A Mysterious Place: Reservation Lake

 

Camping. Even for old geezers such as ourselves, camping can hardly be described as an adventure. A whole industry has developed around the sole objective to make every aspect of camping comfortable and luxurious. Not only that, but every time I go online, I'm barraged by a sea of “influencers” who are there to tell me what to do, where to go and how to maximize my experience.

Bah. The only thing I watch the influencers for is to find out where NOT to go. And the only luxury item I need out there is a cooler full of beer. Case in point, I had a week off last month with nothing particular to do so I told the old lady we we going somewhere cool to camp for a few days. In the middle of monsoon season. In the middle of Nowhere, Indian Reservation. With tent and all our luxurious 30 year old camping gear.

Friends said we were crazy. They were predicting violent thunderstorms that week. It was all unknown dirt roads back in there, no cell service and the reservation has a reputation of being, well, let's say ambivalent about the safety of visitors. Whatever. The few times in my life I've canceled plans because of weather, I've mostly regretted it. And it's camping. What could go wrong?

So using Google Earth (the one piece of tech I wholly embrace) I picked a spot way back in. It was a little lake called Reservation Lake. There wasn't much information on it other than it held the state record for brown trout. That was all I needed to know. After researching the unusual permit system for the White Mountain Apache rez ( $120 dollars for two nights including camping, fishing and watercraft (kayaks), and a little spousal arm twisting, we were off.

It was a long five and a half hour drive, but a pretty one along the Mogollon Rim. We were in the pines by the first hour and stayed in them the rest of the way. Strawberry, Pine, Payson, Heber, Show Low, Pinetop... The little towns finally gave way to wilderness. When we stopped in Hon-Dah to pay for permits, the sky was already lowering, distant thunder was rumbling and soon we were driving through rain. The 105 temps we left at home had suddenly turned to 70. Soon after the turnoff to Sunrise, the cell signal died away and would never be seen again. Thank God.

The forest at that elevation was thick with spruce, fir and giant aspens. We stopped and looked at looked at the carvings on some of the bigger aspens. I don't know if they were genuine or not but we found one date of 1914 and couple more dated 1938. Despite the rain, the road was not all terrible and the truck hardly got muddy on the twenty or so miles of back roads to the lake. Sigh. You can't have everything.

The lake itself was beautiful. Sitting just over 9,000 feet, it is Arizona's second highest lake. Tall trees, green meadows and swooping mountain tops made the view magnificent. Ospreys, Great Blue Herons, Bald Eagles and a rookery of Cormorants patrolled the shores. Elk (and cattle) could be heard in the distance. For three days it was our little slice of heaven. Yes, in the afternoons, we sat in our camp chairs and watched the storms build around us. Finally we'd have to dash to the tent, where we holed up through the brief downpours while playing cards. At dawn and dusk I was was out on the glassy waters fishing. Beautiful.

The campground, however, was a curious place. An old wooden sign saying “Knob Hill” led to a hilltop clearing of... Well, there was no designated sites, just old wooden picnic tables scattered here and there, primitive rock fire pits and a couple very old, falling down outhouses. There was a newer pit toilet located near the “store and marina.” Which, it turned out, was boarded up. The deck was falling in. The floating dock had been hauled up on shore years ago and the cracked and broken concrete boat ramp ended abruptly short of the water in a rather dramatic drop-off. Along the lake sat a couple of waterfront cabins, also apparently boarded up for years.

There was nobody there. Nobody in the main campground. Nobody at the dock. There was an encampment of RVs, tents, tarps and gazebos at the very end of the campground –which was maybe the seasonal camp host? Even though there was a couple vehicles there, we never saw anyone moving around. There were a couple people camped in the woods across the lake. Daily there were a few small boats and kayaks launched from a meadow at the far end of the lake. Other than that... It was us.

As the “campground” was on top of hill and little ways from the lake, we decided just to put the truck in 4X4 and drive down to the shore of the lake. There was no signs or no supervision saying we couldn't. We parked the truck and our lawn chairs on the concrete slab of a long disappeared building and pitched the tent in a grassy lawn area next to it. From there it was twenty yards or so to the lake. Ideal.

The lake shore itself was crazy too. Like walking back into time. Remember the old pull-tab beer cans? I'm pretty sure they were phased out in the early 70s. Here, the shore was littered with old pulls tabs and even a few cans. Do you remember when Powerbait came in glass jars? Me neither. But Debi picked up a couple dozen of them along the shore. What the heck? Has this trash been sitting there since 1975?

