Ahjumawi Lava Springs State Park

A golden eagle perched high in a poplar tree surveys his domain.  He sees something far below.  It’s a wary ground squirrel moving along the lava rocks.  The squirrel stops under the protective cover of a red and green leafed California redbud.  He looks all around; he seems to know he is being watched.  The eagle’s attention is diverted by a noisy flock of Canadian geese flying across Big Lake to the fields beyond.  When the eagle turns back, the squirrel has disappeared.  And so, once again, nature’s drama is played out in Ahjumawi Lava Springs State Park.

    Ahjumawi (Ah joo maw we) is a lonely place.  It’s located in northeastern California and is one of that state’s most primitive state parks, and it may be the least visited, as well.  Lassen Peak to the south and Mt. Shasta to the north are visible from many spots within the park.  Think of it, a state park that has no cars, no RVs, no crowded campsites, and for much of the time no humans.  In addition, there are no occupied buildings, only an abandoned farmhouse, a barn, and a 19th century trapper’s cabin. 

    There is a bit of a mystery as to the meaning of the Indian word, ahjumawi.  Some say it means, “where the waters come together,” while others maintain it’s the name the Indians, a band of the Pit River group, gave themselves, “the river people.”  Water was extremely important to the Ahjumawis.   In this area they found a plentiful supply of it from several lakes, ponds and the largest system of fresh water springs in the US.  All this water provided the Ahjumawis with an abundance of fish.  Along the park’s shore one can find ancient prehistoric fish traps.  They were comprised of a succession of increasingly smaller ponds, into which the Ahjumawis literally herded fish until all they had to do was reach down, grab and toss the fish ashore.  They were especially fond of suckerfish, which they smoked and ate head and all.

    As you might imagine, the park is accessible only by boat.  Visitors must bring their own; there are no rental boats available.  At a spot the locals call “The Rat Farm,” located a half-mile north of the town of McArthur, there is a launch site.  The waterway into the park passes over ancient lava flows.   In some places there are narrow channels between the barely submerged rocks.  The water is clear, so obstacles are visible to the watchful boater.  However, anyone not paying attention can easily scrape across a lava flow and do damage to a boat’s hull, or an engine’s prop. 

    Ahjumawi is a haven for nature lovers, photographers, canoeists, and people looking for contemplative solitude.  Some day Ahjumawi may have the kind of facilities that all the other state parks have.  But for now, anyone who enjoys the primitive will find this park ideal.  So load a boat with your fishing gear, your camera equipment, your artist palette, your bird watching binos, or your favorite book and go to Ahjumawi.  Just don’t be surprised if you find yourself there alone.

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Lake Tenaya

Lake Tenaya, located within Yosemite National Park, is named for a chief of the Yosemite Valley people, the Ahwahneechee.  Granite monoliths surround the lake and one particular dome stands out.  It’s called Pywiack (PIE wee ack), which was the Indian name for the lake.  (It's there nearest the center of the picture, with a line of trees between it and the lakeshore.)  I’ve always been drawn to that dome because of the magnificent tree that grows from a crack in its surface.  It clings tenaciously to the rock and defies the elements and gravity.  It’s hard to estimate how tall it is, but I’ll hazard a guess, 40 feet??  More than likely I’m off by several feet in either direction.  Imagine its roots that bored their way through a fissure in the rock.  They couldn’t have gone too far.  So how in the Hell does it stay upright?  Every time I go over the Tioga Pass, I pause for a moment and gaze in wonder at that tall pine.  And as I drive by the lake I usually reminisce about the times we camped at this wonderful alpine lake...

