrote a ticket. Then in strolled the shop boss, and when
she asked him how long the job would take he responded
two days at best, which wouldn’t fly, out of the question.
The woman kindly recommended an alternate nearby shop.
I was skeptical by then but had nothing to lose at that point.
The foreman there refused the work, explained that welding
aluminum the metal becomes brittle and and might shatter.
I drove back to Ken’s to retrieve the tire. He was incensed,
swearing he didn’t intend to mislead, completely confused
as to how or why both of them to whom he sent a stream of
needy customers would demonstrate such awful ingratitude.
I held hope that Les Schwab would be my ace in the hole.
The hour was getting late, sun beginning to sink, and I on
the brink of depression. Les Schwab positively swamped,
every bay taken, office cramped with customers. A sign
taped to the entry door specifically stated closed at 4:30.
Yet although it was 4:45 I marched inside, determined to
give success a Spartan effort. The woman attendant bitter,
complained she had to get going to pick up her daughter.
Amid the hubbub a mechanic doubling as advisor took
my case. After a good deal of research he succeeded in
specifying a wheel that would do, and at a good price.
But before I could see it he informed me they couldn’t
get to me until the next day. I urged him to reconsider,
my plight very desperate, told him I would need to rent
an expensive motel room if I were to stay over, and that
was untenable. Please cram in just one more customer!
The woman interceded, fed up, stern, impatient, already
running late, in no mood to deal with some obnoxious
tourist in distress, in those parts nearly a dime a dozen.
They would admit no new customers today she insisted.
So I resorted to my last ploy, asking to see the manager,
who was busy tying up business in the shop. He not curt
as he might have been, put his foot down, flatly refused.
I’d no option left but to drive home on that gimpy donut.
Had I elected earlier to risk the perilous trip along a steep
winding highway back to Sacramento I’d be nearly home.
But hindsight gets you no place. I headed westward, right
smack into a gradually declining sun, would surely need
to constantly maneuver my visor since I was to confront
wicked bends where the sun blazed full force in my eyes.
The road from Tahoe ten miles to Myers inundated with
potholes even larger than the one that caused my demise.
The thought of a repeat increased my dread manyfold.
I avoided the holes with precision of a champion archer,
often steering into the oncoming lane to avoid calamity.
Playing dodgeball with the peek-a-boo sun I managed
to navigate without mishap the 40 miles from Tahoe to
Pollock Pines beneath the snow line where the highway
widens, and one coasts, gliding, to descend ever lower
into the verdant valley. Upon approaching it I rejoiced.
The donut tire performed much better than I expected
with no slip or wobble, even up to 80 miles an hour felt
safe enough. Good to get home only slightly after dark,
worn beyond a frazzle and somewhat tempted to grieve,
yet marshaled the energy to prepare an adequate dinner,
open mail, and begin developing a plan how to solve my
problem. I’d need a replacement rim; welding wouldn’t
cut it. Perhaps I’d get lucky at some city wrecking yard.
Early next morning I went to work, surfed the internet
for wreckers, selected several, and began calling. I got
no after no after no. But two said they had it. Next day
I checked the first. They didn’t have it in stock, copped
the plea that it must have just sold, an overtly flimsy lie.
I went back home and Google mapped the second yard.
It directed me to a location on 1st Ave, so I drove there
but identified no such address. At home again I phoned.
The man answering was the owner, a Chinese immigrant.
He spoke rapidly with a heavy accent which made it near
impossible to make out a word he said, so he recruited his
wife, who was able to give me the right directions. Eager
to obtain a replacement rim, I rushed over there, the man
waiting out front so as to assure me. He searched the yard,
back and forth several times, overstock from a tall ladder,
yet woefully came up short. I left him in a cloud of dust.
There remained one surefire way to finally reach closure,
as before, buy a new rim. I knew it would be a mismatch
with the others, but that was my hard luck. I did a search,
readily identified numerous wheel vendors, any of which
would potentially suffice. Then I put the issue on ice until
the next day when I could get a fresh start. That morning
I contemplated options, ultimately decided to head out for
America’s Tire as probably my best shot, fingers crossed.
There over the years I’ve been treated like a valued client
rather than some dollar sign. They picked out a sharp rim
that constitutes a considerable upgrade, gave me a deal on
two spiffy new front tires, and got me on the road without
delay. You can’t do better than that. This lesson I learned:
always hang in there; you can overcome almost anything
if you keep your head and never give up, refuse to give in.
And failure best befits those who find joy in causing pain.
Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in such publications as The Journal, Poetry Salzburg, Modern Literature, The Museum of Americana, South African Literary Journal, and Home Planet News. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, and Aurora California.