Mountain Resort Surcharge February 12 - 29, 2004 About official photographs, a rare pub dinner, and one rough vacation

Actually, it all started with my expiring driver license. Despite DMV normally sending a new card via mail, Sid's new license did not arrive (although he notified them about our change of address two years ago, unlike myself). In my case, I did not wait until I drove illegally, and went there, personally, right away. I would like to use this place to ask my reader public whether they know about a country where government clerks work quickly, help people, and where arranging for any small thing does not take eternity. I intend to emigrate to such country. Here, most government offices appear simply functional and clear (and many items, like taxes, unemployment benefits, or payment of bills can be completed over the internet), but DMV and post office remain two of my nightmares. Eventually, the whole driver license affair took four hours, fortunately using a sequential number, hence I could step out -- for a lunch, to nurse Tommy, to take a film to a photolab, etc. I also spotted a notary public who advertised passport photo services, which I would need for our American citizen.

On Friday Tommy did not cooperate much, being still asleep at five p.m., and I had to wake him eventually to get to the photographer before closing time. Alas, the notary closed at five thirty. We crossed the street to the photolab to pick up the film slides, and to my question, whether they know about someone who does passport pictures, a young lady behind the counter said, "Well, we do, just go stand over there." I tried to correct the misunderstanding, pointing to my baby, who was to be photographed, and the young lady lost some of her resolve and left us to get reinforcements. I understand that taking pictures of a four month old baby is not very common, but we have no other choice. If we want to fly to Czech Republic in spring, Tom needs to have traveling papers. Given the fact that he is an American citizen, and we are not, we can't have him added to our passports, so he needs one of his own. The reinforcements (in the form of an adolescent) stated that it could be a problem for they do not have equipment to photograph a laying baby, unless the said baby can hold his own head up and I would agree to make him sit before a screen. I assured them that MY baby can hold his head up, and we would try the sitting. I was somewhat afraid what my sleepy Tom would opine about such injustice, but Tom got very pleasantly excited by how the situation ensued. We don't normally let him sit, although he would like that very much -- at any opportunity he pulls up by his little hands (sometimes holding on to his blanket, which of course does not support him, and everything ends in horrible screaming). And now he could not only sit, but I was holding him up from behind at some extra fold of his jump suit, and all these people were swarming around, admiring him and talking to him, and the nice gentleman flashed lights at him -- simply better than visiting a circus show. Tom was nicely quiet and only rolled his eyes occasionally, so now we have a collection of big-eyed baby pictures

As you surely know, I planned to enjoy the visit of my mom, especially the part with me living again some "normal" life. One such excursion was my leaving my baby at home, while having a civilized restaurant dinner with my own husband. My friend Cindy organized a table at a bluegrass pub. I admit that I was quite envious of Cindy's parents living in the same town; I had automatically assumed that they would be baby-sitting, but to my surprise Cindy showed up with her husband and their one year old Joel. We had some excellent barbecue and music, although we seemed to enjoy it rather conservatively, compared to little Joel: he drummed the table to the rhythm of the music, yelled out, clapped his hands, and overall brimmed with crazy joy. A small crisis came when he spotted his daddy's steak, which he began demanding for himself by reaching into the plate and loudly shouting "nyam, nyam!". Eventually he was rewarded by a few pieces of steak meat, washed them down from his (milk) bottle, and thus socially exhausted, fell asleep. I must say that this encounter recharged me with great optimism regarding our potential social life with a baby. After returning home, I tuned in a bluegrass station for Tom and it seems to be the right music for babies -- he, too, enjoyed it very obviously.

Our next great action, planned to coincide with our grandmother's visit, was a family trip to the mountains. We used to go for one day trip -- four hours driving to Kirkwood, four hours downhill skiing, and driving back again. With Tom, we wanted to proceed at a more leisurely pace, with an option to retire our baby into the warmth of a hotel room. We considered this for a relatively long time and quite thoroughly: where to go - to Kirkwood, where we know accommodation to be right under the ski lifts, but our only choice there seemed to be renting a condominium; or to Tahoe, with a large selection of motels and hotels, but where we would have to drive a few miles to get to the slopes. Eventually we opted for Kirkwood, although prices made our hearts and bank account bleed heavily.

