The biggest little trip in the world
I spent seven days around Reno and Lake Tahoe and a day in San Francisco this month. I hadn't skipped work for two consecutive days in over a year, so it was time for the longest vacation I've taken since college. I owed it to myself. And I also owed myself six, yes, six visits to In-N-Out Burger.
Skiing the Sierras was my primary objective. I lugged my skis and boots clear across the country, and paid big money to rent an SUV so I could negotiate the mountains in snow. But the weather only cooperated on two of the seven days. The rest of the time, no matter which resort I tried, I found windy conditions had closed most of the mountain. At Heavenly, for instance, they had half the lifts running and expected to shut down entirely at noon as a storm rolled in. But they were happy to sell me a full price ticket for 91 dollars. I rolled my eyes - it was instead to be another day of poker and blackjack in Reno. I put that $91 to much better use losing a tournament or two.
That scenario happened twice, once at Heavenly and once at Alpine Meadows. I also found the road to Squaw Valley closed on another morning. I started giving up after that, booking hotels in Reno proper where things were actually open for business. That way, I wouldn't have to drive the serpentine Mt. Rose Highway in a blizzard.
This squiggly thing is the main road between Reno and North Lake Tahoe. It's one lane in each direction and reaches 8911 feet. (Lake Tahoe is at 6225 and Reno is down at 4505, for comparison.) It is in fact the highest pass in the entire Sierra range that doesn't close for the winter. And the first time I had to drive it, it was after midnight, I was all by myself, and the snow was zooming toward my lonely headlights in giant spiraling clumps. Like a disorienting screensaver. It was just me, a mile and a half in the air, surrounded by blackness. I encountered no other cars and only two snowplows. I kept ascending, passing several ominous signs with flashing orange beacons to warn that snow tires or snow chains were mandatory. I had all wheel drive, but only the kind of tires they put on rental cars in coastal California. The conditions deteriorated visibly with every mile, every hundred feet of elevation. The road gradually changed from completely bare to completely snowed over. I inched along at about ten mph. And when I hit the summit, it was time to drive even slower, because on the way down gravity became my enemy. When I finally reached a trio of humble log-cabin casinos, I knew I was finally down at the shoreline, and I then realized how tense I'd been. The road is about 25 miles. It had taken me an hour and 45 minutes.
I did get to ski twice, though. Thursday was the only bright, sunny, flawless day. So I hit Squaw valley, the biggest and rawest resort. This place was massive. It goes on for miles, in terms of both slopes and across the mountaintops. And the craggy peaks were incredibly raw and steep, rivaling Jackson Hole in places. I had a fantastic time. Even on my old-fashioned East Coast skis that weren't quite wide enough for the kind of powder I was dealing with. I struggled through my first run, but quickly got the hang of it, and proceeded to own the mountain for most of the day. Then in the late afternoon I was worn out and I started sucking again. All in all, it was fabulous. I also got to ski a few days later at Northstar. it was snowing, but the wind was weak enough - and I'm told Northstar is more protected from wind than other nearby places - that the mountain was fully open. Northstar had far less challenging terrain, but the powder this day was much fresher and deeper, and thus more tiring. I didn't mind slopes that weren't as steep on this day. Besides, I was just thankful to be skiing at all.
I played tons of poker. I entered about a dozen tournaments and made the money in just one of them. But that one I finished in first. I just about broke even in tournament play, and I feel good about that. I probably had some negative variance. I felt great about my tournament game. I felt in the zone. I knew what I was doing with each bet and why I was making each decision. I was playing good post-flop, making nice aggressive plays, playing to each opponent's chip stack... I felt in control.
Cash games are what kicked my ass. I'd been studying Dan Harrington's books on cash games, but they didn't stop me from feeling lost. As confident as I felt in tournaments, that's as nervous and uncomfortable as I felt whenever I had to make a decision in a cash game. I lost about $500 and managed just one winning session. And pulling out just that one win took a sick, nerve-fraying call.* It was stressful like a root canal. I promptly researched some other cash game books when I returned home. They just came in the mail today. I love Dan Harrington's tournament books, but when it comes to cash games, I think I need some more help.
