An invitation to Lake Tahoe seemed rather tame after reading a thrilling story about Lake Tititaca of Inca empire fame. At 12,257 feet, Titicaca is the highest navigable lake in the world and is shared between Bolivia and Peru in the same way California and Nevada divide Lake Tahoe. I found it fascinating that Bolivia has a navy and yet is a landlocked country, a tempting conundrum for a fledgling "travel correspondent."
After jousting with "speeders" along I-80, we pull into a real estate office in Truckee. "Forget Google. Go back four ramps, take 267 to Kings Beach, turn right and Carnelian Bay is just up the road. Google hasn't discovered our new overpass yet," the kindly Realtor says, dismissing me.
Randy, our son, has reached the new "middle age," 50 and has rented a house on Carnelian Bay for a week so that our family can all be together. Randy was our rebel kid, shoulder length hair, motorcycle, really put us through the ringer. Now he owns a prominent property management company in Reno and is a wonderful provider and "pop." As a child, Randy always ordered from the right side of the menu, figuring if it costs a lot, it had to be good. His only flaw is, he's become a Republican.
Leaving Highway 28 in Carnelian Bay, (Pop. 350), I wished we were driving a Hummer. Mountain goats would have felt right at home. Stylish vacation homes, stained the color of honey, insinuate themselves randomly, giving the impression that trees are more important than where the house goes.
My excitement builds as we pull into the driveway of our new home. It's a two story Swiss style chalet type with everything but the cuckoo. Vaulted ceiling, floor to ceiling windows, marble kitchen counter tops and a 45 foot deck with a view of the Lake that is riveting. I feel myself attaching to the deck like a spore of wood. A cool breeze rolls up the hillside, heavy with the fragrance of pine. On the slope beneath us, pine trees soaring beyond reason frame our view. Across the Lake a collar of hills effectively confine the lake. The point of greatest depth of the Lake is 100 feet lower than Carson City.
Feeling a need to see the Lake up close, Marla, our daughter, says she'd like to join me for a look at Carnelian Bay. Marla has the sweet demeanor of Ingrid Bergman. She is gracious, caring and beautiful. She lives in New Jersey and I treasure each moment she's with us. In moments we walk into the Sierra Boat Company showroom, the kingpin of Carnelian Bay. Slim, sleek, speed boats of mahogany and teak outlined in chrome, fill the showroom. They're called woodies and are from the 30s and 40s. One might expect to see Errol Flynn, in blue blazer, yachting cap and white slacks, romancing a movie siren as they rooster tail a woodie into the sunset across the Lake.
We make our way to the end of the adjoining dock. It's late afternoon and the cobalt surface of the Lake is ruffled by skipping white caps. Ahead of us, the Lake recedes to the horizon, 22 miles away. We sit in silence, watching carefully moored boats bounce to the rhythm of the Lake. An elegant yacht approaches the wharf of the exclusive "Gar Wood" restaurant a few hundred yards to our right. The wind is too strong and she has to come in bow first instead of aft. Marla smiles in appreciation of the beauty of the Lake and the surrounding mountains. She makes me think of the toddler in pigtails I once took to the park to feed the ducks.
The next morning Orllyene, my wife, announces, "Shouldn't you be going now, before it gets too warm?" Tom, our artist son, has located two sugar pine trees nearby. Sugar pines are rare and drop pine cones an arms length long, well almost. These cones are a source of covetousness at our house around Christmas time. With water bottles ready, we march up the hill to an unmarked trail. The pace is set to accommodate grandpa and I catch the group glancing back in my direction. Jeffery, Ponderosa and spruce mix in great profundity and we have the woods to ourselves. Chipmunks scurry, garrulous blue jays rage as we plod on, up, down, over and through. We squeeze between 100 year old trees, crunch over rotting pine cones and pay homage to decaying logs as they recycle themselves. It's so still and quiet, just the muffled thud of our shoes in the powdery dust of the trail. Rosa, Randy's incredibly efficient wife, (behind every successful man is a ...etc...etc.) carefully poses us for a picture on a stone bridge over Watson Creek. No fences or obstructions, we're set free from restrictions. Next to a thicket of bushes, seeping moisture has mad a home for ferns. We chatter like children and excitedly stuff sugar pine cones into a bag we've brought along. Then we come to the second sugar pine tree. This one is the granddaddy of them all and most of the shorter cones are tossed. Eureka! Tom discovered a bonanza of sugar pine cones.
Days pass and I refine the art of leisure, discovering the hedonistic joys of a hot tub in various degrees of dress. A visit to an art show, and early morning Starbucks visit, a drive to Emerald Bay, but the most agreeable moments are spent on the deck. I read a compelling book but am diverted by the ever-present presence of the Lake. I consciously focus on the Lake, fully expecting it to communicate with me. Perhaps I'm meditating and don't know it. The Lake is constantly in motion, as if it's a living thing, or have I delved too deeply into the customs of the Indians around Titicaca? "Lakes are feminine, I'm sure of it. They're mysterious, carve attention." Once before I became seriously infatuated with a beautiful lake. As a timorous lad of 27, I adventured to Guatemala, the land of eternal spring. In Guatemala City I boarded a rickety bus, filled with Mayan Indians, dressed in bright red, blue and orange prints. Crammed the aisles where farmers clutching chickens, a piglet in an arm lock and bundles everywhere. The dirt road forked, climbed through cornfields into pine forests then careened over a ridge and dipped down past coffee fincas, adobe casitas and hectic gardens bursting with tropical flowers. We had arrived on the shores of Lake Atitlan. A trio of volcanos stood guard around the lake and at dusk, they would snag passing clouds, churning them into tumultuous sunsets of yellow, orange and red, finishing with a crescendo of violet.
So, what is this hold that lakes have over me? Beguiling, placid, defiant, sometimes lethal, but always beautiful. There is something deeply personal when we connect with a lake. We're apt to protect it, fawn over it, even try to tame it and in returns we are set aglow by the beauty of it.
A voice next to me said, "Sweetheart, I think we should consider a trip to Lake Louise next summer." "Really?" I say and look steadfastly at the Lake.
