Waterhouse: South

Standing on the ridge, the Tahoe Basin is framed between the tips of my skis. Rolling for 1,500 vertical feet down into the trees below me is a glistening expanse of untracked fresh powder. The horizon is a merge of azure lake and cobalt sky. Rugged Mt. Tallac, to my left, and the gentle dome of Freel Peak, on my right, compose the classic Lake Tahoe portrait. Itโ€™s two in the afternoon on a brilliant, clear, 20-degree Saturday in December. A few miles away, the holiday masses swarm the resorts of Heavenly Valley, Sierra-at-Tahoe and Kirkwood. Here, except for the distant bark of a local dog, the crisp pine-scented air around me is silent, the crowds non-existent, and the terrain and conditions ski-brochure perfect.

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