Reno is the last place in North America where you can play real single deck blackjack, the kind where a blackjack pays the full 3-to-2. (I'm telling you, Do. Not. Play. 6-to-5. Blackjack. Seriously, playing 6:5 blackjack is like playing triple-zero roulette when there's a double-zero wheel ten feet away. Why would you voluntarily play at the worse table? Why?) So I played some good old single deck, the kind I used to find in downtown Vegas when I first started back in 2002 or 2003. What fun. You can make money counting cards without ever jumping your bets by more than 4x. But I pumped it up to 6x, because who cares if they kick *me* out? And they never did, not even when I angrily sat down after a disheartening poker session determined to count brazenly without cover or subtlety until I got the tap. Floormen and security know exactly what it means when a bunch of 5s and 6s show up and I suddenly jump my bet from $5 to $40. But they never came over in an hour. Maybe they just don't care about someone betting that small.
So that's what I did most of the week. While the mountains were getting snow by the foot, it was 40 degrees and slightly rainy in Reno, and I just did my thing. Some poker, some blackjack, some nice lunches and dinners, and on Saturday I paid ten bucks to watch the UFC pay-per-view with two free drink tickets. I wondered what a fight night would be like in a big room of gamblers. It was actually more subdued than the March Madness guys in the sportsbook. That is just a bunch of drunken foul-mouthed degenerates completely flipping out like a psychotic whenever there's a) a foul, b) a basket, c) a missed basket, or d) no foul.
Reno seems somewhat nice. I mean, there are drunken bums all over the place like any casino town, and the nearest In-N-Out Burger is four exits south of town, but it still had its charm. The downtown casinos are somewhat bigger than downtown Vegas joints, and some of them are kinda nice. Then there's the Peppermill and Atlantis about a mile south, two resort-style places that are very nice indeed. I really liked the Peppermill's decor, all dark with bright primary-colored neon and gel lights. The brown-yellow Truckee River runs through town, enhancing Reno's old-west cred. You know, I rather like Nevada. I always have this feeling like I'm less than five miles from a ghost town or abandoned mine. Even in the heart of Vegas I can feel the wind-swept wild dust country, in the distance, and in the ether.
I checked out Carson City briefly, too. That's rather old-timey as well. Imagine driving down Route 9 into Natick and Framingham, for about five miles. Imagine you pass three or four small casinos, each about the size of a large bank. Then you pass two stone buildings that happen to be where the governor and the legislature convene. Then you pass some more gas stations and shopfronts. It was quite strange. Where I come from, our state capitols have shiny golden domes and sit in cities with skyscrapers, not on the Automile.
I actually pulled into a Carson City casino to use the bathroom. I checked out the blackjack but it was the day shift and only two tables were open, both crowded. (A card counter loathes crowded tables. We need lots of rounds between shuffles, and the presence of other players ruins that for us.) Across the street I saw a coin store, so I went and checked that out. There used to be a US mint in Carson City. Maybe I could buy a Carson City coin in the very town where it was minted. I checked Wikipedia; the old mint was at 600 North Carson Street. I glanced at the coin store's address. 601 North Carson Street. Wow! I looked across the street. Sure enough, there it was, the old mint building. It's now a Nevada history museum.
Unsurprisingly, the coin store had a whole display devoted to Carson City silver coins, for guys exactly like me. Guys who think the idea of obtaining a coin right across the street from where it was minted 133 years ago is awesome. I'm sure I paid a markup, too. But I do know what to look for in a coin. I picked a Morgan with good eye appeal and lots of feather detail in the eagle. I went with 1878, the first year they were ever made. This is the best of what coin collecting is all about - the history of it all and the personal meaning. For the rest of my life I can look at this coin and remember where and when I got it - Carson City itself, a hundred feet from the coin's birthplace, on a ski vacation when I was 32. And it happened on the spur of the moment, just because of where I happened to park.
