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?
