An Examination of Life’s Characters in Tahoe

The Setting:

The liftie life in Tahoe: It’s 7:45 a.m. and the tenured lifties (people who work as lift operators at a ski resort) just lit their second bowl of the day. This time, it’s on the gondola ride up to the top of the mountain. Olympic Valley unfurls beneath the gondola, snow capped peaks and exposed boulders edging past, pristine, untouched slopes glinting in the morning light. The lifties climb on the seats, yanking open the plastic windows to let their smoke out, and pry the doors of the gondola open to dump the burnt flower into the wind.

A lot of lifties don’t immediately engage with you. You kind of have to poke and prod and then they get comfortable seeing you and talking to you. They all have their bubble communities— the J1s (Latinos on J1 visas), the return lifties, and the resident ones who have been through it on the mountain (and smoke in the gondola). 

Since I was temporary, I didn’t quite fit and had friends here and there. I befriended many Latinos, but they never fully incorporated me because working in Tahoe is almost like a summer camp for them; they have their group they’ve made and come back to every season during their summer, and then they leave before the season’s over. The career lifties have their smoking spots and bar routines. They’re gruffer and fully immersed into mountain life. I once gave a group of them hanging out in the parking lot a big slice of apple pie. They passed it around like a joint until it was gone, smiling and thankful.

The Characters:

Michael:

Your friendly golf, gun, and God-loving, home-grown American boy. He once showed me pictures of his AK-whatever, laid out on his bed like a hooker. Auburn hair, shit-eating grin, and a need to ski with the boys. Michael would drive in from Reno in his two-wheel drive “shitter,” as he called it, and only ate chicken, broccoli, and rice unless provided with the occasional baked good.

He once took one look at my curry and gagged, eyes watering with the mere idea of spice. Michael and I were polar opposites, but easy friends.

He ran cold, always complained about it, and could never make plans, but still begrudgingly admitted he missed me after I left. Michael also approved of how accurate this description is.

Aidan:

A Texan turned ‘Ol Miss frat boy turned liftie with cigarette burn marks on his arm and aspirations to be a psychologist. Extremely white smile — though he’d frown a lot — and willowy frame adorned by a vintage purple Patagonia fleece and a backpack always clipped and cinched around his waist and chest. He was the type of outdoorsy, skiing, rock climber who looked like that was exactly how he spent his time.

We worked the same lift together a couple of times and we’d comment on the light smell of fish always left behind by the other liftie who’d store cartons of yogurt in the lift shacks and supposedly ate fish.

Aidan kept to himself until I got him to share his Boy Scout pledge in exchange for a cinnamon roll. He once told me, out of the blue, how he loved coke and his blinding smile appeared.

Fran:

Chilean, adventurous, and sometimes hard to understand in both Spanish and English. Her Spanish had a lovely cadence to it, but picking up words was always hard. Chileans, what can I say. Fran was guaranteed to be late to work after having spent the night drinking, but she would show up with perfect eyeliner every day, without fail.

Fran knew everyone and everyone loved her— rightfully so because she exuded cool and confidence. She just wanted to have a good time and if you joined her for it, she was happy to include you— but you would likely lose track of her before the night was over.

Her daily watering hole was the Slot, a tiny 15×15 dive bar in the Olympic Village. Our only plans ever revolved around the Slot and she would stay long after I had left. Fran would go into work hungover, then rinse and repeat.

After her time in Tahoe, she headed to Chamonix to keep skiing and traveling. A female Casanova and a reveler in a fun and relaxed life. 

Gonzalo:

Gonza for short because all Argentines have nicknames.

His mannerisms are best when demonstrated, but they include the classic “NOOooo….” followed by a dramatic tongue click before whatever he had to say. A hugger— big on saludos, like the good, respectful Argentine he is. He was a friend to all and once hot boxed the lift shack with farts right before I entered. His face was so guilty when I walked in, that I jokingly asked if he had hot boxed it with pedos and we couldn’t stop laughing while trying to air out the small space.