I skipped over San Francisco until now, even though that was the first day of my trip. When I spent a few hours there last winter, I wished I could go running through the city. Go for a jog in the picturesque hills or over the Golden Gate Bridge. So this time, I brought the right clothes and shoes. I chose a bridge route, for the views, and because my mom mentioned running across it once upon a time. A family tradition, I suppose. I took a bus to Sausalito, armed only with my iPhone that freezes if I ever try to use the GPS. My plan was to run across the bridge and then over to Fisherman's wharf. About six miles. Well, I underestimated how far into Sausalito the bus would drop me off. It took more than two miles, all uphill, just to get back to the bridge itself. So I ran those two miles, and I ran across the bridge, and it was an impressive touristic experience. And I ran along the shore to Fisherman's Wharf. And then I decided to keep running along the Embarcadero, just so I could watch the vintage streetcars clambering up and down the street.
Boston keeps two antique cars on display in the Boylston station: Kinda cool. San Francisco runs dozens of those antique cars in actual revenue service on city streets: Extremely cool. The vintage cars come from all across the world, and the city runs a subset of its collection from time to time like a rotating exhibit. So I ran the Embarcadero checking out the old-timey cars as they passed. My legs started to hurt about this time, but I was too close to my hotel to quit now. So I ran all the way from Sausalito to my hotel, 10.5 miles. The first 7 were fine, but the last 3.5 were tortuous. My legs took a day or two to recover. But I was very proud of myself. And I saw the city for 10.5 miles.
Then that night I checked out an industrial show at DNA Lounge. This is a nightclub owned by a somewhat well-known old-school Internet personality, one of the original Netscape programmers whose blog I've been reading since I was in high school, before blogs were known as blogs. It was cool to finally check the place out. And the music was fun, too. Like a live Xmortis. I've been getting into this general aggressive electronica recently. I've stopped telling myself that computer music is wrong and weakens the ability to discern good metal. So I've just gone with it.
So that was my afternoon and evening in San Francisco. Ten miles running and an industrial concert. (Plus In-N-Out Burger.) In the morning I was off to Reno.
*Okay, okay, here's the hand that blew my synapses.
Preflop: $1-2 no limit. Our hero is in the big blind with 77. There are two limpers. The villain in middle position raises to $10. Everyone folds. Our hero calls. The two limpers fold. The pot is $25.
Flop: K 4 4, three suits. I could well be ahead here. Or, the villain could have a king or a pocket pair better than my 7s. How can I find out where I stand? I could bet and see what he does. But if I bet half the pot and he calls, that tells me nothing. So instead, I plan to check-raise. I expect him to make a continuation bet whether or not he has something good. Then, if he calls my check-raise, I can be pretty confident that I'm behind. So i check. Sure enough, he bets $10. I check-raise to $30. And he calls. The pot is $85. That call means he's too likely to have a K or a pocket pair or maybe even a 4. So I'm done with this hand unless....
Turn: 7. No flush possibility. Bingo! That's my money card. Now I'm kicking ass. I have 77744 and I'm way, way ahead. Whether he has a king or a pocket pair, he's drawing to two outs. I'm behind only KK or 44. There's no flush draw and a straight draw is very unlikely, so I can afford to lay a trap. He has no idea how far behind he probably is. He has about $80 left. I'll let him bet enough of his stack that when I raise, he's committed to betting the rest. I check. But he checks back.
River: K. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. I can't believe that just fucking happened. This is how it's gone all week. His most likely holding - king something or "Kx" - just made KKK44 to beat my 777KK. He caught his two-outer. Goddammit. But there's still a chance he has AA or something. Maybe he even has a 4. If I check, he might bluff with those hands and I'd have a hard time calling that bet. So I bet $30, reducing his willingness to bluff if that's actually what he has. But he raises all-in for $80. So I'm almost surely hosed. His betting on every single street has been very consistent with Kx. But... the pot is $195 now and it costs me $50 to make a crying call. That's 4-1 odds that he has one of those wishful-thinking, worse-than-Kx hands. I think long and hard about this - estimating whether the chances of me being beaten exceed 80%. Because they sure as hell exceed 50%. Probably exceed 65% too. I sigh and make the call. I realize, by the way, that I screwed up somewhat. If by betting $30 I was committing myself to calling his all-in raise, I should have put him all-in to begin with. That way I'm still committed to the same number of chips, but I increase the chances that he folds. Oh well.
