Unlike the sugar-plum fairy tale of the conifer-covered slopes of the Sierras, the spare, arid aura of the desert’s endless sky lends itself to appreciation of the whole. At Tahoe, I can be transfixed by a single icicle melting from a rooftop, or a sparkling diamond flake on the tip of a spruce. In the high desert, the totality of the naked earth, ever so gently brushed with vanilla icing, expands the imagination in a way no 6-foot bed of fluff ever could.
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