Two things unite all east coasters: the belief that “frozen granular” constitutes a skiable surface, and a passionate yearning for that yearly trip “out west.” Last year my brother spent enough time money at Atlantic City blackjack tables to earn four free nights at any Harrah’s casino. We chose Reno.

Reno is an interesting place to fly into because you inevitably have a stopover in Las Vegas. Everyone else on that plane is getting off in Vegas and they will inevitably ask, “What hotel are you staying at?” The answer, “Oh, I’m going on to Reno,” is met with confusion and polite smiles. I had never been to Reno and had no idea why they reacted that way. I mean, a better-traveled friend did tell me, “hold tight to your hopes and dreams,” but he’s a musician so I just figured it was some hyperbolic lyric he was working on. It wasn’t. Reno is scary as shit!

We landed around 10pm, caught the last shuttle to Harrah’s, and settled into our room. The accommodations were nice enough and we even got a balcony with a near limitless view of urban decay. We were welcomed by toothless women on Jazzy Scooters who took a break from playing slots long enough to ridicule us for carrying skis by squawking, “This ain’t Ta-Hoe!”

"charter"

What that large and artificially-mobile redneck did not know is that there is a free shuttle that picks up at all of Reno’s major casinos and takes you to Squaw Valley or Northstar, seven days a week. We didn’t have time to explain this to her because our bus would be leaving bright and early. Before turning in we decided to seek out a McDonald’s that Google maps had told us was nearby. We asked a Harrah’s employee and he assured us that there was no such McDonald’s, but he recommended an “amazing” burger joint in the alley next to the Nugget. We took to Reno’s streets, and were quickly terrified. They were eerily empty, but in a way that made us sure we’d be getting jumped at any second. The burger joint never did materialize, and we took a terrifying detour through the darkest, dingiest casino I’ve ever seen; however, the journey ended with a steak and eggs special in Harrah’s café that sent us to bed full and happy.                                                                                                                                                                               

The shuttle was advertised as a “charter bus with televisions playing ski movies to get you ready for the slopes.” What arrived was a decommissioned airport shuttle with the TV’s ripped out. Five minutes after boarding we were pulling into a junkyard lot and our driver got out without saying a word. There’s a different kind of hick in the west than we’re used to in the east, and several of them were circling our bus. A different, but very similar, bus pulled up alongside ours and the WC hicks started unloading our skis and gear into it. We all politely got out to help make sure our stuff wasn’t being stolen, and we were quickly back on our way in a new bus.

When we got to Squaw there was a couple feet of fresh powder that the locals seemed to be as stoked on as these three east coasters were, and we got to slaying it. By slaying I mean trying to remember how to ski powder. I spent some time in a tree-well and fell over more than one tiny evergreen trying to do my best Nimbus impression. But it was fun as hell and I’d challenge anyone to say they went at it harder than we did. The bus picked us up at 4pm and we listened to a weird lady from Texas drunk-talk the whole way home.

I wish I could give you hot tips on nightlife in Reno, but you’re going to have to rely on a local for that. We were so scared from our detour in the horror casino the night before that we decided Harrah’s would be our playground that night. We played nickel slots and drank free beers until our eyes were shutting and hit it off to bed. The next day we found some semi-tight trees on the Snow King peak that were still holding some powder and made three east coasters feel right at home. Icelantic was running a demo so we traded out our park sticks for some cool-ass powder boards and got to it. That day was why we look forward to going “out west” all damn year…it kicked ass.

For the final day of riding we moved it on over to Northstar-at-Tahoe. This is the best park scene I have ever experienced. It’s got good jumps, rails, boxes, and all that shit, but what really makes it cool is the people. I can’t guarantee everyone will have this experience, but everybody was cool as shit to us. Snowboarders, skiers, locals, and tourists alike were getting smile tans in unison. We played in the soft-sunny park all day, and laughed at the outerwear looks, that probably won’t make it east for another couple years, all the way home.

The return flight was uneventful. I got to sit next to a very large woman who told me several times that one can legally drink alcohol out on the street in Vegas. It sounded like a blast. But next year I’ll probably be hurrying past the gun/pawn shops on my way to a ghetto-ass McDonald’s or shitty Reno Pizza rather than strolling down the Strip with a cocktail slung around my neck.

Thor guards the Icelantic stash.

Treehugger