So I make that crying call, I can't believe how shitty my luck was and how much money I lost on this hand, and the villain says "good call" and turns over 22. I win. Good lord. That kind of agonizing stress is what it took to eke out one winning session.
Skiing the Sierras was my primary objective. I lugged my skis and boots clear across the country, and paid big money to rent an SUV so I could negotiate the mountains in snow. But the weather only cooperated on two of the seven days. The rest of the time, no matter which resort I tried, I found windy conditions had closed most of the mountain. At Heavenly, for instance, they had half the lifts running and expected to shut down entirely at noon as a storm rolled in. But they were happy to sell me a full price ticket for 91 dollars. I rolled my eyes - it was instead to be another day of poker and blackjack in Reno. I put that $91 to much better use losing a tournament or two.
That scenario happened twice, once at Heavenly and once at Alpine Meadows. I also found the road to Squaw Valley closed on another morning. I started giving up after that, booking hotels in Reno proper where things were actually open for business. That way, I wouldn't have to drive the serpentine Mt. Rose Highway in a blizzard.
This squiggly thing is the main road between Reno and North Lake Tahoe. It's one lane in each direction and reaches 8911 feet. (Lake Tahoe is at 6225 and Reno is down at 4505, for comparison.) It is in fact the highest pass in the entire Sierra range that doesn't close for the winter. And the first time I had to drive it, it was after midnight, I was all by myself, and the snow was zooming toward my lonely headlights in giant spiraling clumps. Like a disorienting screensaver. It was just me, a mile and a half in the air, surrounded by blackness. I encountered no other cars and only two snowplows. I kept ascending, passing several ominous signs with flashing orange beacons to warn that snow tires or snow chains were mandatory. I had all wheel drive, but only the kind of tires they put on rental cars in coastal California. The conditions deteriorated visibly with every mile, every hundred feet of elevation. The road gradually changed from completely bare to completely snowed over. I inched along at about ten mph. And when I hit the summit, it was time to drive even slower, because on the way down gravity became my enemy. When I finally reached a trio of humble log-cabin casinos, I knew I was finally down at the shoreline, and I then realized how tense I'd been. The road is about 25 miles. It had taken me an hour and 45 minutes.
I did get to ski twice, though. Thursday was the only bright, sunny, flawless day. So I hit Squaw valley, the biggest and rawest resort. This place was massive. It goes on for miles, in terms of both slopes and across the mountaintops. And the craggy peaks were incredibly raw and steep, rivaling Jackson Hole in places. I had a fantastic time. Even on my old-fashioned East Coast skis that weren't quite wide enough for the kind of powder I was dealing with. I struggled through my first run, but quickly got the hang of it, and proceeded to own the mountain for most of the day. Then in the late afternoon I was worn out and I started sucking again. All in all, it was fabulous. I also got to ski a few days later at Northstar. it was snowing, but the wind was weak enough - and I'm told Northstar is more protected from wind than other nearby places - that the mountain was fully open. Northstar had far less challenging terrain, but the powder this day was much fresher and deeper, and thus more tiring. I didn't mind slopes that weren't as steep on this day. Besides, I was just thankful to be skiing at all.
I played tons of poker. I entered about a dozen tournaments and made the money in just one of them. But that one I finished in first. I just about broke even in tournament play, and I feel good about that. I probably had some negative variance. I felt great about my tournament game. I felt in the zone. I knew what I was doing with each bet and why I was making each decision. I was playing good post-flop, making nice aggressive plays, playing to each opponent's chip stack... I felt in control.
Cash games are what kicked my ass. I'd been studying Dan Harrington's books on cash games, but they didn't stop me from feeling lost. As confident as I felt in tournaments, that's as nervous and uncomfortable as I felt whenever I had to make a decision in a cash game. I lost about $500 and managed just one winning session. And pulling out just that one win took a sick, nerve-fraying call.* It was stressful like a root canal. I promptly researched some other cash game books when I returned home. They just came in the mail today. I love Dan Harrington's tournament books, but when it comes to cash games, I think I need some more help.
