Trip to Bridgeport a good break from landscaping

After four straight days landscaping under the searing summer sun, I'm ready to take it easy. The solution, a trip to the Hunewill Guest Ranch in Bridgeport.

Our neighbor Lana generously allows me to drive her new Nissan (47mpg). Orllyene, my wife, settles comfortably in the back seat and Lana rides "shotgun." Driving a car with only 625 miles is like going on a first date.

The car is peppy and responsive. A far cry from my venerable but revered '91 Lincoln Towncar (24mpg). In minutes we are on Highway 338 and have "loosed the sizzling bonds of the high desert." The road curves repeatedly between shirred hillsides the color of mustard and tan; moments later it all changes as we plunge into an ocean of pinon pines.

The first glimpse of the Sweetwater Mountains is stunning and invites comparison to the Rockies. At their base is a rolling shelf of pastureland resplendently green. This is where the town of Sweetwater once was. Then past the dirt road to Hawthorne we connect with the East Walker River, a blue-ribbon catch and release trout stream. A tattered farm house is surrounded by milling cattle and looks like everyone just packed up and left. Lonely and little traveled, Highway 338 is the excursion you should save for out of town friends.

The road follows a narrow canyon with enticing views of the East Walker River then without warning rises and we see a broad body of water, miles and miles of meadows framed by bristling peaks of granite. What a skyline.

Breaking our journey in Bridgeport for a visit to the town's tiny "new owner" bakery, I buy a loaf of homemade squaw bread. "Thanks for coming to Bridgeport" I say to the charming young woman with an apron tied around her waist. She smiles and replies "well thank you....I appreciate that" and bustles away. Nothing validates a town's desirability more than its bakery.

We are now minutes from our destination, the Hunewill Guest Ranch. In 1864 Napoleon Hunewill was drawn to Bridgeport by the glitter of gold but soon learned that supplying lumber and beef to miners was more to his liking. Since then the ranch has thrived with the exception of the depression years. It was then, with beef selling at 3 cents a pound, that Lenore Hunewill decided to take in guests and the ranch was saved. Today her son Stan, and his wife Jan run the operation with the help of their supremely capable kids. Even their grandkids are primed to take over when the time comes.

We sail across the spreading meadow, nothing but green for miles and miles. No obstructions nor intrusions, natural or manmade, just luxuriant grasses fractured occasionally by tiny rippling streams. Bracketing the road are sleek rust colored cattle and prize winning Black Angus. Surely these must be the "chosen few" of the bovine world.

At a fork in the road, we turn toward a group of trees. Closer up we see a multi-storied white Victorian style house with green shutters. Surrounding this grand matriarch are guest cottages and vintage outbuildings plus an oversize barn capable of accommodating the 150 horses required for the guests.

We claim a table nestled among fledgling aspens beneath several grand old spruce. At the "feed barn" burgers are on the grill and a young staff bring trays of potato salad, macaroni salad, chips, and baked beans.

Seeing an acquaintance from Smith, I mosey over. She tells me she's going on a belated cruise to Italy. Last year her sister had to undergo a double mastectomy but this year the whole family, including the sister, are going. What heart warming news. On my way back to our table, I visit the dessert stand where I concoct a bowl of ice cream swimming in chocolate, caramel, and pineapple toppings.

Seconds later, I see Blair has joined Orllyene and Lana. Blair is a cyclotron of energy who splits atoms faster than I do infinitives. Her mind jumps from hypothesis to conclusion and immediately launches again. She recently published a children's book on chemistry. Cleverly crafted with a dash of humor, it's sure to be a winner. I mention the "chick flick" night she hosts. "Yes, once a month everyone comes over to my house and we have a great time. By the way, you'll just love 'The Jane Austin Book Club'" and a week later, sure enough through the efforts of Netflix, we love the movie.

Knowing Blair is a home-schooler, I ask how she handles the dual role of mom and teacher. A cloud crosses her face as she tries to explain how she does it. She is fully aware of the impressionability of a child's mind and her own maternal vulnerability. Her mind thrashes back and forth like high voltage wires suddenly set free. We are silent as she flays back and forth. Crushingly honest, I sense a loving heart and an intelligent mind at work in her home school role.

Blair leaves us and Lori flutters by. If Blair is gabardine, Lori is chiffon. However, there is steel beneath the gossamer exterior. After a long marriage that withered, Lori settled in Smith Valley where she designed and built a beautiful new home. When queried about her current plans, she says she's going on a retreat. "Where?" I ask. It seems that in 1996 she and a group of friends purchased a mountain cabin just up the road so now they can escape summer's rampage and come to the mountains when they want to. How forward thinking is that?

I realize how interesting the three women I've just spoken with are. Each one so open and trusting, not afraid to share their feelings. Men on the other hand, like to verbally arm wrestle before they get down to business.

Lana, Orllyene and I sit pensively, taking in all the activities around us then Orllyene gives me a nod and we put the icing on the cake. We introduce Lana to Twin Lakes.

The air is cool, the sky the color of sapphire and the lake's surface flutters like millions of butterflies wings. Ahead is a steep bulwark of granite that crests in shapes that resemble the organ pipes of the Mormon Tabernacle in Salt Lake City. What a study in beauty. Pausing to take it all in, I realize that the day's journey has been a tutorial excursion. Yes, I'm quite sure we're being home schooled by none other than Mother Nature.

Ron Walker lives in Smith