Dynamite

The summer they began construction on the Resort at Squaw Creek the walls shuddered with each explosion. Grandpa said they used dynamite to fell the trees. A chopper choppered them out somewhere where I’m sure they were cut up and used to build the exact hotel they had died for. In this sense, they never left. But the creek silted up. There was no horseback riding that summer. Granny baked the fiesta casserole and it tasted the same as always.

At the Pool

We walked to the hotel, down Winding Creek, up Squaw Valley Road, then along Squaw Creek. We’d slung towels over our shoulders, my brother’s summer-browned. The building was something the bad guys would build in a science fiction film—all tinted glass and black steel—nestled amongst pines and peaks scarped from snow. The employees’ dark slacks and creamy jackets made them cop-like. The pool jutted and curved in angles, and a tiny waterfall strung into a grotto. All the other kids'”those actually staying at the hotel—cheated, peeking through wrinkled lids during Marco Polo. I found a squirmy redhead in my headlock. He kicked and wailed, and all the walk home the asphalt stung our feet.

Centennial is a Novel, But I Would Not, and Will Never, Read It

I pawed around the shelves and end tables at the cabin, scouring them for books. I eyed my way through all the Stephen King, with the cats and babies coming back from the dead, and cars that wouldn’t ever break down. I couldn’t get past the first page of anything written by this guy named Michener. I found a blue book, the title hardly legible, scrawled in gold script: The Tales of Tahoe. There was a Washoe Indian Chief who built fires on the concrete floors of cold offices, who ate way too many peanuts. He was a cartoon with a funny accent and handed-down white men’s clothing. He said that The Lake was once a great swamp filled with quicksand. There was a polar bear and an Indian brave. There was a love story. I carried the book home, tucked into my backpack all the ride in Granny’s Olds. I found a tale about raccoons, another about Big Chief. I found this version of The Lake, one that has been replaced with Taco Bell. I like the Fire Sauce.

He was Legend

Kanuwapi was a Washoe who scavenged other families’ trash. Nights, he ran his fingers through the chief’s daughter’s black strands. The chief dictated: Kanuwapi had to prove his worth. Kanuwapi wandered north and found a bear like a white-painted farmhouse. Kanuwapi’s arrows were mosquitoes on the bear’s fur, until the Evil One whispered for Kanuwapi to shoot into the bear’s nostrils. When the bear roared and chased, Kanuwapi led him south, to the mountains, to the swamp and quicksands, where the Washoe lived. The bear mired his legs with death. Storms covered him, and everything, with ice and snow. When the snow melted, where the swamp had been, there sat The Lake, and the Washoe named it “Tahoe.”

Peace Be With You

My first trip to the cabin, with Grandpa, the snow caked on the power lines above the highway, the radio squelched, and we putzed forward, the tire chains rattling like metallic bones. Grandpa dug up the logs he’d split the summer before and stacked between the pines. We kept the fire glowing, but the heat swept up the chimney. We swaddled ourselves in blankets and blew rings with our breath. Uncle Dave took the prime rib to Alpine Meadows, where their generator kept the kitchen running. Dave was an old Hippie. His hair ran down to his ass. His favorite word was man. He’d say, “Aw, man,” to everything, even in place of Peace Be With You after the Our Father. When the chef came in to work, and found Dave in his kitchen, he said, “Get out of my kitchen, Hippie.’ Uncle Dave said, “Aw man, I’ve got to check my prime rib.” The chef said, “Like hell you do.”