Reno is the last place in North America where you can play real single deck blackjack, the kind where a blackjack pays the full 3-to-2. (I'm telling you, Do. Not. Play. 6-to-5. Blackjack. Seriously, playing 6:5 blackjack is like playing triple-zero roulette when there's a double-zero wheel ten feet away. Why would you voluntarily play at the worse table? Why?) So I played some good old single deck, the kind I used to find in downtown Vegas when I first started back in 2002 or 2003. What fun. You can make money counting cards without ever jumping your bets by more than 4x. But I pumped it up to 6x, because who cares if they kick *me* out? And they never did, not even when I angrily sat down after a disheartening poker session determined to count brazenly without cover or subtlety until I got the tap. Floormen and security know exactly what it means when a bunch of 5s and 6s show up and I suddenly jump my bet from $5 to $40. But they never came over in an hour. Maybe they just don't care about someone betting that small.
So that's what I did most of the week. While the mountains were getting snow by the foot, it was 40 degrees and slightly rainy in Reno, and I just did my thing. Some poker, some blackjack, some nice lunches and dinners, and on Saturday I paid ten bucks to watch the UFC pay-per-view with two free drink tickets. I wondered what a fight night would be like in a big room of gamblers. It was actually more subdued than the March Madness guys in the sportsbook. That is just a bunch of drunken foul-mouthed degenerates completely flipping out like a psychotic whenever there's a) a foul, b) a basket, c) a missed basket, or d) no foul.
Reno seems somewhat nice. I mean, there are drunken bums all over the place like any casino town, and the nearest In-N-Out Burger is four exits south of town, but it still had its charm. The downtown casinos are somewhat bigger than downtown Vegas joints, and some of them are kinda nice. Then there's the Peppermill and Atlantis about a mile south, two resort-style places that are very nice indeed. I really liked the Peppermill's decor, all dark with bright primary-colored neon and gel lights. The brown-yellow Truckee River runs through town, enhancing Reno's old-west cred. You know, I rather like Nevada. I always have this feeling like I'm less than five miles from a ghost town or abandoned mine. Even in the heart of Vegas I can feel the wind-swept wild dust country, in the distance, and in the ether.
I checked out Carson City briefly, too. That's rather old-timey as well. Imagine driving down Route 9 into Natick and Framingham, for about five miles. Imagine you pass three or four small casinos, each about the size of a large bank. Then you pass two stone buildings that happen to be where the governor and the legislature convene. Then you pass some more gas stations and shopfronts. It was quite strange. Where I come from, our state capitols have shiny golden domes and sit in cities with skyscrapers, not on the Automile.
I actually pulled into a Carson City casino to use the bathroom. I checked out the blackjack but it was the day shift and only two tables were open, both crowded. (A card counter loathes crowded tables. We need lots of rounds between shuffles, and the presence of other players ruins that for us.) Across the street I saw a coin store, so I went and checked that out. There used to be a US mint in Carson City. Maybe I could buy a Carson City coin in the very town where it was minted. I checked Wikipedia; the old mint was at 600 North Carson Street. I glanced at the coin store's address. 601 North Carson Street. Wow! I looked across the street. Sure enough, there it was, the old mint building. It's now a Nevada history museum.
Unsurprisingly, the coin store had a whole display devoted to Carson City silver coins, for guys exactly like me. Guys who think the idea of obtaining a coin right across the street from where it was minted 133 years ago is awesome. I'm sure I paid a markup, too. But I do know what to look for in a coin. I picked a Morgan with good eye appeal and lots of feather detail in the eagle. I went with 1878, the first year they were ever made. This is the best of what coin collecting is all about - the history of it all and the personal meaning. For the rest of my life I can look at this coin and remember where and when I got it - Carson City itself, a hundred feet from the coin's birthplace, on a ski vacation when I was 32. And it happened on the spur of the moment, just because of where I happened to park.
I skipped over San Francisco until now, even though that was the first day of my trip. When I spent a few hours there last winter, I wished I could go running through the city. Go for a jog in the picturesque hills or over the Golden Gate Bridge. So this time, I brought the right clothes and shoes. I chose a bridge route, for the views, and because my mom mentioned running across it once upon a time. A family tradition, I suppose. I took a bus to Sausalito, armed only with my iPhone that freezes if I ever try to use the GPS. My plan was to run across the bridge and then over to Fisherman's wharf. About six miles. Well, I underestimated how far into Sausalito the bus would drop me off. It took more than two miles, all uphill, just to get back to the bridge itself. So I ran those two miles, and I ran across the bridge, and it was an impressive touristic experience. And I ran along the shore to Fisherman's Wharf. And then I decided to keep running along the Embarcadero, just so I could watch the vintage streetcars clambering up and down the street.
