BUMPING along a freshly plowed road in Lake Tahoe, Calif., I felt oddly unburdened. No skis were locked on top of my car, no clunky boots rattled in the trunk. After more than a decade of ski trips to the region, I kept feeling as if I were missing something. Sure, it was sunny, but also a biting 17 degrees — and I was going kayaking.
“You’re going what?†asked my friend when she heard I wasn’t joining her for another powder day at Squaw Valley. “Seriously?â€Â  … Details & Pictures
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