THE HANGTOWN TRILOGY
CLARA'S BEST
WRIGHT’S LAKE
Lord willing, once or twice each summer, we’d collect Cynthia, Ralph, the in-laws, the grandchildren, and as many of the extended family as could coordinate a week off, and we’d form an invasion force with Wright’s Lake as our intended target.
Wright’s lake is reached via an extended trek out Icehouse Road. It occupies the western edge of the Desolation Wilderness, at an elevation of almost 7,000 feet. Once home to the Washoe and Maidu Indians, it was later settled by the wright family, who established a dairy there in the 1850s. Eventually the area was acquired by the government and became part of the El Dorado National Forest. Back in the day, if you knew somebody who knew someone, you could arrange a 99-year lease on a small plot of property on its banks. During those days, the lake became home to a number of adorable, steeply pitched little cabins. Sadly, we knew no one, but, in 1929, the government established a public campground. Enter the Stancil’s.
It took only one visit in order for the area to firmly establish a death grip on Henry’s heart. From that point on it became an annual event. The small, natural lake is easily walked around in an hour or so. It’s the only lake we walked entirely around on a regular basis. The brilliant, indigo blue waters are only about eight feet deep, but when filled to capacity, it holds all the ice-cold snowmelt one could possibly require to cool off. Nestled quietly in a pristine, evergreen sheltered valley, it’s very possibly the most engaging lake in the entire crystal Basin area. Its popularity will easily vouch for that. At the lower end of the lake, a small, bridge-covered weir bravely leans into the frigid waters, raising the shallow resource several feet in depth. At the upper end, the long, leisurely lifecycle of a mountain lake has resulted in an accumulation of silt and sand. As a result, Gerle Creek snakes and meanders its way through a luxurious, green meadow, dotted with stunted conifers, granite boulders, wildflowers, and Skunk cabbage. From its treelined shores, the sandy, boulder-strewn banks climb quickly over a series of vast, granite-paved expanses, into what may well be God’s most spectacular achievement.
On this particular visit, our ranks formed gradually over one weekend, with the expectation of several of us enjoying the entire week. Arriving at first light, after leaving home in pitch-black in the wee hours of the morning, our little caravan was blessed to arrive to find Henry’s favorite campsite abandoned and inviting. Over the next several hours we set up half a dozen old canvas tents. Henry had built a dandy little teardrop camp trailer for hauling all our family’s gear, and both it and the Packard were packed to the rafters with every conceivable camp gear imaginable, except of course, our pillows which were once again forgotten at home. On the back of the teardrop trailer was a hatch which, when opened, revealed a small food preparation area. Among other camping essentials, there was an oak icebox. Along the way, we stopped off at kyburz and bought a huge, square block of ice which would keep the groceries cool all week. There was also a screen-covered pie safe that Waldo had built to help keep coons and chipmunks out of the cookies.
During the week we hiked and fished and swam to our hearts content. And we enjoyed countless hours of precious family time. Henry’s youthful spirit allowed him to blend seamlessly with the grandkids. With the exception of swimming, which he avoided like a cat, Henry was game for anything. He fascinated the children with his many creations with his pocketknife. He found a willow grove at water’s edge and carved several wooden whistles for the kid’s entertainment. He carved a dead sapling into a walking stick for himself, and on one occasion when the grandchildren collapsed groaning midway through a hike around the lake, he fashioned several dead pine limbs into stick horses which quickly renewed the children’s energies.
By midweek, everyone was sunburned, bug-bitten, and exhausted. Following a delicious camp diner, and then coffee, tall tales, and fellowship around the fire, everyone turned in early, with the expectation of sleeping in. About three o’clock in the morning, I was returning to camp after a visit to the facility’s outhouse, when a faint and disconcerting noise began approaching casually from the meadow. Moments later, the quiet solitude reverberated with the hellacious clanking of cowbells as a big, old bull, enroot to greener pastures, led a procession of bony hipped Holsteins right through the middle of camp!
They congregated briefly in order to nose through our sleeping bags and relieve themselves by the fire, before moseying off casually into the darkness, amid the frantic shrieking of terrified children, panicked bursts of unrepeatable language, and the crash and clatter of overturning camp gear. Suffice it to say, nobody slept in. We spent much of the next day swamping out and restoring our camp.
The next night promised to go better. That evening, Ivy brought out chocolate chip cookies, and the kids were determined to frost them with peanut butter. They were mighty tasty if ya managed to warsh ‘em down! The coffee was hot, the mountain air, invigorating, and I sat by the fire with the folks I love most in the world. I’m pretty sure this is how God meant life to be.
Following a long, leisurely evening of fond memories and tomfoolery, the old folks retired to their tents and Henry and I spread our blankets by the light of the moon. We reclined in our sleeping bags, side by side that night, holding hands and watching the stars; eternity before us and around us the jewels of our heart; a picture of contentment, joy, and perfect peace.
