Moons Over Whiskeytown

MOONS OVER WHISKEYTOWN

Our family and friends camp together every summer at Whiskeytown Lake and National Recreation Area near Redding, California. When we began the campouts, in l987, there were only a few older kids, including our daughter, Fawn. There were lots of little children. Our youngest son, Gino, was one of the littles. And there were adults...sort of.
Adults reserved the group site, a peninsula that we had all to ourselves. We sent out letters announcing the dates, collected money, bought provisions for and prepared a fajita dinner the first night, organized the potluck side dishes for the remaining dinners, and stayed up late partying and playing games.
The first time we played the new game of "Pictionary," we teamed men against women. Competition was fierce. The player who was "it" took a card with a word on it and tried to help their team guess the word by drawing picture clues. Dennis held his drawing up for his team to see. "Cucumber," guessed one.
"Surfboard," said Dennis, who wasn't supposed to say anything.
"Cigar!" "Penis!" "Baseball bat!" They all called out at once.
"Surfboard," Dennis repeated. Because he's a little hard of hearing, he thought we couldn't hear him, but we could.
A teammate looked at the picture again and said, "Surfboard?" The women refused to give the men credit for that. The men objected loudly.
"Quiet down!" a child called out from a tent. "I can't sleep."

From the very beginning, watercraft represented freedom for the children. Long before they could take out the motorboats, as many as possible would pile onto the board of Gene's windsurfer and paddle over to the other side of the cove. A red kayak and an inflatable rowboat followed them. They went ashore near a Douglas fir tree that leaned toward the lake as if trying to see its reflection in the glassy surface. A rope hung from the tree. They took turns climbing the tree. Holding onto the rope, they'd jump from the trunk, swinging out over the deep water.
On the point of the peninsula across the cove, I was fearful that the child on the rope wouldn't let go in time, but they always did. By the end of the day, they'd earned my confidence. On the second day, I took photos of them. By the third day, no one paid much attention to the jumpers. The temperature was 104. "Meltdown," said Dennis. I glanced across the cove and saw his son, Justin, climb beyond the rope on the tree. Higher and higher he ascended. Finally, he stopped and surveyed the wet and wooded world below him. He jumped. He dropped through the hot air and touched down feet first. It seemed he was underwater forever. I think we all held our breath along with him. The clouds in the sky stood still until his head popped up. We cheered. The kids cheered. Another child scampered up the tree. Soon the Dads joined them, not for a lecture but for a jump.
The next summer not only the rope but the entire tree was gone. We found another rope swing in a distant part of the large manmade lake, but the following year it too was gone. Jumping into water from a high place had become an instant tradition, like having fajitas the first night, so discovering the jumping rock on Brandy Creek was perfect.
To get to the rock we first drove a dusty dirt road until it ended literally in the creek. From there we continued upstream on foot, rock hopping, wading across the narrow, shallow stream, climbing past waterfalls, ducking under dogwoods. Water played the rocks like musical instruments. The serenade was peaceful and pleasant. Finally, we came to a tall rock with a deep pool below. It took nerve to jump, not only because of the fifteen-foot drop but also because of the icy water waiting below. Jumpers rose to the surface gasping or shrieking. They got out fast and sprawled on flat gray rocks that were warm from the sun. The hike up Brandy Creek became an annual adventure.
Camping during a full moon was another custom. The first year Terry went water skiing by the light of the moon. The wooded islands and shores cast a dark wrick-wrack silhouette against the bright sky. She cut through the reflected light, scattering moonbeams left and right. She wore only a life vest. That exhibition was called "moons over Whiskeytown."
My husband, Gene, couldn't wait to learn to ski so he too could skim across moonlit water, but he didn't turn out to be a natural. He sank as if God intended him to be an anchor. After five failed attempts, Dennis said, "Take a break. We'll try again later."
Gene was determined to get up on his next turn. Dennis was captain of the boat. They started from right off the point, the end of the peninsular. Those of us on shore watched from our beach chairs, ready to cheer for even the smallest success. "He's up!" We all cheered and clapped. "He's down." "No! He's up." He was up and down like a yo-yo without ever letting go of the rope until finally he completely disappeared under water. "Let go of the rope," we screamed from shore. "Let go of the rope," Dennis screamed from the boat. But Gene had resolved not to let go. He emerged from the depths like a modern Loc Ness monster, skis still on his feet, and managed to ski on top of the water for a decent interval. He received a standing ovation when he returned to land.
It was always summer at Whiskeytown Lake for us, and unlike some California lakes, the water level was consistently high, even during droughts. But nature isn't static, so there was invariably something new or different. One year we couldn't get reservations during a full moon. It was mid-August, and there was no moon at all. Our group area and tents were in dense darkness under the trees, but at the point, the Perseids meteor shower lit the sky with silent fireworks. One large meteor cut a long, wide blaze of bright across the night. After that, the rest of the shooting stars were like tiny tots, flashing and dashing around. Just as the kids, all older then, snuck a beer or two out of their parent’s coolers, the little stars stole light from the moon. They reeled across the sky, drunk on moonshine.
Favorite water toys and sports varied from one season to the next. Water-skis had staying power, but knee boards were quickly replaced by tubes. Two inner tubes connected to the back of a motorboat by long ropes. The tubes had handholds. All the riders could do was hold onto these while the captain of the boat made sharp turns and crossed his own wake in an effort to dislodge them, an aquatic version of crack-the-whip. One afternoon Gino and Rosie were tubing. The tubes collided with a force that launched Gino high into the air.
"Oh my God," I said as my eyes followed the trajectory of my son. Everyone at the point jumped to their feet in horror as he flipped once, twice, three times. He was a strong, athletic boy, but gymnastics wasn't one of his sports. Maybe it should have been, because he landed without injury.
In '93, we arrived to find ugly metal food lockers installed at the group cooking and dining area and scattered around the campsite. Rangers told us to put all our food, including ice chests, in the lockers at night because this was now bear country, and odors attract bears. Instead of our world getting tamer, it was getting wilder. The kids were thrilled. They wanted to see a bear.
We felt certain they'd get their wish because nothing is more lusciously aromatic than marinated skirt steak sizzling over mesquite - the meat for fajitas. Sure enough, after dinner, a huge shaggy cinnamon bear tried to join the party. We chased him off and then stumbled around with flashlights, putting food away. We reconvened around the campfire to eat our hand cranked blackberry ice cream and talk bear.
Each summer when we arrived, the ranger said, "There haven't been any bear sightings yet this year."
As the meat sizzled on the barbeque the first night, I pictured the bear high in the hills. He sniffed the air and said, "It is time to begin my journey down to the shore." We never knew how or when he'd present himself. Once I returned to my camp right after dinner and found Mr. Bear at our table. His large front paws were on the table, and he was facing me. He looked like he was waiting for me to serve him a meal.
The summer of '96, we all went down to the cove to admire the sunset. It had turned the sky and the water fire red. "We should get a picture of this," said Terry.
"Ssssssshhh," said Justin.
She glared at her son for hushing her, but then she heard what he heard. We all heard it. Like a scene in a movie, a huge unseen creature was crashing toward us through the forest on the other side. Louder and louder. Closer and closer. A big black bear emerged from the trees, a different bear, our sunset bear.