Gonza was the sweetest boy and one of the best friends I made on the mountain. He was always down to ski with me and listen to my boy problems while gushing about his family and new niece.

Chiara:

Chiara was warmth— she had this long, thick, curly dirty blonde hair that tumbled over her shoulders in a beautifully unruly way; her face was always smiling like she was exactly where she was meant to be; and she’d pull you in for gentle, full hugs you can never get out of an American. She greeted everyone like they were her best friend, and it made me want to be her friend. She was the kind of person people gravitate towards and trust because she was so kind and open, and would talk to anyone.

Chiara had been coming to Tahoe from Argentina for a few seasons and met her boyfriend on the mountain. They did long distance between Chile and Argentina, and came together in Tahoe for the ski season.

She explained Argentine politics to me over drinks and tater tots, her boyfriend and brother sitting across from us in a red booth, unable to hear over the roar of people in the bar. I brought her homemade alfajores a few times and she’d get giddy and tell all the other Argentines.

Slay:

Definitely not his first name, but perhaps his mountain name.

I met Slay before I knew he was a coworker. He kept passing by the lift I was working with a rambunctious group of boarders and skiers, reading my name tag and saying “I love you Megan!” After the third or fourth time, I decided to test out a bit, asking for his name and going “Slay, that’s biblical right?” The confusion was priceless.

Slay was a Southern boy with long luscious hair often held back with a bandana or gaiter. His cross necklace, sunglasses, and flannel completed the look. He had the sweetest, smoothest voice and once even showed me his Bible. It didn’t feel quite on brand because he hung out with the stoners, but it did make my biblical bit funnier in my head.

I loved seeing Slay just so I could say, “heyyy Slayyy.” He once asked for a hug, looking like he wanted to be included in the Argentine saludos, and I complied.

John:

When I think of John, I think of bright blue eyes obscured by the permanent fixture of a baseball cap on his head (or helmet), meaty hands, and all the empty beer cans and food and clothes and bottle of Jack in the back of his Cadillac. He once took a nap on the floor of a wet lift shack, nestled into a pile of backpacks, and looked at me like I was crazy when I asked what everyone’s favorite elements were.

He was a regular at the Slot, followed by an hours long night cap at Pete n’ Peter’s, and a man of very few words— and fewer facial expressions, framed by a blonde mustache. You’d never guess he was only 21-years-old. For awhile, I was never clued into whether he recognized who I was.

I skied with him and friends one day and had one of the most fun ski days of the season. A slow-burning cigarette dangled precariously from his lips and I wondered how he didn’t keep from accidentally inhaling it while riding down. I can’t picture him living anywhere but Tahoe.

Jack:

A tele-skier, which is really all you need to know. Telemarking is the kind of skiing people do when regular skiing isn’t hard enough for them.

He was an enigmatic presence. I have no idea how old he was, only that he worked as a liftie for around 10 years. Slightly off-kilter and intimidating in his silent presence, but friendly and stoked about skiing. He showed me down a hard run on his break, effortlessly hitting jumps and waiting for me as I scrambled to even moderately keep up.

I’d always see him at Pete n’ Peter’s and once heard about how he tele-skied one of the hardest runs off an all black diamond lift with a beer in hand.

Nicole:

The mental image I have of Nicole is her swinging a pickaxe into a layer of ice for a solid 15 minutes followed by more physical labor to get the ramp for a ski lift just right. She only stopped to ditch her jacket as she chipped away at three inches of solid ice. I respected her and loved when she acknowledged me in that cool older girl way.

Nicole was deceptively stoic looking. But seeing her after work at a bar made me feel like there was a lot of quirkiness bubbling under the surface. She was in her late 20s and I only saw her without any headgear a select number of times.

Read more: An Examination of Life’s Characters in Tahoe

If you want to read more about life in California, read about my camping trip in San Carpoforo.