Sid's employer came with an idea of weekend shifts for (exempt) engineers, which they compensate by time off during weekdays. Thus we went to the mountains on a Tuesday. I was nervous about being at all able to pack everything needed for Tom; subsequently, I worried whether these "necessary things" would have a chance to fit into our Wagon. We eventually managed to squeeze everything in, forgetting only a bowl of grapes, which I bought for the trip. Tommy relatively behaved himself, though by the end of the route he made clear what his opinion was about such long gaps between feedings. So at Kirkwood I sent my mom and Sid to ski, and went to camp at the lodge with Tom. Our room was to be ready by four in the afternoon, so I had little choice. I found an empty table at the periphery of a lodge restaurant, getting ready to dress Tom up a bit (Californians don't really think much of winter, even in the mountains, and you won't find double pane windows there), and to feed him, when a waitress showed up asking for my order. I declared I would not have anything, to which she replied that I can't sit at the restaurant. I said that I would like to see if she was ready to kick the baby and me out in the snow, for our room at the lodge was not ready, which was not our fault, while continuing to pull a jump suit onto a wiggling Tommy. She departed without a word, sending back somebody in charge. The manager said that restaurant tables are for dining folks only, but he offered me a lounge chair in a niche, from where he first chased out some skiers. I was very glad for that; I would not have had a problem nursing at a restaurant, but a secluded spot was much better (and the chair was much more comfortable than a dining chair). He even brought a glass of water, for his wife, as he said, gets thirsty at breastfeeding, so we went on a bit more about babies. Almost two hours later, Sid made another scene in the same hall, as he did not find a baby changing table at the men's bathroom. Tom had shown all signs of heavy diaper contamination, which is a situation that (in he case of our cute sweet baby) cannot be solved in anybody's lap. I used to think that dads changing babies would be a much more common sight here in California, but judging by surprised (male) and admiring (female) reactions that Sid receives, a skilled father is an exception. Eventually the lodge staff (motivated by Sid's threats to unwrap our smelly Tom atop real estate model exhibits in the hall) localized one men's bathroom in the resort, equipped with a baby changing table. Tom (and real estate business at Kirkwood) was saved.

	Our mountain resort vacation

All this I know only as a story, for I was at the time swishing down from nearby slopes, to accumulate some skiing time. I admit being a rotten, lazy couch potato -- after three rounds I thought my legs would fall off right at my extended backside. At four, watching suddenly halted ski lifts, I realized that being tired from something else than lugging around a baby was a wonderful thing; moreover, ski resorts are especially beautiful when you finally "don't have to ski" anymore. With that thought, I sailed right back into the lodge.

Our accommodation arrangement turned out to be hugely disappointing -- for this money we had expected something better than this closet-size room where you can't properly turn around without hitting some other member of the expedition. We fell prey to a "Mountain Resort Surcharge". Fortunately, at least Bub's Sports Bar & Grill offers (very good) food somewhat relevant to their pricing (quite noticeable). We left Tom behind under his grandma's scrutiny (or rather left grandma at Tom's mercy) and enjoyed a quiet dinner. Weather was beautiful on our short way back to our cot -- starry skies, relatively warm, we were surrounded by rugged rocks of snow-covered Sierra Nevada -- simply great.

We woke up into a different world. Outside our window, we could not see the next building, and when I went to check whether lifts were going, I saw only whiteout. It was not really snowing that much, yet a mad wind threw all that powder snow into all directions. Forecast suddenly looked very bad (much worse than in all previous days -- they now were talking about a snowstorm, three days of blizzards, and closed freeways). So we quickly decided to return back to our home, into our mild seaside climate. Reversing our former unpacking of all our stuff, back in the Wagon we rolled out. I felt a little like thirty years ago when we were leaving with my parents the location of our Christmas holiday in an old Skoda car with broken heating -- Sid tried to drive, I wiped fogged windows and announced any obstacle I spotted. Visibility was about ten feet, hence objects like opposing vehicles, pedestrians, street signs and let's not forget, six feet high side barriers of ploughed snow, were all visible in the last split second. The whole surroundings blended together in an unbroken white - it was hard to tell where pavement ended and a snow bank started, it all looked the same.

