|
Life in North Idaho ... |
|
The Lake |
|
October 20, 2017 |
 |
By Mike Ashby
“The Lake.” It’s a term many of us are familiar
with from our childhood. Growing up in Bonners
Ferry in the 50s and 60s meant that during the
summer, you and your family were going to be
spending time at “The Lake.”
Never mind which lake it was, if someone said
“We’re going to ‘The Lake,’” everyone in the
family knew which lake they were referring to.
For my family, when dad said we were going to
spend the week at the lake, that meant we were
going to Pend Oreille Lake and stay at a
campground called Sam Owen. This lovely
campground was donated to the people of America
by Mr. and Mrs. Sam Owen. Dad always said the
Owen’s had known there would be need of public
access to the big lake, so they donated several
acres of their farm ground in perpetuity to the
U.S. government to be used as a campground and
lake access.
Some of the more fortunate among us had either
summer cabins or even permanent homes on a lake.
For the rest of us, camping in tents and eating
marshmallows at 11 o’clock at night under a full
moon with gentle waves lapping at the shore
remain some of our fondest memories. Of course,
floating all day on either an inner tube or air
mattress (which usually leaked), or fishing for
kokanee and trout would remain high on the list
of reminiscences.
And who can forget the first time you ever went
skinny dipping in “The Lake?”
The tents we had in that era were not the flimsy
easy-to-put-up affairs we use today. Those
things were made out of heavy, really heavy,
canvas and coated in an awful smelling substance
that was supposed to make the thing water proof.
Ya, right!
The first time it rained and you touched the
canvas, water would drip from that spot. I know
I certainly learned a few new words when Dad and
Mom would go to putting that tent up.
It had a frame of small slats of wood that had
to be put together outside and then stuck inside
the tent and installed in the correct spot on
the canvas. Since it was positively black in
there, one of them would hold a flashlight while
the other tried to get the thing together.
Asking what some of the words they were using
meant proved to be the wrong question to ask at
that time. Most of the time it was suggested we
youth go someplace else. More or less in that
language.
Starting your day at the lake, you would be
roused by birds singing to you at 4 a.m. This
was followed by trying to get to the camp fire
wearing your sleeping bag as a robe. Your trip
would be rewarded with the rich, pungent smell
of a breakfast of delightful pancakes, bacon,
eggs and hot chocolate.
As you enjoyed your breakfast, you would watch
in awe as the resident bald eagle that lived in
a tall snag would be busy catching his feast.
After breakfast, it was a whole day of just
plain goofing off.
What a neat thing for a kid to watch an adult
doing!
At some point, someone with a boat capable of
pulling water skiers would show up. The thrill
of getting up on the skis for the first time was
unforgettable! As the boat slowly (you thought
you were going a gazillion miles an hour) pulled
you around, your legs bent almost in half and
your arms straight out in front of you, you
fervently hoped “Mom” was watching.
But when you fell, and you always did, those old
life preservers, which were nothing more than a
ring of Styrofoam around your middle, would
pitch you face forward into the water. You would
do your best to stay upright while the boat
circled you, with your friends yelling at you to
“catch the rope, catch the rope.”
You were desperately trying not to drown and all
they could do was yell at you to catch a stupid
rope.
Night times in camp at the lake were a time of
entertainment as well. Who can forget an adult
trying to get a Coleman lantern or Coleman stove
lit?
Those things ran on a fuel called "white gas."
Dad would get a gallon of the stuff at Lindsay
Helmer before we left, with strict instructions
to me to “leave this dang stuff alone.” Once at
camp, the lantern and the stove would be filled
with this malodourous liquid. At that point, a
small pump would be jerked back and forth for
about an hour.
Once pressure was gained in the lantern, a small
knob was turned, at which time a loud hiss could
be heard.
A lit match would then be placed inside the
glass covering of said lantern which would then
result in a loud, very loud, whoosh. Maybe the
thing would light, and maybe it would not.
If not, another hour of pumping would commence.
Eventually the thing would light, but that
noticeable hiss was always there, and somebody
spent most of their evening pumping away on the
device. The same sort of scenario would be
followed for the Coleman stove, but the
flare-ups from that produced a whole horde of
new words.
Seems like camping contributed significantly to
my vocabulary.
Come the evening, we would gather around a
campfire while an uncle or auntie played a
musical instrument. Of course the preferred
instruments would be either a guitar or
harmonica.
Learning new songs was always memorable. “This
Land is Your Land,” “Kumbayah,” “Home on the
Range,” “Swing Low Sweet Chariot,”” Michael Row
the Boat Ashore” and so many others -- all part
of a day’s experience of being at "The Lake."
Perhaps the most memorable remembrance of your
stay at the lake would be how many times you
could or would "fall in love." Every summer
there seemed to be another special someone who
would steal your heart.
For some inexplicable reason, they always seemed
to live far away or even in a foreign country.
There were always moments of doubt that the
person would notice you, but then a smile and a
hello, and “You’re new here, aren’t you?” and a
new romance would be launched. You would sneak
out of your tent at night for a moonlit swim or
walk with your newfound love, and life just
never, ever, could get any better.
Pledging your love forever, you would part at
the end of summer, planning to write at least
seven letters every day. But of course you never
did, and soon another season would begin at “The
Lake” and the cycle would begin again.
Some of life’s most important lessons took place
at "The Lake."
How to flip a pancake so it landed square back
on the griddle and not half on the Coleman
stove. How to toast a marshmallow just so,
lightly browned, and not behaving as if it were
a blessed blowtorch designed to burn off your
eyebrows while you were trying to blow it out.
How to win a game of cards while avoiding the
hordes of flying critters hovering about the
lantern. How to find a bush that no one could
see you in because you simply could not make it
to the outhouse in the dark. How to put on a wet
swimming suit. How to tell your parents that
pushing your sister into the lake before she got
her swimsuit on was an accident. How the
wonderful preventative effects of suntan lotion
should be applied before one floats all day on
an air mattress in the hot August sun. How to
explain to your father that you really did not
mean to drop his favorite pole in the deepest
part of the lake.
How to behave as if the ghost stories being told
around the campfire were just that — stories —
and you were only quivering because you were
cold.
Last, but by no means the least, one must open
the can of beans prior to placing it in the fire
to warm.
Sometimes the memories of those days can be
triggered by a smell (burnt toast, an outhouse
aroma, a blister from a flaming ‘mallow) or
maybe even an innocent comment; “You sure you
know how to paddle a canoe?” A week at the lake
was many things to us boomers.
Some memories have been lost in the fog of time,
but one thing is for certain: Introducing
today’s youth to the lake is just as important
as it was when someone took us there when we
were kids. If there are young folk in your life
— nieces, nephews, cousins, church kids —
take them with you and introduce them to God’s
creation.
They will never forget those moments and your
days will be blessed with many more memories of
“The Lake.” |
|
Questions or comments about this
article?
Click here to e-mail! |
|
|
|
|
