For Thursday, November 12, 1998 Drummer column, Gibbs, 730 words

Chain reaction

I put my chains on twice last weekend, in the same night. The family drove up to North Shore Tahoe so my wife, Susan, could attend a conference on At-Risk Students at the Cal-Neva Resort Casino in Crystal Bay, Nevada.

The trip held a triple irony -- we were at risk driving up there in a blizzard to learn about at-risk education in a casino.

We put the chains on the first time around Applegate along with hundreds of other people. It was sadly humorous to watch all those November people fumbling with their chains for the first time in at least a year. The professional chain installers weren't up to full force last Friday either. They were outnumbered 20 to 1. People had to either wait or fend for themselves.

Many of us just stood there for an extra while under the tall highway lights with our trunk lids up, our hands full of tangled chains. Most of us, I'm guessing, were wondering the same things: which sides go up, which ends go in front, and which one goes on which tire? Some of us may even have wondered, "Am I front or rear wheel drive?"

We were lucky. We bought new chains last spring, and they were of the "Easy On" variety. A simple clip hooked in the back, on the blind side of the tire, and the outside hooked in two places. It was like buttoning a pair of outgrown trousers. It took a bit of tugging and pulling, but it clipped just fine.

The only glitch was this: While my head was under the car in the only position that allowed me to reach the hooks, melted snow mixed with mud and warm engine oil dripped from the car's frame directly into my ear. By the time I'd connected the hooks, my ear was full of black gunk that ran down my neck when I stood up.

Some folks new to the experience tried to ignore the mandatory "Chains Required" signs and kept on driving. They, of course, found themselves being detoured off an extremely dark and crowded off-ramp at the end of Chain Lane by a highwayman and a roadblock.

One fastback car had tried to ignore the highwayman. He was pulled off a bit further down Interstate 80 in front of a patrol car with flashing red lights and an officer who didn't look too happy to be standing out in the mushy snow.

Over the summit and down the eastern slope we crept -- brupadda, brupadda, brupadda -- 25 mph. West of Truckee the chain restriction ended. We took them off and turned south on Route 89. We were back to normal on clear roads.

Thirteen miles later in Tahoe City the signs were back up: "Chains Required." We put them on again and removed them eight miles later. We were happy to get to the Cal-Neva, and wet.

We'd reserved a room for five overlooking the lake. Chad, our son-in-law, is also a teacher of at-risk students. While Susan and Chad attended meetings, my kids and I studied risk at the blackjack tables.

Like a good dad, I steered my children away from risk by teaching them card counting. We all won some money. When the meetings ended, Susan and Chad joined us and they won, too. We looked funny sitting all together nudging and bumping each other all the way around the table whenever the deck plussed up. By the end of the weekend, I was up $3, Adam was up $11, Kristi and Susan were good for $20-something, and Chad cleared $60.

It's great when the kids are grown.

By now readers must be wondering where this story is going. Well, I'll tell you. It's going to Chris, Rhet, and Larry, the young, industrious owners of the Borderhouse Brewing Company and Restaurant, an historic building nestled between the Cal-Neva and the Crystal Bay Casinos. We stopped in for burgers and ended up spending most of our weekend there.

We were so impressed with the food, the service, the brew master's skills, and the entrepreneurial courage of these three young men that I promised to mention them in my next column. These fellows sank years and fortunes into restoring this old building and turning into a happy, friendly, classy establishment with the best New York steak I've ever eaten. God Bless America.