The following morning around five o’clock, I was sleeping like a baby, when something cracked me with a vengeance on the head! As I lay there, trying to gather my wits and diagnose my smarting, a resounding clank issued from the graniteware coffee pot. Having retreated into a fetal position, I was fighting desperately to remain unconscious, when something pelted a nearby rock and splattered my face with ice. With this I sat up instantly and scanned the camp! Additional bombardments began peppering the camp, and all at once something landed in my lap. Examining the little intruder, I discovered a hailstone about the size of a marble. Within moments the occasional pelting built to a fever pitch and the deluge threatened to bury us in our bags.
Just as my poor sleep muddled mind was preparing to dictate some action, the camp lit up with a nearby lightning strike; thunder followed instantly, and gale force winds began to ravage the camp! Suddenly the previously peaceful scene took on all the urgency of an angry ant’s nest! Tents began abandoning their posts and threatening to lite off for the territories! The unsecured canvas abruptly abandoned the kid’s, subjecting its unsuspecting inhabitants to the onslaught of hail and a good deal of unrestrained caterwauling!
I sprang to my feet and embedded my toe in a big old slab of granite, and the camp came alive with frantic folks in nightgowns! Springing from his cot in a red cotton nightshirt, Ralph became hopelessly entangled in the tent support, and wet canvas came down around Cynthia’s ears. I struggled to light a lantern, donned a robe, and rushed to assist the kids.
The combination of the children’s unsettling outbursts and the heartening glow of my flickering lantern, quickly drew a number of evacuees to the Packard. Henry fought to secure additional canvas over our refuge as half a dozen soggy grandchildren crowded inside to escape the pummeling hail.
Once our initial fright had subsided, Cynthia became amused and gave a giggle. Henry was the first to give our assembly voice. “Well, Jeez Louise!” He articulated disgustedly, “so much for sleeping in!” And the whole congregation laughed until we cried! Henry and I sat with the little ones in our laps, cowering from the thunder and hugging each other for warmth. Teeth chattered, nightshirts dripped, and we listened to the rain on our canvass-covered Packard.
Thirty minutes later the storm subsided and Cynthia peeked from the canvas and gave the all clear. The unexpected deluge had beaten the collapsed tents flat and covered most everything with half an inch of hail. The campfire was stone-cold, and all our bedding soaked! Ralph set about resuscitating the campfire, and we tied a rope to several trees and hung the soggy bedding out to dry.
The towering thunderheads flashed intermittently as they slowly advanced to the north, and eventually the welcome sun peeked over the ridge. Despite our best efforts, the children could not be reconciled to sleep. I dried their hair and assisted with nature calls, and eventually chaos relented and order returned. The campfire being reconstituted, Henry fed it lavishly with pinecones and pitchy limbs, until at last it responded and produced a spectacular blaze! The dry, pitch-laden fuel cracked and popped intermittently, and the nighty-clad children formed ranks and gathered round. They warmed quickly by the crackling fire, and we tried unsuccessfully to get them to wear their shoes.
Within thirty minutes the full sun had made short work of our accumulation of hail and the temperature gradually warmed back into the seventies. Henry and I led an expedition to bring back additional firewood, and our party returned to the welcome aroma of smoked bacon and heating griddles. Cynthia started the bacon frying and Ivy and I began peeling potatoes.
Waldo had brought along his big graniteware coffee pot. Once it was boiling; he prepared to add the coffee. Rolling up his sleeves, he reached into the burlap bag and meticulously brought out three handfuls, as he counted, “That’s one for me, and one for you, and one more for the pot.” Then he brought out his pocket watch and noted the time. “Three minutes ought to do it.” He said, carefully winding his timepiece, “peel an eye and holler if she starts to boil over.” Leaving me to observe the pot, he walked to the tailgate where Ivy was cracking eggs. He selected several pieces of eggshell, eyed them approvingly and returned to the boiling pot. “Has it been three minutes?” he enquired, checking his timepiece. Hearing no reply, he glanced at his watch and suggested that was close enough. Removing the pot and observing the swirling froth in the top, he set it to rest and allow the grounds to settle. After a moment he lifted the lid and dropped in the handful of shells. “That’ll help settle the grounds.” He says, “Don’t ask me why, but it always worked for Dad.”
By this time, we had the batter prepared; Ivy poured it on the griddle, and the aroma in camp was enough to drive me wild! Once Waldo’s mother had produced several healthy stacks of pancakes, Ivy cooked the remaining batter, producing animal-shaped cakes for all the kids. Golden brown with melted butter and awash in maple syrup, you can’t beat pancakes eaten by a crackling fire. I’ll remember that breakfast till the good Lord calls me home! We had hotcakes & bacon with scrambled eggs, a huge pan of hash-browned potatoes, and I don’t believe I’ve ever enjoyed coffee more! The smell of the campfire, the melodious call of Steller’s jays, and the invigorating mountain air, all left an impression embedded in my soul.
During the remaining week, we went hiking and swimming, took afternoon naps, and enjoyed a snipe hunt that the kids won’t soon forget, but looking back, I treasure the fellowship most. That week with my family and the jewels of my heart, produced memories of loved ones I’ll treasure for the rest of my days. When I make it to Heaven and the Lord sees me in and asks how my best days were spent, I’ll remind him of the week that we spent up at Loon, when we camped in that old canvas tent.
Copyright ©
Shannon T. Casebeer
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