Camping
We camped at Wright’s Lake for the first time when Austin was two, and returned every summer until a few years ago when sleeping on the ground and middle of the night pees in the bushes no longer appealed to me. Fred still goes, whether I join him or not. Over the years we have camped there with Austin, my sister Terri, our old dog Lilly, and various friends — Lynn and dear Carol every August for almost two decades, sometimes Charles, and once even David Roche.
It’s a lovely small mountain lake in Desolation Wilderness in the California Sierras, small enough to walk around in an hour and large enough to enjoy a satisfying paddle in the kayaks. The tents-only campground is right on the lake, while the RVs and trailers park a good distance away from the water, on the other side, out of sight and hearing. The tent sites are generous with room for two or three tents well separated, and offer a fire pit, bear box and picnic table. The water spigots and outhouses are not too far away. We prefer the sites on the uphill side, with giant boulders and more privacy. But the spaces across the road have their own charm, flat, large with ample shade.
Each year we watched nesting pairs of osprey and bald eagles fishing or perched in a tree. The osprey are surprisingly aggressive in keeping the eagles away from their young, chasing and harassing them whenever they fly too close. The osprey hover over the lake until they spot a trout, then dive and catch them. Then they point the fish’s head forward to achieve the best aerodynamic flight back to the nest to feed their chicks. The eagles, on the other hand, soar slowly until they swoop down and grab their prey with their claws. Sitting on the shore, or better yet on the lake in a kayak or inflatable boat, every evening at dusk the show goes on.
My favorite part is not the lake itself, however. Across the top of the lake from where we camp is the inlet to the headwater creek. It’s just wide enough to feel spacious, but narrow enough to feel sweetly held by the banks and by the reeds that line it further in. Depending on the snowfall in any given winter, the ride is higher or lower, but always moving from sun to shade to dappled sunlight on the water. Emerging from the well-defined creek into the open, marshy wetlands, we follow the secret small opening that leads to a hidden pond. That’s where I like to settle, the back of the kayak nudged into the grasses to hold me in place. There is a large pine tree where the osprey spread their wings to the sun in the early morning. Sometimes an eagle or even a great blue heron shows up to sun themselves nearby. Mallard and wood duck mamas lead a train of their little broods hunting for insects among the grasses that surround the pond, and water skippers ripple the surface.
I didn’t go this year and am so torn about going back. That mountain lake is a place of renewal for me — the ever-changing surface of the water, the clean air smelling of pine and warm dirt, the stars at night so bright you can see the Milky Way, (especially when leaving the tent at three in the morning to pee). I know, I’ve already mentioned that, but it’s a prominent feature of the outdoor living experience. I miss it terribly. How can I let that go for the sake of a bit of discomfort and inconvenience? Is that what is meant of getting old? I’m not ready. Next year, I’m going back.
