In Truckee, Nevada, the River Street Inn was originally a gambling hall and brothel. The antiquated Inn is now run by Wendy and Mark, a cute couple in their thirties who moved near Lake Tahoe to ski.

I’m not much of a skier, but the skiing here is reputed to be the best in the country. Growing up in Virginia, I didn’t attempt skiing until I moved to Vermont when I was Wendy’s age. After several face plants, a sprained thumb, and moments of sheer out-of-control terror, I still fail to see what all the fuss is about.

Truckee, though, draws even non-skiers with its natural beauty. Sunrises and sunsets are breathtaking as the sky turns colors over the Sierra Nevadas. The town is close to Squaw Valley Resort where Olympians train. In fact, a Nordic or alpine skier can choose from no fewer than twenty resorts to explore, all surrounded by expensive vacation homes and condos. The snow is usually outstanding, and Lake Tahoe prides itself on an average of three hundred sunny days a year.

The season was just over when we arrived in mid-March, much to Harry’s disappointment. He’s an avid skier and would have enjoyed a few runs, but I was happy for a walk around the quaint downtown.

From the inn it was a short stroll across the railroad tracks to trendy bistros and boutiques. We arrived late and shops were closed for the night, so we looked for a place to eat. At an intersection I was almost run over by a woman driving a Porsche SUV. Obviously Truckee has left its logging village days behind and is now a playground of the elite.

We went into a trendy taco place and perched on high stools at the bar so Harry could watch the Washington Capitals battle the Pittsburgh Penguins on the restaurant’s big screen. The place is chic with custom lights, hardwood flooring, and modern booths and tables. I read that Paul McCartney sometimes visits Truckee and does an impromptu jam at one of the clubs. I looked around, but all I saw were healthy-wealthy hangers-on for the last gasps of snow-mountain culture.

The bartender took our order—fish tacos for me and tortillas wrapped around some sort of meat for Harry. After the hockey game, Harry was happy to watch highlights of a 1970s competition between the Montreal Canadiens and the Boston Bruins.

“I was there,” he beamed. Growing up outside Boston, Harry went with his dad to see every Bruins home game. He played high school and college hockey, and now in his sixties still laces up the skates a couple times a week.

The bartender overheard. “I have an autographed picture of the famous Bobby Orr leap,” he said. The Bruins defenseman went airborne after he scored the winning goal in overtime against the St. Louis Blues, earning the Stanley Cup for the Boston team. The leap was emblazoned on the cover of a 1970 Sports Illustrated, copy of which Harry has framed in his man cave.

The bartender was a kindred spirit.

After we had our fill of tacos and hockey talk, we strolled through town before heading back to the inn. The night was punctuated by trains that rattled by, and the lumpy mattress undulated each time Harry rolled over. There must have been someone in the room above us because I heard footsteps and loud squeaking in the rafters. Or maybe it was ghosts of brothel dwellers. I did not sleep well and got up before dawn, dressed and went for a walk.

Truckee has lots of dilapidated houses, probably loggers’ dwellings of the past, now rented to the young ski crowd. The shacks line a narrow road that follows the railroad tracks. It isn’t luxury accommo by any stretch of the imagination, but after a day on the slopes and a night in the clubs, all a skier needs is a place to crash until the lifts open the next day.

When I returned to the inn, we helped ourselves to the complimentary coffee and granola and then loaded up the Bug. We took Route 267 over a mountain toward Kings Beach at Late Tahoe’s Agate Bay. The winding road was brilliant with sunshine, shoulders guarded by giant pines. When the lake finally came into view, blue water crystals sparkled on its surface.

At twenty-two miles long and twelve miles across, Lake Tahoe is the largest alpine lake in the U.S. Chalets and luxury cabins line more than seventy miles of lakefront, some with “for rent” signs, as well as a few small inns. I imagine real estate prices make it unprofitable for clubs and restaurants, and most of the nightlife is found in Truckee.Harry pulled into a small park and we got out to look at the water. There was a cold wind, and we shivered even in the sun’s brilliance.

“Think it freezes over?” Harry asked. I figured he was thinking about pond hockey. In this early spring there wasn’t a sign of ice. At home, Lake Champlain was still frozen solid enough for ice fishermen to drive their pick-ups out to their fishing holes.

“Doubt it,” I said. “Either it was a mild winter or we’re too far south.”

We had passed an open park with a sign announcing winter ice-skating, but the ice had melted and grass was growing in the fields around the pavement.

“They need a rink here,” Harry said. “If they had a rink—”

I knew what he was thinking. Skiing, skating, hockey.

“If you’re up for managing a rink, we could start a fundraising project,” I offered, only joking. Harry wasn’t joking.

“I could live here,” he said. He didn’t ask if I could live there, too. Of course I’d live anywhere with him, but Truckee and Tahoe are too touristy for my taste—at least until I learn to love skiing. That’s going to take a while.