Monday, September 2, 2013:
The early morning hours… that is the time the forest gets to
be the forest... when the only sounds are that of squirrels in the trees. And even
they don’t make much of a fuss until after the sun warms the bowers. Of course,
George, it is Labor Day weekend and I could've expected nothing more than a huge
amount of human machine noise last night… but it does amuse me to some degree
that folks think that getting out here is the place where any racket, that can be
made, can be made in the woods. Last night there were several four-wheelers
racing around and, as if that weren’t disturbing enough, someone began blasting
away with shot guns, rifles and pistols (hey, I'm a lifelong member in good standing with the NRA but...).
But, what
the heck, isn’t that what holidays in the woods are all about to most people…. Bring
your boom-boxes, bring your machines, bring your guns, bring everything that
you can’t make noise with “in civilization”” and let it all hang out here
because there ain’t nothing to disturb but the deer and a few bears… eh? Ah,
but this is Labor Day. It all goes back to normal tomorrow I suppose.
Gary and
Joy took me on a boat trip around the lake yesterday and I do enjoy a day on the water.
Cruising can be depressing, however, when I see the shoreline taken up with ostentatious
mini-mansions plopped down with lawns before a few yards of beachfront. Almost
extinct are the quaint cabins painted green or brown to blend in with the trees
enveloping them: there are still a few left hither and tither. And there are a few that are just as big as the ostentatious ones but blend in so well they are barely noticed. My eyes doesn't object to those examples. The lake that I
love so dearly still exists up on the north end to some extent but some fairly
obscene displays of ego are thrust onto what were once pristine beaches accessible
only by boat...
Everything
changes. Nothing stays the same… ever. And change comes to us incrementally. Wasn’t
there a time when changes came less abruptly? In my childhood this lake could
only be gotten to after enduring a hell of a long ride up a gravel and washboard
road from Priest River. Dad would pack up all our gear and an army surplus
canvass tent into the trunk of our 1950 Plymouth, with four kids in the back seat, to take us all
the way to the Reeder Bay campground (which consisted of a handful of campsite
overlooking the beach). The only cabins on the lake were ones nearby the
resorts. That is but a faded memory for most folks and many, even my age,
wouldn’t have known of it because the lake was too remote to get to… Ya had to
really want to be here.
Ahh, but
there is still some magic about this place. I make this pilgrimage every
year because I am revived by just sitting with my cup of coffee and listening
for the first chatter of the squirrels busy about perpetrations for winter. I will keep coming back as long as I can. Even though there were no gatherings around the campfire (real life interfered with my plans for this weekend) I still love it.
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