It's a dangerous thing to have too much time on your hands. Teenagers hear that all the time and it's true for those of us in our "golden years." Realizing this, I approached Jeanne Stockman, Smith Valley librarian and that's how the Readers, Writers, Roundtable got started. We meet every first and third Thursday of the month so please come join us. Our big news is a field trip to the Circle H Guest Ranch of Bridgeport for one of our meetings.
If you ever went on a field trip back in grammar school, you can guess how excited we all were in the parking lot outside the library, just jabbering like magpies. Finally I had to be quite firm. Occasionally the persona of George C. Scott doing Patton in the movies comes over me.
"We'll have lunch at the Hays St. Café in Bridgeport, then go to the museum and show up at the Hunewill Ranch at 2:30 for our meeting," I proclaimed.
Dave, our motorcyclist member instantly volunteered, "I'll go on ahead to the café and tell them we're coming," and sped away even before I could say "permission granted."
The Hays St. Café in Bridgeport sparkles with clean efficiency. Glossy wood tables, green curtains flanking the windows and a gorgeous mountain view. Dave was beaming at the head of a table for 14 as I walked in. Mission accomplished. "Handsome Billy Miser" was seated next to him. Billy has snowy white hair, a smile that radiates goodwill and has the endearing habit of calling me "my brother." Len was to be our host for lunch. "I just had a windfall and would like to take the group to lunch," he proffered. Len has the amazing ability to recite great slabs of Shakespeare from memory. He recited Kipling's "If," the one that gives a recipe for what a boy must do to become a man. I felt like I still had work to do.
Within seconds, everyone was gabbing a mile a minute. Laura, with long brown hair, is a self proclaimed evangelist and was railing on about the healing properties of Xango, a holistic remedy that just hit the airwaves. I "amen'd" vociferously because it dropped my wife Orllyene's glucose count 40 points. Monita, another bright spot in our group, scoffs at chronological aging. She's so fragile that I liken her to an oak leaf in the fall. Last month she flew to Pennsylvania for a wedding, before that she spent time in Turkey and just rode back from Santa Cruz the night before on a bus. "What's a round trip ticket run, Monita?" I asked. "$65." she said. I'll tell you, if we all hadn't perfected the art of talkin' and eatin' at the same time, we'd still be there. Just six blocks away is a gem of a museum, vintage wood frame building, probably a school at one time. Sitting just inside the screen door was a woman who welcomed us cordially but still charged us out of $1.50 each.
Shelves and tables were brimming with old cooking apparatus, mining paraphernalia, tiny ladies shoes, pictures of Bridgeport in the '30s, Indian baskets and yellowing old newspapers.
"Be aware that a federal agent will travel between Bishop and Bridgeport next Tuesday to inventory horses and mules on each ranch and farm. Owners will be compensated if conscription is necessary." There it was in black and white...Dec. 4, 1941. Horses and mules needed in case of war. Come on now, you can't get news like that on CNN.
Visualize a thin ribbon of asphalt zigzagging through a meadow of knee high grass, rippling rivulets of ice cold water and you've got it. This is the road that snakes out of Bridgeport to Twin Lakes. About half way across the sea of grass, we turn off at a "Y" in the road. Ahead is a mountain that has been pummeled to resemble a bent and dimpled loaf of bread. Rising behind these foothills is a ridge of granite pinnacles, blunted knobs and slashed crevices. Patches of snow still linger in places. This is the domain of the Circle H Ranch, our destination.
Rust colored steers with white faces mingle with black and besmirched white ones, grazing contentedly. A locomotive size black bull stands immobile, locked in thought. "So many heifers....so little time."
Megan (our hostess) directs us to a side area to park our cars. A group of 20 horseriders stroll past. I can feel myself relax as I absorb the leisurely pace. We casually make our way to a Victorian mansion shrouded by tall Lombardy poplars. A thin mountain breeze rushes towards us. The two story dwelling (circa 1890) bristles with dormers and balconies, reigning serenely over two rows of cabins, ubiquitous sheds and a barn the size of Montana. Frivolous gingerbread trim adorns the chalky white porticos. Window boxes of crimson geraniums attach themselves to windowsills and tubs of yellow marigolds and razzle dazzle petunias pop up everywhere. From out of nowhere a heard of 30 unbridled horses gallop past and I catch my breath beside a bed of lavender, purple and white delphinium.
In 1861 our country was at war, as you well know, with itself. In the same year Napoleon Bonaparte Hunewill came to the conclusion that he would discard his dream of striking it rich. He saw the value in land, gobbled up homesteads, built a lumber mill, put together a herd of cattle and was soon supplying the miners at Bodie and Aurora. A tradition of ranching was forthcoming until the crash of '29. In 1931, with beef 3 cents a pound, Lenore and Stanley, the reigning Hunewills, decided to explore the possibility of a guest ranch.
Today the Circle H commands 4,500 acres and runs 2,000 head of cattle. Sixty guests a week come from all over the world to tussle with horses and cattle and get a taste of life on a working cattle ranch.
The mystery of why the "RWR" was invited to have a meeting at the Circle H can be solved by the name, Megan Hunewill Wright. She sparkles with energy, is a supercharged mother, wrangles 180 horses and is a member of our group.
From the front porch stoop, we enter the foyer. To the right, a large room, a steep stairway to the second floor directly in front and a passage way to the big farm kitchen straight ahead. Our meeting was in the parlor to our left. Oversized stuffed chairs, a high backed sofa and an assortment of wooden chairs circled the room.
Lacy curtains hung in front of tall rectangular windows. Next to me was a grand piano that had been shipped around the horn.
"I've asked Denise, to bake an apple pie, and there are three kinds of cookies, ice tea, lemonade, coffee in the kitchen." It was love at first sight. The first slice of 4-inch high, flaky crusted, freshly baked apple pie was mine. The trouble with instant gratification is that it doesn't last.
Our meeting was memorable but somewhat overshadowed by being in the grand old house. We were knee deep in history. Everything was as it was 75, a 100 years ago. Trail rides, campfires, cattle wrangling, three squares a day in an old fashioned glassed in dining room that looks our on grazing cattle, stoic mountains and waving meadow grass. Jan and Stan, presently the elders of the Hunewill clan are dedicated custodians of one of God's great locations. Their love and spirituality shows in their perpetual smiles and boundless hospitality.
We began our departure with a stroll around the grounds. Yellowing sunlight buffeted softly off the cabins and matronly mansion. A quietness settled over the weather worn poplars and the barn. All of us were filled with memories of a glorious day. Some of us were even filled with 4-inch high, baked from scratch, homemade apple pie.
-- Ron Walker is a resident of Smith Valley.
