“My name is Mark Clark and I am not a choco-holic.” That’s mostly true, though there are two significant exceptions. The first is the dark chocolate Scotchmallow from See’s, which often finds its way into my Christmas stocking. The second is the humble Milky Way bar, especially the mini-size, which seems to provide just the right fix of caramel and chocolate.
Growing up, we didn’t have a lot of candy around the house. That required a trip down to the grocery store, which in those days was the Bel-air Market on Blackfield Drive. It was a good mile away, but for a kid on a bike, that was a piece of cake, even if the ride back up South Knoll Road required doing the newspaper-boy weave up the really steep parts. If you were in the mood for a candy bar, but short on funds, you could also engage in a little gambling while you were there. Of course, the gumball machine out front served up your run-of-the-mill penny-chew, but there were also special yellow gumballs with red stripes that you could see through the glass dome. I don’t know if they tasted any different, but I wasn’t going to ever find out. That’s because if you were ever lucky enough to get one of those, you could take it inside to the grocery checker and trade it in for a ten-cent candy bar. I don’t know what the odds were on this clever marketing ploy/game-of-chance, but it seemed like a good deal to me.
The other place we had access to candy was when we went skiing at Tahoe, something our family did two or three times a month during the winter. Our home base was always Granlibakken (which is Norwegian for “a hill sheltered by fir trees,” in case you were wondering), a diminutive ski “resort” with only three rope tows and a quirky poma lift. But what it lacked in skiing adventure, it made up for by having the best ski lodge ever. It was constructed in 1947 by Kjell Rustad, a renowned Norwegian ski jumper and retired sea captain, whom everyone knew simply as “Rusty.” The lodge was built of enormous Lodgepole Pine logs and featured a floor-to-ceiling wall of windows facing the ski hill. There were the usual antique beer steins and decorative plates on soffits high on the wall, and many old prints.
The centerpiece was a sturdy stone fireplace with an enormous black smoke hood. Above the hood, were Rusty’s old long-skis with their leather bindings. We regarded them as impossibly primitive, even as we strapped ourselves onto our own skis with mostly non-releasable cable bindings (at least our skis had screwed-on metal edges, we thought smugly). Once each year, Rusty would don his boards for a ceremonial run straight down from the top of the 300-foot hill. We were always impressed by his bravado.
The fireplace was the natural hub of activity, especially on snowy days when half-frozen skiers fought for a spot to warm their sodden backsides. Every square inch of the smoke hood and its supporting wires would be festooned with wet ski gloves, mittens, wool hats and ski socks, all drying out in anticipation of the next foray into the cold. Though the warmth might only last for a few minutes, it was always real treat to put on a pair of mittens hot from the fireplace.
Skiing on a rope tow hill can be surprisingly tiring, even one as short as ours. Just holding onto the frozen rope as you are pulled up the hill is quite a workout. There is also hardly any down-time, since the ascent is so quick – no leisurely conversations on a slowly-moving chairlift. That meant that I took frequent breaks in the lodge, where my mother was usually ensconced in a comfy corner, wearing her blue and red Norwegian ski sweater. She would occasionally take a run or two down the mountain, but was clearly happiest in the lodge with a good book, sitting by the fire. During my breaks, I would curl up on the bench beside her and nap, or else play with my ever-present toy brick set and Match Box cars.
In addition to providing the afore-mentioned candy bars, the grill at Granlibakken was also notable for serving some of the best hamburgers ever. Even my brother, who is a true gourmand, agrees. I don’t know why that should have been so – perhaps it was the altitude, our hunger from having been out skiing all morning, the ambience, or the juke box playing “North to Alaska” for the millionth time – but whatever it was, the burgers were delicious. Even back then, when I lived on a diet of hot dogs with ketchup, I would order a hamburger at the grill behind the fireplace – just like the big kids – with French fries, a coke, and a Milky Way bar for dessert.
In a few years, I would join a ski racing team and do almost all of my skiing at the comparatively enormous Squaw Valley, with its double-diamond runs and world-class amenities. But my best days at Tahoe had already been spent in the Granlibakken lodge, whiling away a lazy Saturday afternoon with enormous snowflakes hitting the window, the distant blurs of skiers braving the elements up on the hill, and the wet-dog smell of wet woolen mittens drying by the fireplace.
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