Boston keeps two antique cars on display in the Boylston station: Kinda cool. San Francisco runs dozens of those antique cars in actual revenue service on city streets: Extremely cool. The vintage cars come from all across the world, and the city runs a subset of its collection from time to time like a rotating exhibit. So I ran the Embarcadero checking out the old-timey cars as they passed. My legs started to hurt about this time, but I was too close to my hotel to quit now. So I ran all the way from Sausalito to my hotel, 10.5 miles. The first 7 were fine, but the last 3.5 were tortuous. My legs took a day or two to recover. But I was very proud of myself. And I saw the city for 10.5 miles.
Then that night I checked out an industrial show at DNA Lounge. This is a nightclub owned by a somewhat well-known old-school Internet personality, one of the original Netscape programmers whose blog I've been reading since I was in high school, before blogs were known as blogs. It was cool to finally check the place out. And the music was fun, too. Like a live Xmortis. I've been getting into this general aggressive electronica recently. I've stopped telling myself that computer music is wrong and weakens the ability to discern good metal. So I've just gone with it.
So that was my afternoon and evening in San Francisco. Ten miles running and an industrial concert. (Plus In-N-Out Burger.) In the morning I was off to Reno.
*Okay, okay, here's the hand that blew my synapses.
Preflop: $1-2 no limit. Our hero is in the big blind with 77. There are two limpers. The villain in middle position raises to $10. Everyone folds. Our hero calls. The two limpers fold. The pot is $25.
Flop: K 4 4, three suits. I could well be ahead here. Or, the villain could have a king or a pocket pair better than my 7s. How can I find out where I stand? I could bet and see what he does. But if I bet half the pot and he calls, that tells me nothing. So instead, I plan to check-raise. I expect him to make a continuation bet whether or not he has something good. Then, if he calls my check-raise, I can be pretty confident that I'm behind. So i check. Sure enough, he bets $10. I check-raise to $30. And he calls. The pot is $85. That call means he's too likely to have a K or a pocket pair or maybe even a 4. So I'm done with this hand unless....
Turn: 7. No flush possibility. Bingo! That's my money card. Now I'm kicking ass. I have 77744 and I'm way, way ahead. Whether he has a king or a pocket pair, he's drawing to two outs. I'm behind only KK or 44. There's no flush draw and a straight draw is very unlikely, so I can afford to lay a trap. He has no idea how far behind he probably is. He has about $80 left. I'll let him bet enough of his stack that when I raise, he's committed to betting the rest. I check. But he checks back.
River: K. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK. I can't believe that just fucking happened. This is how it's gone all week. His most likely holding - king something or "Kx" - just made KKK44 to beat my 777KK. He caught his two-outer. Goddammit. But there's still a chance he has AA or something. Maybe he even has a 4. If I check, he might bluff with those hands and I'd have a hard time calling that bet. So I bet $30, reducing his willingness to bluff if that's actually what he has. But he raises all-in for $80. So I'm almost surely hosed. His betting on every single street has been very consistent with Kx. But... the pot is $195 now and it costs me $50 to make a crying call. That's 4-1 odds that he has one of those wishful-thinking, worse-than-Kx hands. I think long and hard about this - estimating whether the chances of me being beaten exceed 80%. Because they sure as hell exceed 50%. Probably exceed 65% too. I sigh and make the call. I realize, by the way, that I screwed up somewhat. If by betting $30 I was committing myself to calling his all-in raise, I should have put him all-in to begin with. That way I'm still committed to the same number of chips, but I increase the chances that he folds. Oh well.
So I make that crying call, I can't believe how shitty my luck was and how much money I lost on this hand, and the villain says "good call" and turns over 22. I win. Good lord. That kind of agonizing stress is what it took to eke out one winning session.