Ah, Altitude

It has been an spectacularly snowy winter in the Sierras. We arrived on a perfect high-altitude-blue sky day,

which became a perfect clear black night.

In a few days, skiers from around the world will compete in the World Cup races at Squaw Valley.

They will be well-prepared. Unlike yours truly, who committed a regrettable tactical error ten days ago by donating a unit of blood. I did consider postponing till after this trip, but then made the wrong choice.

You see, at altitude, you really need those red blood cells.

My heart rate was elevated (normal) and my body was busy shedding plasma (normal) to raise the concentration of those oxygen-carrying warriors. There just weren't enough of them.

I felt tired ... was it only 8:30 p.m.? Maybe I'd feel better in the morning.

I woke up groggy. Maybe I'd feel better after lunch.

Sliding around on a pair of skis while lightheaded would not count as a good idea. The sled dogs were fully booked.

The skies had clouded over as the next storm approached.

I boarded the tram to visit the mountain-top High Camp.

Lake Tahoe was just visible in the distance, through the rings that remain from the 1960 Winter Olympic games.

I wandered through the Olympic Museum. I would not have fared well on those skis, not at all.

Graceful skiers carved their tracks down the slope as I watched with wistful envy.

Next time.