The appeal of paddling Lake Tahoe’s south-to-north distance was too powerful to resist, at least for me. I paddled the 12-mile Jay Moriarty Race this year and last. I was looking to step it up. I was told the Tahoe race would be a good one to gauge how I feel about that distance, and anyway, it would be the safest 22 miles I could hope to paddle. Of course, I knew better as to that second point. I’ve been on that lake when the winds are up; it’s nowhere you want to be if all you have is a paddleboard.DeeAnn shopped for a place to stay and came up with a stunning lakefront condo. Nice. It was on the North Shore and would mean an early morning drive to Camp Richardson, about forty minutes. But so what? It’s really close to King’s Beach, the race’s finish.
About the time DeeAnn was scouting a place to stay, I got an email from a cousin who lives in Chicago letting me know she was coming out to the west coast and wanted to stop in. That lit me up. It’d been three or four years. I suggested she join us for the race weekend. Turns out she hadn’t been to Tahoe and wanted to go. That alone was guaranteed to kick up the fun factor.
So DeeAnn booked the condo, the Eaton fourteen-foot went on the car, I loaded up everything I might possibly want for the crossing (I like options), and off we went on Friday for three nights at one the planet’s most astonishing places.
The condo featured a sweeping view of the lake to our southeast and an on-property restaurant. Also a boat launch and a sandy beach. We barely unloaded our things and deposited them inside before I unlashed the board and launched an easy evening paddle.
But first, I looked southward across the lake from the beach. The thing that’s deceptive about Tahoe is distance. The shoreline and the lake are so vast, it’s hard to eyeball. I had no feeling for what that distance was to the South Shore. But I was going to paddle that entire distance in less than two days.
Glassy and warm water meant no neoprene. The rhythm of stroke and glide, stroke and glide became a quiet joy. The daylight faded to magic hour’s perfect light, the sun set over a mountain with no particular need of the drama of deep reds to impress, and the paddle ended in that enchantment. I had to pass the restaurant’s deck. I heard a familial voice call out and couldn’t wait to join Cookie and DeeAnn. As anticipated, our reunion was a kind of homecoming.
After our Saturday breakfast, we headed out for a hike and saw a more or less constant stream of runners heading in the direction of Tahoe City. They were sporting racing bibs. A car was parked, trunk open, a sort of mobile water station, its owners offering water and bananas to the passing runners. We learned from these angels of mercy that three marathons plus a half marathon were all being held at different times over the weekend, one of the marathons end-capping a triathlon. And, for the truly insane, a nocturnal ultra run around the lake’s 72-mile perimeter was on offer. Bikes were more or less constantly whizzing about the whole time we were there. We had stumbled into the unexpected inspiration of a whole weekend celebrating the spectrum of fitness up to extreme challenge.
What a place to be, and what a time to be there!
The photo was taken by DeeAnn Thompson.
© 2009 Michael J. Jones. All rights reserved in all media.
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