The High Life

By CHRIS ERSKINE

Dec. 23, 1999 12 AM PT

TIMES STAFF WRITER

BIG BEAR LAKE — I could come up here just to ski. I could come up here just to hike. I couldn’t come up here just to shop. But your mother could. And my mother, too. They’d probably have a good time, our mothers would.

They’d wander the little shopping district known as the Village and probably stop to marvel over the same Thomas Kinkade paintings, becoming fast friends.

Because apparently that’s what this mountain air will do to you, make you lightheaded and extremely friendly. If you’re not careful, you’ll be talking to perfect strangers. Or imperfect strangers. Like the guy on the sidewalk next to me right now.

“If you need a real estate agent, this is your guy,” the stranger says as we stare into the real estate office window.

“Even handles escrow,” he says, as if it’s some rare surgical procedure.

The stranger goes on to warn me about buying property in Big Bear, how you have to avoid homes that are too low and can get snowed under.

Some homes don’t have double-pane glass, he warns me. Double-pane glass keeps out the cold and, presumably, strangers like him.

“I see you made a friend,” my wife whispers.

“Just keep walking,” I tell her.

And walk we do, through Big Bear’s little shopping district. To our right, a candle shop. To our left, a bakery. Could be dangerous, these little shops.

Like a lot of people, I’m suspicious of the things I can’t afford. Lear jets. Luxury boxes. Blonds above a certain height.

And especially glitzy little ski villages that are too precious for their own good--places where vacationing urologists in Jaguars honk impatiently at the locals.

Big Bear could be like that but isn’t. I’m not sure why. Sure, there is plenty of money. But there are also enough saloons and affordable stores sprinkled through its simple shopping district, charging prices even your mother would love.

That’s what draws us here, up to this little town nestled in the San Bernardino Mountains, up winding Highway 18, the carsickness capital of North America. It’s the activities that lure us. Like it or not, shopping is one of them.

We start early, leave L.A. by 8, arrive here by 10. There’s an hour of freeways, then an hour of mountain driving. Drop a Dramamine in the kids’ cereal. You won’t regret it.

By 10:45, we’ve rented snowboards for the boy and his buddy.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I say.

What I really mean is, “Don’t do the sort of stupid things I did when I was your age.”

But I shorthand it. “Don’t do anything stupid,” I tell him, cuffing him on the head.

Though real snow hasn’t arrived, it’s been cold enough for the two major resorts to make plenty of snow. It’s Slurpee ice, the kind you get at the 7-Eleven. But to a teenager, Slurpee ice is better than nothing.

There are two big ski mountains here, Bear Mountain and Snow Summit, cousins really, offering similar runs at competitive prices.

Cheap for the younger kids--$10 for an all-day lift ticket--the cost jumps to more than $30 when they turn 13, even higher during holiday periods.

Add $30 more for the snowboard rental and you’re looking at a pretty pricey day.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” I call out as the boys climb aboard the chairlift, far out of earshot.

“Who are you talking to, Dad?” the little girl asks.

“Mostly myself,” I say.

Back in the village, we stroll along Pine Knot Avenue. First stop, a place called North Pole Fudge & Ice Cream Co., for a quarter pound of fudge.

“What do you want to do next?” my wife asks.

“Eat the fudge,” I say.

We hit the other shops along Pine Knot, mostly gift shops, then stop for lunch at the Teddy Bear Restaurant, a family joint that draws the locals.

At the lunch counter sit the good old boys, wearing flannel shirts and beepers on their belts--the kind of guys who eat breakfast at every meal. Ham and eggs and eggs. Buttered toast. Ketchup. More eggs.

“This here . . . that’s where the problem was,” one of the good old boys tells his lunch partner, pointing to the steering shaft of a ’41 Mercury that he’s drawn on the back of his check.

The lunch partner nods. I’m glad to be in a place where old cars are still held in such high esteem.

“We should go,” my wife says.

We pay $15 apiece at the Magic Mountain family fun center, then grab an inner tube and head up the hill.

