By Paul Freibott

pfreibott@yahoo.com

BEING THERE

I've never cared much for the classic winter sports – skiing and snowboarding are just too expensive, too injurious, and too colonized by gung-ho disciples. Plus, I'm a night owl, and skiers tend to hit the slopes early. Still, a lakeside home in the snow-carpeted High Sierra with a hot tub, sauna, fireplace, and roller rink-sized kitchen has its charm. So last month I agreed to rent one in Lake Tahoe with six slope-crazed friends, all determined to swoosh downhill for eight hours a day, all content to do it without me.

As an alternative, I would go snowshoeing. I would breathe fresh mountain air, get my blood pumping, and conquer peaks and valleys without risking limb and ligament. I would admire snow-tipped conifers up close, but not lodged between my eyes. I would even indulge my nocturnal leanings, with a "Full Moon Snowshoe Trek," organized by Kirkwood ski resort on its cross-country trails just south of the big lake.

My housemates deserted early the morning of the full-moon trek, filing in behind the mobs of slope whores at Heavenly, a colossal rock straddling the California-Nevada line. Meanwhile, I followed Highway 89 in South Lake Tahoe north to Camp Richardson, where I strapped on my ungainly footgear for a trial run lakeside. Bright, icy blue water lapped the shore under a clear sky and a distant sailboat. I traced the water's edge toward Emerald Bay, weaving through national parkland dotted with curiosities like Baldwin's Casino, now in ruins, the Pope Estate, built in 1894 for a wealthy banker, and a sign suggesting I sniff the bark of a Jeffrey pine (smells like vanilla).

Walking in snowshoes was easy so far, at least on the flat ground I'd chosen. At dusk, back in the car, I began inching toward Kirkwood, down 33 miles of snaking highway caked with a hard, slippery layer of packed snow. I was driving south now, but upstream, against the relentless flow of skiers and snowboarders heading home. Somewhere along the turnoff onto Highway 88, a shooting star sassed its way through a thicket of celestial companions. The car's outdoor thermometer dipped to -3 degrees, then rose to a cozy 7 degrees as I pulled up at the modest snowshoe office and gift shop, where guides Susan and Jennifer greeted me with a release form.

"Let's work off those nachos!" Jennifer said, fixing a miner's light to her head, then launching into a wildlife safety spiel. "OK, you see a mountain cat, you don't turn your back on it. You don't run away. That incites the fear instinct. We might see some wolves, but we're in a group, so any wildlife should leave us alone." And bears? A "Bear Alert" refrigerator magnet back at the rental sprang to mind. "Maybe bears, but I don't worry about them." Susan eyed my leather driving gloves and stuffed extra mittens into her pockets, smiling widely between plumlike cheeks. Two other trekkers were already waiting, a cute straight couple who had driven 80 miles from Reno. No competitive freaks, just lovebirds (with better gloves).

We headed up the freshly groomed High Trail, a five-kilometer loop at 7,800 feet. The red plastic of our duck feet crunched against the snow. Shadowy pines shape-shifted, and shimmering snowdrifts looked like vintage black-and-white cinema, or maybe Corpse Bride. Suddenly Jennifer kicked into the snowdrift, planted her poles, and heaved herself toward higher ground. "She's trailblazing!" Susan called from behind. I scrambled up the fluffy powder behind her a bit sloppily, until my giant feet found their grip. Once on the higher trail, we rounded a corner, and bluish light shot sideways into the clearing. Headgear clicked off. There hung a luminous white sphere, the object of our trek. "Should we howl at it?" I teased, and Susan did. We stood and stared until we shivered, then climbed higher for better views of the volcanic cliffs that faced us across the valley. Frosty night air flooded my nostrils; Orion, the Hunter, hovered brightly above; cars trickled dimly around a distant peak. Our two hours not yet filled, we cut over to Jobe's Jaunt, an adjacent trail looping around an alpine meadow, and caught the tail end of Caples Creek, plodding a few more dazzlingly bright kilometers.

Back at the office, I approached a wood stove to thaw my toes and found a third staff member snoozing on a nearby bench. It was only 8:30 p.m. but our early-bird guides, due back at work by 8 a.m., had already claimed gift-shop floor space for their sleeping bags. I emptied a Swiss Miss pouch into a steaming cup, wrapped my fingers around it, and turned my thoughts north toward a waiting hot tub.

SFBG

Paul Freibott writes about travel, culture, and city life in New York, San Francisco, and beyond. He thinks his skier/snowboarder friends exhibit signs of addiction. TRIP PLANNER Full Moon Snowshoe Treks Feb. 11 and Mar. 11, 6 p.m. Kirkwood Cross Country and Snowshoe Center $25, $31 with shoe rental (209) 258-7248 www.kirkwood.com Call regarding other tours Tahoe accommodations 1-800-250-8013 www.tahoeaccommodations.com