I can’t tell you how many times I’ve told people ‘I need to get better at organizing’ in the last week. When my friend invited me to come along on a Mammoth trip sometime last month, I glanced at the calendar and said yes. I didn’t take the time to notice it would require a week off work. Knowing that wasn’t a possible reality, I decided to come along anyway. At least I’d be able to hang out with my friends and be in the mountains.

I’ve written online before about my preference for early morning walks when I’m traveling – the opportunity to explore a space before it comes to life. Here, it has been a bit of a necessity, since I lack free time during the day. The feeling of the chilly morning air is a perfect wake-up.  Clouds form from my altitude-strained breath while listening to icy snow crunch underfoot. Beautiful cool blue snowy mountains give way to an orange sunrise. 

The main lodge is a quick walk from the annex where our rooms are. Once you make it past the slushy antechamber, it opens into a warm, airy room. The room is filled with ample worn leather couches in a brown that blends right into the dark, wood-paneled walls. Any feeling of claustrophobia is done away with by the vaulted ceiling that sits two stories overhead. Around the corner is a little shop where you can buy sweet coffee drinks and bacon egg and cheese sandwiches salty enough to replenish anyone’s electrolytes. The girl behind the counter noted my ‘lumberjack’ outfit and in my performance of mountain outdoorsyness, I felt seen. The check-in desk is staffed by bubbly locals. Across from them is an everlit fireplace.

This morning, I sat by it and read John Banville’s The Singularity. It left me thinking about paths not taken and watershed moments (as if I needed any encouragement). It’s much easier to rehash previous decisions than make new ones that I can currently see looming on the horizon. There’s almost enough time to get clarity on my walks before I start work – almost.

For the last three days, my office has been the Mammoth cafeteria. It is decidedly more utilitarian than the Inn. This is a space to stop off for an hour or so before you hit the slopes again. The whole setup is familiar a way that makes a person assume they use the same contractor as other national park-type places. If you walk long enough through the endless halls and tables, you can climb a set of stairs with a corner table that has decent WiFi and the 80s radio hits aren’t quite as present. It looks like it hasn’t been redone as recently, with real wood chairs and aging plastic tables. It overlooks the main slopes, so you can look at the window and watch skiers and snowboarders descend.

Daydreaming sessions punctuate my work hours: watching people glide down the mountain, wondering what it would be like to be one of them. Part of me is a little bit afraid of what it might be like to live in a world with so little friction, with nothing to grab hold of in those moments of panic. But of course, I know the truth is I could use some letting go.

I miss the snow – more than your average Californian lamenting the loss of seasons (I think). While I was up here I looked at places for rent in Mammoth and Big Bear (I came just short of Googling ‘places where it snows in Southern California’). I could just picture it. There’s the rustic cabin with dedicated space for snow covered articles of clothing. Crusty boots wait at the ready near the door. The windows are fogged up and the kettle on the stove is just about to boil. The closet is filled with rows and rows of earth-toned flannels and wool.

The truth is, I don’t think I could do the Kafka on the Shore-type solitude, but the aesthetic is nice to imagine.