Nightglow Window

Snow In The Sierra

Camp Nelson sits at 5,000 feet in the Southern Sierra at the hem of Sequoia National Park. The town (population 250) is a sprinkling of houses (dubbed "cabins" by the locals) that rest on a bench halfway up a torturous, steep canyon that leads from the San Joaquin Valley flatlands up to nearly 8,000 feet.

Back in the 1920s to mid 1950s, before the era of air conditioning, Camp Nelson was a favorite haunt of the wives and families of the wealthy farmers and ranchers from the valley down below. When the temperature began to climb, so did the families. This was the heyday of Camp Nelson, and summertime life revolved around the Camp Nelson Lodge, a beautiful structure down by the creek that runs through town.

But then came the era of central air and the families stopped coming—or at least fewer made the trek up the switchbacks and hairpins. The lodge fell into neglect, then was shuttered, and the "town" faded. Today the lodge has reopened, but business is slack and the owners anal about what can (can't!) happen on its newly refurbished wood floors, parquet hallways, and long-dormant ballrooms.

The real hub of activity has moved down the hill a quarter mile, and centers around Pierpoint Springs: a restaurant, coffee shop, (well-used) bar, (lacking) grocery store, and post office—all in one building—with about 12 motel units out back.

Christy's mom, Debbie, was the owner of Pierpoint Springs for about six years, becoming the de facto mayor of this tightly knit, slightly inbred collection of retirees, derelicts, drunks, and gossipers. It was a fulltime job (plus some), and a millstone. She and her old husband (ol' lame-o no. 4) sold it a few years ago, and it was a tremendous relief.

Anyway, the Lodge, that relic of a bygone age, is up for sale again. They're asking something like two million dollars, but it would take another four million to refurbish and get an adequate marketing program in place. It feels left behind, like the rest of the town. A community half full of empty vacation homes.

It's not a bad drive from Carlsbad north. Well, we did the stop-and-start stutter typical whenever you head through L.A., like a bad case of the hiccups that you can't get rid of. Whenever our speedometer crept past 35 the red brake lights ahead would flare and everyone was on the brakes--yet again.

And so it was until we passed the tall buildings of downtown and started our gradual climb into the Valley and the Grapevine behind. The car is loaded, but negotiates the climb nicely. There are a few sprinkles, but the road is dry and we crest the Tejon Pass (4,400 feet) and begin the plunge down to the Central Valley below.

Runaway truck ramps appear halfway down and then again near the valley floor. Strange, and a bit worrying, that I find them so interesting. I point them out to the girls. I wonder what it would feel like to view those deep gravel runouts as the best (only?) option. To be glad they were there. The valley is somber, a heavy pall of grey clouds scud in from the west, harbingers of rain.

We stop for lunch in Bakersfield and then head out again on the smaller highway leading through Oildale. The horizon is peppered with old oil pumps, slowly rising and falling, lonely in the landscape and ceaseless. "They look like dinosaurs," says Sydney, which gets my agreement and a smile. Good imagination.

Arcade Fire ends (track 9!) and we slip into oldies from the late 70s and early 80s—Devo leads to the B-52's leads to The English Beat. Memories wrapped in sound, each track a bubble wrap for a different era. Special Beat Service takes me back to senior year in high school, sitting in the Little Theater, writing in ballpoint pen on my teal dock shoes. All a million years ago and yet there for the taking as the tracks reel out.

By Porterville it has begun to rain in earnest and the Wal-Mart trucks zoom by accompanied by a blast of water that splatters the windshield. We leave them behind as we climb out of Springville and head for the 16 miles of torture. The lake below looked like the Scottish Highlands, gray water backed by varying shades of grey hills as they recede towards the lowering horizon.

The rain turns slushy at around 2,500 feet, lingering on the windshield in large turgid blobs. A few thousand feet more and the Saab is telling me its 36 degrees out. Now the rain turns to heavy flakes and the girls go wild. Probably only the third time they've seen snow fall (although last New Year's when we were in Yosemite and it snow six feet in three days set the bar high for what they should expect).

I drive slowly. It's not sticking yet, but the trees are draped. We head higher and it begins to dump. Would be a powder hoot if I was going snowboarding. Now I only worry that we'll have to chain up before we get to Debbie's house. Sydney, reading me like a book, suddenly gets nervous about the roads. Christy keeps telling her how we timed it perfectly.

And we did.

It's still early afternoon when we pull up to the cabin and unload. It's dumping in large swirling flakes. There's a fire on and the inside of the house is warm, the windows offering wide views, and those are spectacular. I sit in a chair, legs stretched out before me, and daydream as the snow falls. For all my time "on snow" during my SNOWboarding Business days, I'm still captivated by snow. "I love all things that flow," said James Joyce, and who am I to argue?

This morning we wake to find eight inches of fluffy fresh under clearing skies. I put on my snow pants and snowboard boots (what else could I wear, my old leather hiking boots?) and join the girls outside. We have fun shaking trees and the snow cascades down all over us. Fun until a bowling ball sized piece of powder hits the back of my neck, coating my glasses and sending me in to the fire to get warm.

Sydney and I go for a walk, pushing through the untracked snow, down empty streets, smoke rising from just a few chimneys, cloud-wreathed mountains revealing our every horizon, the blue sky, her small hands carefully holding the camera as she gazes at the wonders all around her.