    Back in the early days of our marriage Linda and I were not quite as poor as church mice, but our budget was pretty darn tight, so what to do for a vacation became somewhat of a challenge.  Linda, having been a Girl Scout in her youth, was good at primitive camping, so we put her merit badges to good use.  At first all we had was what we could stuff into our Austin Healy Sprite.  Not much room there, so our camping equipment consisted of a large tarp, two sleeping bags, a Dutch oven, and a couple #10 cans, leaving just enough room for some food and a few articles of clothing.  Things got pretty luxurious when Linda’s folks gave us their old White Stag canvas tent.  When rolled up with its wood supports tuck neatly inside, it weighed a “ton,” but it had that elegant musty smell of good canvas.  We needed something bigger than the tiny Sprite, so when we could afford it, we purchased a Volvo station wagon.  It had just enough room for the tent, some extra equipment, food and child paraphernalia.  Our son, Greg, had come along and young kids require a lot of stuff, including a red Flexible Flyer wagon.  The red wagon wasn’t for Greg; it was for hauling all our camping equipment.  The campground at Lake Tenaya was not accessible by car.  You had to pack in your camping gear about a quarter mile.  Our favorite site was located right on the lakeshore.  For a hundred feet out the water was only about a foot deep, perfect for, five-year-old Greg.  He could splash around in it and because it was so shallow it was warmer than the rest of the lake, which is definitely an advantage considering Tenaya is an alpine lake filled with melted snow, in other words...brrrr.

    As I said we were primitive campers in those days, just the bare necessities and a comfortable tent for sleeping.  Linda made fabulous stews and soups in the Dutch oven and boiled water in the cans.  Ah, but the baths for Greg were even more of a tribute to good primitive camp methods.  After a day of playing, he was usually covered head to toe in dust, dirt and grime.  The bath had to be done quickly, the night air was cold, so a good fire, nice warm water in the Dutch oven, Greg standing on a flat rock, a dash of soap, a little scrubbing, a quick rinse, a dry off with the big beach towel and he was as good as new and ready for bed in a matter of moments.

    The lake, the Dutch oven, that tree, Greg getting a sponge bath and tent camping together make for some wonderful memories.  Doesn’t get much better than that. 

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Manzanar

The next time you’re traveling down the eastern side of California on US Highway 395, arguably one of this country’s premiere motor trips, stop off at Mazanar.  It’s near Lone Pine and practically next door to the Alabama Hills, where the likes of Hoppy, Gene, and Roy chased the bad guys.  But Manzanar’s saga was not the invention of Hollywood; it was the invention of World War II hysteria.  Shortly after Pearl Harbor, a little over 100,000 Japanese American citizens and Japanese aliens living on the West Coast were summarily rounded up and sent off to ten interment camps.  Manzanar was such a place.  These Japanese were thought to be possible threats to national security.  After the war when the internees had been released, all of Manzanar’s buildings, except for the sentry post and the gymnasium, were torn down, leaving very little testimony as to what took place there.  Fifty-nine years later, the National Park Service has opened an interpretive center on the site and work has begun to restore certain portions of the camp.

     I had a memorable experience there twenty years ago, long before the NPS had arrived.  I drove around Manzanar looking for what might want to be a photograph and wound up at the western boundary of the property.  There sat the cemetery, with a beautiful pristine white obelisk guarding the graves and the majestic Sierra Nevada Mountains in the background.  I parked my Vanagon, stepped out and immediately had the feeling I was being watched. There were no other cars, no other people, only open ground, but yet I definitely felt a presence.  Perhaps it was only my imagination working overtime; then again, who knows maybe I wasn't alone.  I pulled out my lawn chair, sat in the peace and quiet and enjoyed my lunch.  I counted six gravesites scattered in amongst sweet smelling sage.  I learned later that the rest were relocated closer to family members.  On top of the sage people had placed handmade origami cranes of all colors and sprinkled coins, and broken pieces of pottery.  Painted on the obelisk were three symbols, which later proved to be kanji.  During this time I had in-laws living in Japan.  When I got home, I sent them a picture of the obelisk and they had the kanji translated.  Years later on one of my return visits I asked the ranger at the interpretive center for a translation.  He said it meant “soul consoling tower.”  The translation I had received from Japan said the symbols meant "spirit comfort station.”  I prefer the latter; somehow it seems more appropriate.

     The picture of the obelisk is a recent one.  The NPS cleared away the sage, placed the origami and the pottery chips on the obelisk's ledges and the coins on a nearby rock.  By cleaning up the cemetery, the NPS has paid homage to those Japanese-American citizens who rest there.  And that was a good thing to do, but I do miss the sweet smelling sage and who knows perhaps the spirits do too.