There were mysteries here. We had so many questions. Apparently this was quite the place fifty years ago. A marina, store, cabins... At one time the tribe had big plans for this place. Why did they abandon them? Why was there nobody here? Internet research at a later date provided no answers either. Most listings still included the store, marina and cabins as “amenities” even though it was obvious that none had been used in decades.

I like a good mystery and I like out of the way places. I'd go back in a heartbeat except for the biggest mystery of all.

Why wasn't there any fish?

And then the Romanians Arrived...

 

It was late afternoon and Paul and I were sitting in our camp chairs at the edge of an empty lake, little waves lapping at out toes, as we savored the first beer of the day. We were literally in the middle of nowhere, my truck parked behind us, our tents set up on the sandy beach and the kayaks beached off to the side. It had been a long and dusty ride back in to this seldom visited part of Lake Mohave, but the payoff couldn't have been better. We were all alone; had been since we pulled in two nights ago. True, the fishing had stunk but the campsite was one in a million. The star-filled skies at night complete with coyote serenade. The crystal clear water. The moon like landscape of the Mohave desert. Up on the gravel ridge above camp, a line of Gamble's quail trotted along. A ground squirrel rustled in the bushes. Vultures hovered effortless above us in the stiff breeze off of the lake. Not too many places left in the world where you can drive up to a lake and just park and be completely alone. We were feeling quite content and not just a little pleased with ourselves.

And then the Romanians arrived.

The silence was broken by the sound of the twin inboard motors of a 30 foot cruiser as it roared around the point of the cove and turned directly for our beach. We watched with irritation as the pilot expertly cut the engines at just the right time and the big boat cruised gently into the sandy beach. A lady in a bikini and a black lab hopped out and secured the bow while the captain, a big burly man with a healthy beer gut, surveyed the scene with his hands on his hips. He looked at us. He looked at our fishing kayaks. He looked at us again.

“HEY YOU GUYS! THERE'S A BIG BOIL OF FISH RIGHT OUT THERE! FISH EVERYWHERE MAN!” He then reached down into his live well and pulled out a massive striped bass.

We both jumped out of our camp chair in disbelief and looked at at the lake. The man started laughing uproariously. “NO MAN, I'M JUST MESSIN' WITH YOU. THERE'S NO BOILS. NOT TIL AUGUST OR SEPTEMEBR. WE CAUGHT THIS ONE EARLY MORNING. WAY UP LAKE! “HA! YOU SHOULDA SAW YOUR FACES! YOU COME TO DINNER TONIGHT. WE EAT THE FISH!””

The big man disembarked from the boat with surprising agility and strode up the beach to greet us. We shook hands and he introduced himself as Orlando. “THIS IS BEST BEACH ON THE LAKE. THE OTHERS? TOO MANY PEOPLE. YOU SHARE WITH US, WE SHARE DINNER!”

As good as his word, a couple hours later, he waved us over. “Come, my friends. Have some dinner with us!”

We followed him back up the beach to his camp and introductions and beers were exchanged. Orlando was a big burly guy with an oversize personality that reminded me of John Belushi. I capitalize his dialogue because that is how he talked—with gusto and boundless enthusiasm. Elena was his wife/girlfriend who sat aside in a chair with a book and only committed to the conversation in quips. And Sergio was a stern, tall, muscular man who had appeared out of nowhere. A quiet man with a thicker accent, he was doing all the cooking. Apparently, he had driven in on the same trail he had and had quietly made camp unobtrusively back in the shrub. They were Romanians, we quickly discovered, who were living in Las Vegas.

Ah, Romanian mafia, we thought. Orlando could've have been the big boss and Orlando was the muscle. Not that we cared at the moment as they passed out cheap beers and Sergio produced the hot fried bass with fresh pico de gallo and tortillas. If I have had better tasting fish in my life I don't remember it. And something that good is not something you would forget. “HAVE MORE! HAVE MORE. HAVE ANOTHER BEER!”

The conversation quickly turned to fishing. They say love is the universal language, but I disagree. For men it is fishing. Though for these guys fishing and love were synonymous. They were passionate. On this lake they were primarily interested in the big stripers but when we told him we were focusing on largemouth—and had been skunked so far—they proceeded to tell us what what we were doing wrong. Being what passed for locals in this place, we listened intently to their advice. Seems like we were in the wrong part of the lake. We needed to be on the other side and near the places where the lake constricts.

“WE TAKE YOU THERE TOMORROW! WE'LL PUT YOUR KAYAKS ON THE BOAT AND TAKE YOU ACROSS. OR YOU CAN DO STRIPER FISHING WITH US IN MORNING!”

