By Matthew Stafford
The first time I headed up to Lake Tahoe a decade or so ago, I figured the place would be lined with rustic, pine-timbered ski lodges where grizzled mountain men grilled trout fresh from the lake and served it on a plank with a few huckleberries and a mug of hard cider. Imagine my disappointment when upon arrival at the lake's southern shores I beheld instead a sort of alpine Anaheim brimming with pizza parlors, chop suey joints, frat-boy cantinas, golden arches and (a favor
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