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Laughlin, Nevada

Don Laughlin, the Colorado River casino magnate, was born and raised in Owatonna, Minnesota.  While in high school he earned money as a fur trapper.  He did well and being a born entrepreneur he took the profits and bought slot machines and installed them in hunting lodges, which eventually earned him $500 a week.  His high school principal gave him an ultimatum: get rid of the slots, pay more attention to homework or get out of high school.  Since Laughlin was making about three times what the principal was earning, he got out of school.

    In the late 1950s, Laughlin migrated to Las Vegas and bought the 101 Club, his first casino.  By 1964 he had sold the club and was looking for a new enterprise.  It always had been his aim to find a place on a state line because as he figured it, “you get much higher play there than anywhere else.”  In his Las Vegas club, he estimated nine out of every ten people were there just to have a drink, but on a state line all ten come to gamble.  One day he motored out to South Pointe, a tiny wide spot in the road located on the banks of the Colorado River at the southern tip of Nevada along the border with Arizona. There sat a run down eight room motel and cafe, so without blinking an eye he bought the place, moved his family into four of the rooms, served all you can eat chicken for 98 cents, installed twelve slot machines and a couple live gaming tables and by so doing hoped he could make some real money and that is exactly what he did!  The little run down motel soon became the high rise Riverside Hotel and Casino.  South Pointe got a name change and became Laughlin.  And the man from Owatonna did indeed make some real money; he made a fortune. 

    Today, there are eight other casinos, with 10,000 rooms, 60 restaurants catering to close to 5 million visitors each year.  You do the math.  

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Buckland's Station

Samuel S. Buckland left his home in Ohio in 1850 at age twenty-four.  He traveled south, got on a boat, sailed through the Panama Canal and wound up in California.  Later, he ventured into the western part of the Utah Territory, which would eventually become Nevada, and established a ranch along the Carson River at a logical stopping off place for hundreds of travelers who crossed the Great Basin on their way west.  In 1860 he built a log cabin for his family, a store and saloon for the travelers and corrals for cattle and horses.  He named the property Buckland’s Station. Then the enterprising Buckland constructed a bridge across the Carson River and charged a toll to cross: $.25 for pedestrians, $1.00 for buggies, $1.50 for light wagons and $2.00 for heavy wagons.  Before crossing the river, travelers stopped at the station and replaced their trail weary animals, replenished supplies, and swigged down rotgut whiskey.

    Until 1861 when nearby Fort Churchill was established, Buckland’s cabin served as a Pony Express Station, where riders changed horses.  Two months after beginning operation the station witnessed a remarkable feat of horsemanship.  “Pony Bob” Halsam, one of the most famous Pony Express riders, made the fastest trip ever, galloping 120 miles in 8 hours and 20 minutes - the message Halsam carried, Lincoln’s Inaugural Address.

    The lead picture isn't the original building on the property.  This house was constructed years later when Buckland acquired all of Fort Churchill’s buildings in 1870.  The army abandoned the fort that year and Buckland paid $750 for the privilege of carting away doors, windows, lumber and hardware.  He moved his family into the new building and rented out extra rooms to travelers.  Samuel Buckland, his wife Eliza, and six of their nine children are buried in the cemetery at  Fort Churchill.      

    In 1994, the Nevada Division of State Parks acquired the building.  Not long ago it was jacked up and given a new foundation and paint job.  Today it's all spruced up and is the interpretive center for the Fort Churchill State Historic Park.  Too bad, I liked the old look better, something about aging wood and peeling paint that gets to me.

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Fort Churchill

In a small valley nestled alongside the Carson River, in western Nevada, there is what remains of Nevada’s first military post, Fort Churchill.  These adobe ruins stand today in silent testimony to the West’s wild and woolly past.

    It was a time of conflict, a time of change.

    “Go WEST, young man!”

    Thar’s GOLD in them thar hills!”

    “LAND, rich land for the taking!”

    “SILVER!”