As the beers flowed, the phones came out and Orlando started scrolling through his fish pictures. Bass tournaments (I CAME IN THIRD!), to ice fishing in Northern Nevada. (WE ARE FROM COLD PART OF ROMANIA. WE LIKE THE SNOW) Orlando was especially proud of his phone apps. “YOU NEED ONX OUTDOORS. BEST APP. WORTH THE PRICE. AND THIS WIND APP. LOOK. IT PREDICTS THE WIND AND THE DIRECTION. VERY HELPFUL. STARLINK! YOU NEED STARLINK. NO CELL SIGNAL OUT HERE!”

Sergio took me aside and started showing me pictures of tuna fishing in the Sea of Cortez in Mexico. I asked him if he had seen any whales down there. He then proceeded to tell me a story about hooking a whale in a twenty foot boat We talked sharks and manta rays and the current political climate in Mexico. “I no longer feel quite safe down there,” he confessed..

We started talking about where we were from, where we had fished, where we wanted to fish. Turns out they had originally settled near Vail, a place that Paul had also lived near. They started comparing notes-- talking about places they knew—Beaver Creek, Minturn... “MINTURN! NOBODY KNOWS MINTURN,” Orlando roared uproariously. He thought it was the funniest thing. Turns out they lived in similar places at similar times. It was a small world, I observed. “YES! YES! SMALL WORLD!”

Suddenly on this empty beach in the middle of the Mohave desert, a couple meat cutters from Arizona and a couple of Romanians from Las Vegas, were all best friends. And why not? We had this beautiful place, interesting company, delicious food and cold beer.

And it was, indeed, a small world.

Precious Memory

 

I love dreams: the weirdness, the plasticity, the ethereal quality of them. Often I lie in bed in the morning and play with them in my mind. You can probe them, shape them, and sometimes even continue them.

Memories are much the same. The same plasticity. Scientists say that every time you take a memory out of long term storage and review it, you change it ever so slightly. It's easy to distrust memories for that reason. And as the years go by, sometimes you wonder if they ever happened at all.

For instance I remember riding my mountain bike through Fry Park, a backcountry meadow near Flagstaff, and from out of the trees ran a herd of elk. They actually ran along side of me for a while, before speeding away and crossing the road and disappearing into the woods on the other side. In my memory some were bugling. It is one of my favorite memories. As I've retold the story and reexamined in my mind, I had began to doubt it's authenticity. Surely it hadn't happened like that. Surely, I just saw them running close by or crossing the road in front of me and just embellished it. And of course they weren't bugling in the daytime...

But then it happened again.

I was riding my gravel bike out on Sycamore Canyon road. As I came up over a hill, I saw a herd of antelope crossing the road. Half were across the road and half not, when they noticed me coming. Both groups turned and ran down the side of the road. As I was on a downhill slope, I was moving quickly and soon had antelope running on both sides of me. For one thrilling moment, I was part of the herd! Oh to be an antelope running free through the desert! For a brief second I maintained pace with these beautiful graceful creatures and then they shifted into another gear. With jaw dropping speed the antelope on my right surged ahead, bounded across the road and both groups vanished into the desert hills without a trace.

Leaving just a memory.

It confirmed the old memory and what I already knew to be true: riding a bicycle down desert roads or forest trails, you see more wildlife than even hiking. You are on them so quickly and quietly that they are caught by surprise. (Earlier that day I had rode through a herd of range cattle who just stood in the road and stared at me—making me slow to a crawl and weave carefully in between them). I shouldn't have doubted the memory. I should have celebrated it. Even if it wasn't 100% historically accurate, it was emotionally genuine. And like all great dreams and memories, should be savored without guilt.

The Crux

 

As I near retirement, I've been thinking a lot about my place in society. Like a lot of people, I am frustrated and angered by the increasing complexity and relentless commercialization of absolutely everything. Technology is spiraling out of control and is being weaponized by the corporate profit monster as means of selling us yet more subscriptions and crap we don't need. Our very attention has been commodified. We are caught in an elaborate shell game in which we are ultimately the rubes. Knowing this and escaping it, however, are two very different propositions.

The feeling isn't exactly new. I've always felt a little out-of-step with society. As I slowly succumbed to the wage-slave rat-race, there has always been an internal itch that knew there was a better way to live. This feeling isn't unique. Many wrestle with it. And it is this complex dilemma that is explored in depth in the the new novel, Crux, by Gabriel Tallent. Crux is a story about two teenage aspiring rock climbers coming to grips with their dreams and their families and their obligations and reality. Dan is a gifted genius-level scholar while Tamma is a brash, irrepressible force of nature. They are bonded through their linked and dysfunctional families and the transformative art of rock climbing. They dream of something better. Bigger. Purer.

