I decided it would be fun to make it a family affair, and so, way back in August when the average temperature in Nevada City was hovering around 85 degrees, I asked Martin if he thought it would be fun to fly the plane to Nevada for a race. He mumbled something about unpredictable weather but the answer I heard was "Sure! It should only take 2 and a half hours." (as opposed to a 10-hour drive). Cue the Gilligan's Island theme song.
Fast forward to last week. On Monday I got an e-mail from Martin with the subject line: "weather outlook not good so far". Ever optimistic, I pushed him to explore variations on the theme of flying directly from Nevada City to Las Vegas (the closest airport with car rental service). The weather predictions became increasingly dire as our departure date approached. I packed extra clothes and plenty of snacks, and left Pawlene a little extra food and water, just in case.
And then, Friday morning, at 7:35AM, Martin said: "We have to leave right now." Luckily, I had baked highly portable breakfast muffins and mostly packed the night before, so I only forgot a few critical items (poopy diaper bags/barf bags - oh dear). We were out of the house by 8:05 (those of you with toddlers can appreciate how miraculous this was) and at the airport shortly thereafter.
The plan was to head towards Truckee/Reno (the closest mountain pass) and cross over to the good weather on the East side of the Sierras as soon as possible. But the closer we got to Reno, the thicker the clouds became, until the clouds got just a little too close to those big mountains for our comfort. Martin made a U-turn and we headed south, where we were able to find clear passage to the East just a short while later. Crisis averted, or so I thought.
The rest of the trip to Overton was uneventful, and we even had time to explore the Valley of Fire on Friday, previewing the stunningly beautiful race course. Perhaps due to the fact that several million years ago the Valley of Fire was underwater, the entire park looks like the landscape of a dry, oversized goldfish bowl, with wild shapes and holes and colors. Peter had a grand time.
He poked his head through holes.
He went on a hike.
He climbed BIG rocks.
He learned that it is ok to draw on things other than paper (something we have been discouraging at home), but only if paper has not been invented yet.
He got really dirty and ate potato chips (HEY! That must have been while I was running the race.)
Ah yes, the race. Here is the deceptively un-hilly road that served as both the start and the finish. The rest of the route was extremely hilly, windy, and beautiful. Unfortunately the uphill portion of the race coincided with the head wind part of the race. Ouch! I did finish all 13.1 miles, and survived, but it wasn't pretty. Here is me, looking happy because: a) I am on the downhill, b) I am on the last tenth of a mile, c) I am getting a big smile from my favorite little guy.
By now, my dear readers, I am sure that you are thinking "What a whiner! This journey was hardly epic!" Just wait.
After the race I caught my breath, corrected my official time (2:15:56, don't laugh), and drank chocolate milk. Mmmmm, chocolate milk. We sped back to the hotel, checked out only a half hour late, and drove to Las Vegas, where the Apache was waiting for us. After checking and re-checking the (very bad) weather reports, Martin decided that our best bet would be to fly to Reno (only an hour and a half drive from Nevada City) and check in with Grass Valley weather along the way to see if it was clearing up. We took off just as it was starting to rain in Las Vegas.
The flight to Reno was quite smooth, and the scenery was magical. We got to see a beautiful rainbow and a full moon in the same flight. Unfortunately Martin could not reach the Grass Valley weather line (we later found out this was because the power was out due to a ferocious snowstorm) and so we decided to land in Reno, where it was just starting to snow.
An attempt to reach my dear Aunt Brooke, who lives in Reno, was unsuccessful because she was dining with her daughter in Minnesota (darned Thanksgiving holiday). But her husband Tony suggested (in jest?) the Peppermill for a good night's sleep. And so we found ourselves, just hours after leaving the stark, outrageous beauty of a rocky desert, in the middle of the kind of sensory overload that only a high-end casino can provide. I have no pictures of this portion of our trip because I was completely overwhelmed by the noises, lights, and WAY over-the-top decor of this place. But the price sure was right for a room for the night (half of what we paid in Overton) and I got to satisfy every single possible post-race craving at the basketball court-sized buffet. Chinese? Sure! Mexican? Right over there. Prime Rib? But of course. And don't forget the Wall of Desserts. They aren't kidding. Did I mention the fake rain forest that we were sitting in, complete with waterfall, thunderstorms, and MOVING larger than life-sized tree branches? Ok, maybe I need to get out more.