    People heeded the cries, packed up their belongings, climbed aboard their covered wagons, and set off west to the “Promise Land.”  Some of the places along the way were so inviting that many of the travelers stopped and put down roots.  At first, there existed a comparatively peaceful coexistence between the Indians, who had occupied the land for hundreds of years, and the settlers.  Beginning with the discovery of gold in California, in 1848, there began a steady increase in the numbers of Americans, passing through northern Nevada, along the Emigrant Trail.  These emigrants, for the most part, saw the Indians as obstacles to be removed.  A bloody conflict, known as the Paiute War was the result.  In 1860, embellished reports of atrocities by Indians at Williams Station, located at the modern-day Lahontan Reservoir, east of Carson City spread throughout the territory.  Talk of killings passed from person to person and with each telling the details grew more gruesome.  The many settlers, miners and travelers along Nevada’s Overland Route demanded protection.  The route went through the Bucklands Ranch.  In addition to the ranch, Sam Bucklands had established a station house from which he sold supplies to the emigrants and a toll bridge across the Carson River.  It was also a Pony Express change station.  It was the logical site for a military post.  A small part of the ranch was set aside and construction began.  The fort was named for the Army’s inspector-general, Brevet Brigadier General Sylvester Churchill.  Churchill’s name has been used several other times in Nevada, to wit: a county, a valley, a canyon, and a US Navy warship, the USS Churchill County.

            After only eleven years of operation the fort was abandoned and its materials auctioned off.  The adobe walls have since crumbled, roofs have deteriorated, and sage has covered the parade field.  Wind and rain have sculptured the adobe surfaces, rounding and smoothing them, creating interesting shapes, which makes Fort Churchill a great place to spend an afternoon photographing.  

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Gold Point, Nevada

As I cruised down US 95, I played a travel CD that I picked up free for the taking in Tonopah.  John Tyson got my full attention when he began talking about a gold mining ghost town.  Love those ghost towns!  So I followed Tyson’s directions, turned off 95 onto State Hwy 266, made a left turn onto State Hwy 774 and a little while later arrived in Gold Point, Nevada.  It’s a collection of ramshackle buildings, miner’s shacks, rusting metal, and abandoned equipment strewn over a big piece of high desert real estate.  Normally there are only seven people living in this relic, sixty miles from the nearest grocery store.  The jackrabbits and chukars outnumber the humans by as much as twenty to one.

    Herb Robbins, or as he calls himself, Sheriff Stone, owns practically all of Gold Point.  Robbins won a big casino jackpot and used the money to buy most of the land and then began restoring some of the buildings.  According to what I read on the Internet, he’s hoping to make Gold Point a tourist attraction.  Every Memorial Day weekend during the annual Chili Cook-Off, several hundred people show up.  The High Desert Drifters Western Historical Society routinely performs western reenactments in the town plaza.  His wife runs a bed and breakfast, renting out four old miner’s cabins and a house.  In addition, there are seven RV spaces available.

    I was sitting in my truck munching on a snack, when across the way several people came out of a small house.  Parked in the driveway was what must have been the family Suzuki.  A boy who looked to be eleven or twelve climbed into the car, got behind the wheel, fired up the engine, smoothly engaged a gear, and instantly popped the clutch.  The car lurched forward and died.  One of the adults walked over and said something to the boy.  Whatever he said worked because the next attempt was successful.  The adults watched as the kid zoomed off in a cloud of dust and disappeared over a low hill.  Off in the distance, I could hear the kid gunning the four cylinders making them do his bidding.  It reminded me of my first attempts at driving my family’s 1954 Dodge sedan with the semi-automatic transmission.  My first try was on the sly when my folks were away.  But this kid did it in full view of his family.  Only in a rural town can a kid drive off in the family car and do it with parents gleefully watching. 

    Gold Point has had good times, bad times and two other names: Lime Camp and Hornsilver.  It’s been open for business and closed often; the success or failure depended on the price of first, silver then gold.  During the down times, the town was always occupied with a few people.  Together, they watch out for each other and that is why there has never been any major problems or vandalism, as is the case with many other old mining towns.  It’s considered by many to be one of the best ghost towns in Nevada and a living history lesson of the best kind.  For me the fact that it has a whole lot of funk, junk and rust, well, that makes it just about perfect. 

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