Dan when explaining to his high school counselor why he's considering not going to college, says:

“It means opting out of the valorized status economy. Live in a vehicle. Sleep in the wilderness. Work, but only save up enough money to keep climbing. Own little, buy less, and see wild, beautiful places while there are wild beautiful places left. I love climbing. It's the only thing that's kept me alive these last few years. That and this friendship that I have. My mom is not a stable person and sometimes I think that I may not be stable, either. All my life people have called me gifted and sometimes I wonder if really what I have is anxiety and depression, if my giftedness isn't really a terror, which I carry around, all the time, and which spurs me to perform at a high level. Terror that the world is fundamentally insecure. That the bottom could drop out of it, at any time. That if I am not brilliant and high performing, my parents will stop loving me. But, also, terror at myself, at who I may become. So maybe my giftedness is not going to translate to a great life... Maybe the ordinary thing, the college and a career thing, it's not gonna work for me. So maybe I need to turn back and face it. The terror, I mean. When I look around, it's everybody living these purposeless lives they don't understand, lives they don't enjoy, forced from one thing to the next, working jobs they hate for a life in which they find no meaning, and it looks like there's nothing else, no hope or beauty anywhere, in anyone's lives, no one knows where to find it, no one knows where it went, or why its gone, everywhere you turn there's no hope, no chance, no way forward, no one I ever met sees any point in it, no one thinks anything is possible, and at the same time, they can't stop grinding for money, and I don't want that for myself, I don't want to go to school and have people tell me what things mean so I will be content and effective working whatever job comes after. I am suspicious of the well-accepted answers. I want to go out there in the desert and see for myself. I want to stay up nights in the back of the truck reading... And when I look at who's going to college, I mostly see kids that want to get a degree and be credentialed to get jobs and have things and security. I don't want that; I want to go out onto the White Rim with my friend and climb sandstone towers at the peril of our lives, swim in the Colorado River, wander slot canyons, and search out Anasazi ruins hidden in hanging valleys. It is one of the last places, maybe the very last place, where you can still dirtbag in America the way the old-school climbers did. You can sleep in canyons and washes at night with other climbers, all with campfire, beer and weed, frying up tacos beneath cottonwood trees while people play guitar and read poetry. There are risk-takers, misfits, and weirdos out there. People searching for meaning, measuring their lives not by how insulated they are from the vicissitudes of fortune, but by their incandescent proximity to the real. And my buddy and I, we would do something great, something extraordinary, we could forge a life glorious and risky, honorable even: Full of beauty, every moment, no matter how scary, how painful, how difficult, full, at least, of the gorgeousness of real places and real people, totally unlike the skid mark I see stretched out before me—if we get this chance I think we could go to the very ends of the earth and stare off the side and come back with a story to tell. My buddy, she believes that such a story might change this nation for the better, at least a little bit, and I'm not at all sure that she's wrong.”

Wow. If only I'd been that self-aware and literate at that age. Still, even he cannot break the bounds of expectation. In the end he does what everybody wants him to do:

“I wanted to go with you,” Dan said, “but I couldn't face it it. There's something wrong with me. I'm scared all the time and I'm scared of all the good things.”

His story touched home for me. I wasn't a teenager, but I was very young when I was hanging out with Mark and Joel, spending hours climbing around on little bouldering problems and debating the meaning of life, what our future should look like and just enjoying the outdoors and friendship. At the time, I was working full time in the grocery store, but I was also playing in a band, writing novels and had just secured a literary agent. The future looked limitless.

Alas, the bonds of gravity and society are strong. I never did breakthrough. We never climbed anything of note and I never sold a novel. Slowly, ever so slowly, that menial job, that at one time was going to be just a colorful footnote in my biography, became my life. Mostly I hated it. The long physical hours, the erratic schedules, , the soul-crushing weekends and holidays, the emotional demands of dealing with the public on a daily basis. I know it wasn't the ideal life. But, you know what? The truth is there a damn few “good” jobs in a rural area (and living in a city was nonnegotiable). And the easy path isn't easy. I worked my ass off. And I paid my bills. For someone like me there was no safety net, so there was no alternative. I made a home, I raised a family. I had fun when I could. I had many mini adventures. Though I have a few regrets, mostly I feel I did the best I could.

Now as I near retirement, I feel like that kid at the base of the boulder. The future, though possibly short, is wide open. I will soon be free and, this time, I'm hoping I will make the most of it.