Entering The Cornice, a pizzeria that is the only restaurant still open in Kirkwood Mountain Resort’s village at 8 p.m. on a Friday night in mid-March, is like slipping through a portal to an earlier era, one before hot honey and figs were toppings. The pitchers of beer, serviceable pies, parents ignoring kids, kids ignoring parents, and Foosball all jibe with what I’ve always heard about the resort: It’s got a throwback, no-frills ethos, like Utah’s Alta or New Mexico’s Taos. At a time when resorts are adding ski butlers, pop-up Veuve Clicquot bars, and $35 poke bowls, the atmosphere is refreshingly unpretentious.
The base-area parking lot I walk through the next morning reminds me of the resort parking lots of my youth. Which is to say, it feels a lot like tailgating. People have set up folding chairs and are sipping coffee and Monster Energy drinks as they gear up. Mediocre classic rock, like bad movies on planes, is better at altitude, and as we queue up at the Solitude lift, everyone—whether 7 years old or 70—is feeling the playlist, which is heavy on the Steve Miller Band and Bad Company. The vibes are great all day long: Alex and I ski the trails off the village lifts before heading to the west-facing backside, where the afternoon sun has softened the snow. We lap the aptly named Happiness Is run before being seduced by the scent of burgers wafting from the Sunset Grill.
Of all the Tahoe resorts, Kirkwood is the most isolated. There’s only one way in and out: State Route 88, formerly the main Gold Rush route and Mormon Emigrant Trail. If it dumps, this two-lane road closes. You do have to work a little harder to get to Kirkwood, and once you’re there, skiing is all there is to do. This dynamic has helped keep the resort a bit of a secret. By 4 p.m. the mountain and the village are quiet. We make the five-minute drive to the restaurant at Caples Lake Resort, which opened in 1939 at the site of a former trading post. It’s cozy, with a big stone fireplace and views over the frozen lake. The food is so tasty and the atmosphere so inviting that we come back the next evening on our way out of town.
There’s something joyful and optimistic about crossing into a different state: “The People of Indiana Welcome You!” “Welcome to Maine, the Way Life Should Be.” Crossing state lines on skis is an even bigger rush. Heavenly Mountain Resort, which overlooks the southeastern corner of Lake Tahoe, is the only American ski resort that straddles two states. I spend a good chunk of my morning, embarrassingly, taking videos of myself skiing past the “Welcome to California” sign, with its bright yellow poppies, and the Nevada one, with its pensive forty-niner. Heavenly is massive, with base areas in each state and 4,800 skiable acres. On Ridgerun, a wide intermediate trail with unobstructed views of the lake, I have the distinct feeling that if I keep going, I’ll eventually swan-dive into the water. Palisades has stunning views, but Heavenly’s are next-level.
The resort gondola drops us in the lakefront town of South Lake Tahoe, California. A mere block away, on the other side of Stateline Avenue, is the town of Stateline, Nevada, with its string of high-rise casinos. It’s wild to see the stark difference between what are essentially two sides of the same town, and even more so to see a Harrah’s and a Bally’s against such a pristine natural backdrop. For many, skiing all day and gambling all night is a winning combo, but I’m happy to head to the Desolation Hotel, on the California side, a design-forward, sustainably built boutique property that seems novel for Tahoe, where nondescript rental condos rule the day.
