My husband and I chanced upon a hidden meadow by the Truckee River just as the August light was fading to a glittering alpine dusk. That was the wondrous moment when we glimpsed a pathway curving toward a storybook red cabin. By twilight, the scene had the dreamy aura of childhood imagination, the home of Hansel and Gretel, Goldilocks, the Three Bears.

The cabin’s front porch was just big enough for two chairs and a romantic interlude. From there one could admire the coming of twilight, stars, a rising beacon moon. One could sit in silence, content, on an evening just like this, watching the forest blur into a gray-green scrim, feeling the air cool, hearing the mosquitoes sing, following the bats as they soared and swooped. Then, too soon, as if the meadow were an operatic stage, night’s curtain descended, transforming all that beauty before us into vague memory.

As it turned out, the cabin was for sale. The owner had moved out six months before and the place was now rented. When a realtor took us out for a look-see, we learned that the cabin was inhabited by animals, that is, three prime specimens of Jockus extremus, subspecies Ski Patrol, sub-subspecies Alpine Meadows. The evidence hung in the air: stale beer and turbo-charged sweat, unwashed clothes and mildewed sleeping bags, a moldy shower stall and two very crusted toilets. On the kitchen counter lay an ode to the athletic lifestyle: Cheetos, Doritos, half-eaten burritos. I walked into a bedroom filled with four seasons’ worth of sporting goods—hiking boots and river sandals, rappelling ropes and gaiters . . .

Lou and I knew what the gonzos were up to. Nice try, guys, but I’m a writer. I have imagination. I can see through the dirt, the ruse, the crude effort to keep this place as Club Ski Patrol . . . Get yourself another rental, boys!