I consider myself to be blessed in certain aspects of my life. I have a beautiful wife and children, great parents and siblings, and a job that at times can be interesting. There is also one other thing that I count as a blessing and that is “The Cabin.” The Cabin is a family retreat, sitting on the edge of a lake that has been in our family for over 55 years. To me it is the most beautiful and serene place on the face of this planet. It is the place that I go to in my mind when I am seeking refuge from a bad day.
Just the thought of being there in “x” amount of days can usually get my blood pressure to drop, not permanently, but for a while. I have yet to have a guest come up, even a veteran of the High Sierras, who was not in complete and utter awe of its scenery. It is located in the Eastern High Sierras and that's as close to directions as you're going to get out of me, because too many people know about it already. My lips are sealed.
I have invited fishermen and non-fishermen alike, and all have found the trip exhilarating, even though fishing is the main draw. Especially today there is so much more to do than fishing. In many cases, just being there amongst the silver shimmering aspens, breathing the clear crisp air, and drinking what most people pay a dollar a bottle for coming right out of the tap, is enough.
Then there is the wildlife and wild it can be. The animated antics of the Disneyesque cast of characters is more entertaining than any thing you would see at the zoo. Maybe it's the spontaneity of the moment but whatever it is, it is enchanting to watch the reaction of the kids when the chipmunks or the raccoons come to call to put on their little shows.
We have two bird feeders. One is made of a large piece of driftwood that is free standing and another that is right under the picture window of the kitchen. In the mornings, it's chipmunk time. They race back and forth, as though they are on amphetamines, scurrying to pick up every last breadcrumb and piece of birdseed. Their cheeks about to explode, they jump off the bird feeder whenever a blue jay swoops down, just to reappear minutes later, looking for more.
At night the bigger beasts come out to play. At least once per trip we have been visited by one of the local brown bears that come over the mountain from Yosemite. The automatic lights outside the kitchen usually signal his arrival at which point my wife and I rush to see if the kids are still awake. First he goes for the hummingbird feeder, lapping up the sweet fluid like a large dog until it is empty. Next he is off to investigate the trashcan. He rips off the secured plastic lid with a pop and rummages through it until he is satisfied we have not put out anything he wants and he lumbers away towards the neighbors to entertain them for a while.
Then much later, the bandits of the night arrive, the raccoons. This year instead of the usual one or two at a time, we had four teenagers who, like most teenagers, were fearless, pushing the boundaries their adult counterparts would not. In order to get a better picture my wife opened the kitchen window (which has no screen on it) while the kids threw them miniature marshmallows. All the while I videotaped everything, wife, kids, and raccoons. It was a circus at midnight.
I began to lose sight of these simple pleasures when I was younger, especially when I was in my late teens to mid-twenties. For me, as with most at that age, you begin to take things for granted, thinking there are “cooler” places to be, “cooler” things to do than go the family cabin. Then as though waking from a bad dream you begin to say “gee maybe I should check out the cabin this summer.” Then, when you begin the drive up Interstate 395 and the scenery gets progressively more breathtaking with every mile you go, you begin to remember.
You remember childhood memories. Seeing Grandma Nonie (no-nee) standing at the end of the dock in her blue captain's hat, fishing gloves with the finger ends cut off, casting her bubble and fly out onto the silver ripples of the lake after the sun has retreated behind the mountain.
Teaching me the correct way to reel it in, slow and then fast, slow and then fast. “You have to fool the fish” she would tell me. Adding, “they have to think that fly is alive”.
This woman has never driven a day in her life. After my grandfather died in 1962, with the help of family and friends, she spent every summer at the cabin by herself, with the exception of when she had guests stay with her, until 1991. She was 87. She is 95 now and loves to hear the stories of what the family does when they go to the cabin. She is an amazing woman. She listens to the stories by her great grandchildren, who tell them with great excitement, as though Nonie is hearing about the chipmunks, bears, and raccoons for the first time. She smiles and nods knowingly, allowing them their moment.
I see the same apathy I expressed when I was younger in my nephew who has chosen not to go to the cabin for whatever reason he has. Although he did express a renewed interest when hearing that a new skateboard park had recently opened near the cabin. Marc, let me tell you, not a day goes by that I don't kick myself 10 times for every summer that went by that I didn't go up there. There is more to the cabin than fishing and you should give it another shot. There are only 27 cabins on that lake and no more will ever be built, and you have access to one. Don't let it pass you by.
Every year, after we have closed up after our stay, I stand by the lakeside soaking up the last few moments of the majestic surroundings. My wife tries to comfort me with the words “Well, only 355 days until you'll be back.” I bid goodbye to the silver shimmering leaves of the aspen trees and the silver glimmer of the lake as I hear the kids in the background saying goodbye to the cabin and every thing else associated with it as I turn and head for the car.
Sometimes everything that glitters is not gold-sometimes it's silver.
