Flatlander, go home.

Being recognized as a "local" in a mountain community is harder than infiltrating a stateside Al-Qaeda terror cell. There are just too many opportunities to betray yourself as the flatlander that you are. Just like this yokel in the sports car. Who drives a car like this in the snow? I'll tell you who. Flatlanders.

For two years I have called the mountains of the Sierra Nevada my home. What I have never been called is, "local". I find it funny that I felt such a strong desire to gain credibility as a local mountain resident. Still, the want to belong was very strong. I did everything I could think of to make myself seem more like a mountain man - well, that is everything short of growing a ZZ Top beard. I learned to use a chainsaw. I chopped firewood. I conquered the snow. I memorized the name of every road on the mountain; this in of itself was quite a feat, since we have two names for every road - a traditional name, and a county road number.

About the closest I came to feeling local was at the Chinese food restaurant. They knew me by name, what I did, and asked how work was going. Of course, this just says that I ate a lot of Chinese food - and to be fair, the Chinese place in Bakersfield used to know me by sight, and would have my order ready to go.

I think that you would have to bring your kids up in the local community. Maybe by the time they're in high school, you could be considered a semi-local. After two or three generations, you might just be able to call yourself a mountain local.

At best, I was a knowledgeable flatlander. My credibility was damaged some by my accident last winter. The setup: I drove a 2WD Ford Ranger. It snowed one night, so I was called in to work at about 2 in the morning. My snow chains broke as I left the neighborhood. Why I didn't go home and call the office? I don't know. Long story short, I ended up making it through some of the worst roads, only to inexplicably slide off the road into a snowbank, just as I made it to the straightaway. I was okay, as was my truck - my burgeoning cred as a mountain guy was shot.

Even after two years in the hills, I am still pegged as an outsider at the grocery store. I can't help it - I like to make s'mores. Graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate in your cart is a dead giveaway.
"How long are you visiting?"
Two years, I guess. "Oh, we live up here. We just love s'mores."
"Oh...ahh...Well, would you like help out with your groceries tonight?"

So, it is back to Bako I go. As far as I'm concerned, I'm still the Mountain Power Lineman. They can't take that away from me.