Sadly, the three of us were in bed and asleep by 9:00pm, which means we missed out on the dance club (open til 4am), the gambling, the 17 other restaurant options, and whatever other vices the Peppermill had to offer. We did have breakfast in the Italianate "Biscotti's" restaurant in the morning though. Fake charming leaded glass windows! Real blown-glass light fixtures! But I digress.
A call to Grass Valley Airport revealed that either 8 or 18 inches of snow had fallen on the runway overnight, either way making it impossible for us to land a plane there. Another call let us know that our neighbors (and everyone else on our street) had lost power the night before. Oh dear. Poor Pawlene. A third call: highway 20, aka the fastest way home, was closed, and chains were required on the rest of the (longer) route.
So we tucked the Apache into bed at the Reno airport, bought some chains for our rental car, and started the journey home by car, 24 hours after we left the hotel in Overton. It was slow going, but we made it back to Grass Valley in just under 3 and a half hours. Next challenge: digging the Subaru out from where we parked it at the airport.
Since I was the one wearing Goretex hiking shoes and not beautiful, brand-new, as-yet-un-water-proofed, black leather cowboy boots, I volunteered to trek through the virgin snow out to where the Subaru was parked and try to get her up the ramp and out to the gate. Have I mentioned how much I love my Subaru? She started right up and I let her warm up as I cleared the mounds of snow from off of the front and back windshields. I had to clear the hood too, because the snow was piled so high that I couldn't see over it.
Cursing my lack of foresight in purchasing "performance" tires instead of snow tires, I crossed my fingers and gunned it. We made it all the way to mid-way up the second hill before we got stuck. And stuck we were. Martin put Peter on his shoulders and hiked out to help me, boots be darned. After strategizing with his big engineer brain, he figured out a way to get the car out of the ditch (gee, I didn't know there was a ditch there under all that snow!) that I had slid into. A few lurches, a few turns, and a few more massive revs of the engine, and I was out. The rest of the drive home was uneventful, and we even made it up the driveway without incident.
However, with less than 30 minutes to go before dark, we had to figure out how to light and heat our snow-covered, powerless house. The good news was that everything in the refrigerator and freezer was still good because the temperature in the house never rose above 40 degrees. Poor Pawlene! (She was fine, curled up in the comforter when I found her).
We hauled some (thankfully dry) fire wood onto the porch and I searched for candles and flashlights while Martin went to the store to get supplies (I had "storm supplies" on my shopping list for next weekend, heh). We decided to go out for Mexican food because a warm, dry restaurant was better than the alternative (eating nothing, without a working stove, or barbequeing in the snow, and then not washing the dishes for who knows how many days). When we came home, Martin tested out the old wood stove in the living room. After a few smoky tries, he got it cranking with the flue OPEN and we warmed the place right up. Well, we warmed that one room up anyway. At bedtime I piled on the quilts (two down comforters and a thick hand-sewn quilt, pulled on some long underwear, and the four of us (Pawlene was SO happy that we were home) snuggled into bed. The power came back on around 10pm (Yay!). Lots of people are still without. It started raining this morning, and I imagine all that snow will be washed away with this new storm, unless the temperature drops again. For those of you who have visited and enjoyed the view out of our kitchen window, here is what it looked like this morning. Our resident squirrel was certainly happy that I replenished the bird feeder last night.
Now I am off to collect our Thanksgiving turkey, who met his demise just a few hours ago, a short distance up the road from us. Hopefully the power will stay on through Thanksgiving dinner, or I'll have to dig a hole in a snowbank to keep the big guy fresh until cooking time. Nothing like country living!
Editor's Note #1: I know you Minnesotans are laughing at what I am calling a snowstorm, but remember, I'm a wimpy Californian!
Editor's Note #2: If any of you New Yorkers are laughing, think again. YOU live in a city where the roads are instantly cleared and the power NEVER goes out. Well there was that one time, but still.
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