Reno

I’ll admit Reno was a stopover for us — a place to sleep on the way to Lake Tahoe — and it quietly refused to stay one. We’d walked under the famous arch, that glowing “Biggest Little City in the World” sign, expecting to feel the tug of the slot machines and instead heard water. Two blocks north the Truckee River runs right through downtown, and someone long ago had the good sense to build a whitewater park into it. Kayakers were surfing a standing wave at nine at night, city lights shivering on the current. Lia and I sat on the rocks and watched until we were cold.

The Truckee River Walk

By daylight the river is even better. The RiverWalk District follows the Truckee past old brick buildings, galleries, and little bars with patios that hang over the water. We spent a whole morning drifting it, crossing the river on footbridges just to cross back. The water comes straight down from Lake Tahoe, so it runs impossibly clear and shockingly cold, and on a hot afternoon locals simply wade in with their pant legs rolled up.

At Wingfield Park, an island in the middle of the river, a free concert was setting up. We bought tacos from a cart and ate them on the grass while the Sierra glowed pink behind the downtown towers. It was the least Vegas-like scene I could imagine, and I loved it for that.

Neon and Old Reno

We didn’t skip the casinos entirely — you shouldn’t. At night we walked Virginia Street under the arch, through the clatter and chime of the old gaming halls, more curious than tempted. There’s a faded, honest glamour to Reno’s neon that Las Vegas has long since polished away. We put five dollars in a machine at the Silver Legacy under its enormous domed ceiling, lost it in about ninety seconds, and laughed our way back out into the cool desert night.

The next morning we found the National Automobile Museum, an unexpectedly wonderful collection built around one man’s obsession, with streets recreated era by era. Even Lia, no car enthusiast, lingered over a 1938 Phantom Corsair that looked like it had driven out of a dream.

The Sierra at the Doorstep

What you can’t ignore in Reno is the mountains. The Sierra Nevada rises abruptly on the western edge of town, and everything here bends toward it. We drove up toward Mount Rose in the afternoon, the city dropping away below us, and within forty minutes stood among granite and pine with the whole Truckee Meadows spread out gold in the distance. Snow still clung to the high gullies in June.

On the way back down we pulled over just to watch the light change on the peaks. A city that keeps mountains like these within reach of its casino floors is a city of contradictions, and I’ve come to think Reno is all the more likable for wearing them so openly.

Getting There

Reno sits in western Nevada, just east of the California line and about 25 miles north of Lake Tahoe. Reno-Tahoe International Airport is remarkably central — barely ten minutes from downtown — with direct flights across the western states. From the San Francisco Bay Area it’s a scenic 3.5-hour drive up Interstate 80 over the Sierra, a route that can require snow tires or chains in winter. Amtrak’s California Zephyr stops downtown on its run between Chicago and the Bay. In town, the river district and casino core are easily walkable; a car is worth having for the mountains.