First time down, the little girl and I double up on a big tube. Second time, she flies solo, talking the entire way down.

They are short runs, less than a minute. The only advantage over the free hills on the edge of town is that the free hills have no snow right now.

Here, two snow-making machines keep the small slope covered. And there’s an escalator to the top. If you’ve ever pulled a sled up a hill a couple of dozen times, you might appreciate this escalator.

For the more daring, the family fun center offers something called Alpine Slide, a long winding concrete and fiberglass course.

No snow required for this one. The plastic toboggan zips through the course while you grip the brake. Weather permitting, there are also go-carts and a miniature golf course.

“We should go,” I say after 90 minutes on the hill. The little girl could stay all day, but we have a couple more stops.

We brush off the snow, pile in the car and head for the north shore.

A little more than 100 years ago, Big Bear Valley was still the wild west--a haven for grizzly bears and the sort of people who liked to dig and drink.

Rich with gold and silver ore, the area was first settled by miners about the time of the Civil War. Twenty years later, a dam was built to catch the winter runoff.

That’s when Big Bear Lake was born, six miles of snowmelt held captive by a thin dam of native rock and cement shipped all the way from England. At the time, it was the largest man-made lake in the world.

The lake is still pristine, shimmering blue in the midafternoon sun, an unbeatable centerpiece.

Fisherman work the water almost year-round, and Southern California hiking doesn’t get much better than right here.

For those new to the area, the Forest Service’s Discovery Center on the north shore is a good place to start.

Several trails converge here, and the naturalists who staff the center offer plenty of friendly advice.

There’s Alpine Pedal Path, an easy, paved three-mile stroll. Or Cougar Crest, a five-mile round trip on moderate to difficult trails that hook up eventually to the famed Pacific Crest Trail.

Tight on time, we choose Alpine Pedal Path, which leads us down along the lake and through bald eagle country.

There are, they tell us, 30 or so bald eagles that winter right along the lake, feasting on duck and fish, eating better than we do.

We spot no eagles, but there are several bald fisherman and a bike rider without much on top.

“Look, a bald jogger,” I tell the little girl, who seems pleased.

Down along the water, the wind is whipping up hard, and several fishermen seek shelter in a cove, their backs to the wind.

Days don’t get much prettier than this one, nor fishermen much nicer. Jim McGrew, of nearby Fawnskin, lets the little girl reel in a small trout that grabbed his line as we passed.

After a five-minute struggle, she lands the fish. It’s the highlight of the day.

Back across the lake, we pick up the boys at the ski resort, then head into the village for one last sweep.

The fudge is gone now, so we stop to resupply, then break up into two groups.

We spend half an hour at the Leather Depot, which has everything from great slippers to fine coats.

We move up the street, in and out of various gift shops and clothing stores, before arriving at House of Jerky: beef, buffalo, venison, ostrich.

Bad timing, it appears. The owner is just closing up. We start to turn around.

“You guys need jerky?” a voice says.

“How’d you know?”

“Come on in,” he says.

For dinner, we stop at Paoli’s, a casual Italian place in the heart of the village.

“Your Beautiful Mother Is My Only Competitor,” says the menu.

Maybe not. The mozzarella appetizer is laughable--even the kids make fun of the cheese slab that arrives at the table--but the pizza is very good.

My wife and I order pepperoni and sausage for the kids and the Greek pizza for us, and they arrive at the table thick and tasty, the perfect comfort food after a day spent bounding around in the fresh air.

On the way home, we pull alongside the road to admire the stars, which fill the sky. Every minute or two, a shooting star passes.

Back in the car, the kids nod off quickly.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Dad,” the boy says as he drifts off to sleep.

By 8, we are home, a full 12 hours after we left. It’s been a long day but not a particularly hectic one.

Granted, the trip is easier midweek, when we went. It might be when Big Bear is at its best, slow and ceaselessly friendly.

And without a trace of alpine attitude.

Chris Erskine’s column, “The Guy Chronicles,” appears Wednesdays in The Times.

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