We were hoping for highway 88 to get better, but to no avail. After crawling on eighty-eight less than a hundred yards westwards, I had to announce a gate closed over the road. It was not such a big surprise after all, as the road there goes up through an avalanche field and in this weather one could expect them to consider it dangerous to clear. We attempted going in the opposite direction, counting on an open eighty-nine, which would take us to highway 50 (a main route to Lake Tahoe, which one could expect to be kept passable), or we could eventually reach Reno, Nevada, with some main permanently maintained freeways. Unfortunately after three miles we got temporarily stuck in a snowbank and had to ponder whether to give up by returning to the only place with a guaranteed roof over our heads and some meals, or to tough it out and risk getting stuck again somewhere in the wilderness, possibly twenty, thirty miles from any civilization. Given our concerns about Tommy, we chose retreat back to Kirkwood. There, Sid got the 4WD Wagon stuck for the second time, and this time he had to ask a snow plough operator for help. It caught my attention how the experienced man worked it out - he drove off and came back pushing a large heap of fresh snow in front of the plough, and used this mass to gently push our Wagon like with a soft cushion. At this point I'd like to mention that for years we have been telling ourselves on every trip to the mountains that we ought to get snow chains, but then we always somehow forget about it. Our all wheel drive masters most situations easily, so we practically never needed chains. We did not have them this time either, although I am personally not sure whether they would have helped us any (they would certainly not improve visibility, neither would they lessen the dept of snow bank, nor would they grip when snow reached up to our Wagon's belly). Kirkwood, as a true advertised all-weather mountain resort, does not offer any place to buy snow chains. A gas station out on highway 88, which was supposed to be open 24/7, was locked up and deserted (the operator likely could not get from home to work). In the evening, during our dinner, we talked about it with a manager at Bub's, who said that if we wanted, we could have his old set of chains. Eventually we passed on his generous offer, for the following day the situation looked much better.

We spent most of the day in our 120 square feet room of claustrophobic proportions. Most forms of entertainment (going to lunch and dinner) passed quickly and thus we could thoroughly soak in "quality time with our family". The fact that things did not end up in mass murder is another proof of our amazing good will and patience. Although I must say that it's been an experience, sleeping in a room where both my husband and my mother snore like nationwide chainsaw tournament, and a baby joins the cheering crowds by smacking his lips and grunting.

	Tom got from his grandmother some Siberia-grade equipment

	Down in our Valley, a summer hat is more appropriate

We found ski lifts operating the following morning, for the wind had eased off, but got replaced by thick snowfall. Temperatures remained around freezing point, so this creepy sticky freezing slush covered everything. We decided that skiing would only further destroy our rattled nerves; we would rather try to leave any way we could. Especially since it was not obvious at all how long it would take us and whether we get stuck somewhere on the road. The highway in both directions was still officially closed, but new (paying) customers were allowed to arrive from the east into the trap resort. A person at the lodge desk advised Sid to try to hang behind a departing snow plough, and nobody would stop him. The avalanche field remained behind a closed gate; there was no other way out than the easterly one, with a promise that somewhere somehow we could drive around the Sierra and get back to the West Coast.

It started well, we even welcomed sunshine and yesterday's blizzard seemed just a nightmare. Then we reached another road closure. A friendly maintenance worker in a pickup truck assured me that they would try to open the road in some half hour. Then Tom decided to whimper from being hungry, I did not dare to nurse him, as that would mean taking him out of his car seat, thus either stop and block the road or possibly miss the window when the road opens just after all ploughs and sand dispensers roll through. So he got bottled formula, even drank the second part of it during our ride, and happiness ensued on all sides. I'd like to commend Tom here -- he slept for the remaining four hours. He was the only member of our expedition who kept high spirits despite this whole bloody affair.

It seems that our adventure did not leave any traces on him. He keeps pleasing his mom with many hours of nightly sleep (the fact that his mom does not go to sleep with him at nine, but maybe at eleven, and then is upset at four a.m. when it's time for nursing, is not his fault). He keeps eating a lot, and by four months he grew to 15 ¹/₄ lbs -- which is the weight of an average four month old baby born in term. Our pediatrician expressed delight over our beautiful, healthy baby, so the only one who gets to bear the brunt of our chubby son, is my back.

Copyright © 2004-2005 by Carol & Sid Paral. All rights reserved.