The summer of ‘95, every teenager brought a friend or two or three. They set their tents up together, as far as possible from the adults, near the point. Justin drove his pick-up off the dirt access road, through the trees, right up to the tents, to unload gear. Nobody had ever risked ranger wrath that way. We found out later that was necessary because so much of the "gear" was alcohol. Teen Town was ready to rage and rage it did on Saturday night. After dinner, they took three of the four ski boats out for a moonlight spin. Laura, the only child in camp old enough to be awake but not old enough to be included, returned from her lakeside reconnaissance on the run. She said, "One of the boats is gonna sink! There are so many people on board that it's really low in the water."
Jessica took the fourth boat out to reconnoiter. When she came upon the flotilla of teens, no more than a reasonable six were on any boat. She strafed the water surface with a spotlight as she slowly circled the other boats. Eight additional teens were treading water or clinging to the sides of the boats. One of the captains said, "Everyone's taken turns being in the water."
"What about when you were motoring out here?"
"We went really slow, and they held onto the sides of the boat."
Jessica suppressed a laugh. "If the ranger had come along, he'd have fined you hundreds of dollars. There's no telling how many laws you've broken." She took the excess passengers on board, and the boats returned to shore. Adults took possession of all keys.
The teens reconvened at the point. Laura spied on them from behind a tree. Soon she returned to camp. She said, "They're skinny dipping."
"Good," said one of the moms, defiantly.
"Don't be such a little snitch, Laura," I said. "That'll be you in a few years."
"We've all done it," said another mom, but not all the moms agreed that skinny-dipping was a harmless activity. Evidently, some of us had been wilder than others. Certainly some of us had shorter memories. How quickly "moons over Whiskeytown" was forgotten. But that night, once again, there were multiple moons over Whiskeytown.
"Where did all these teenagers come from?" demanded Christie, one of the moms.
"They're our kids," I said. "When they bring a friend to camp, they don't bring a child. They bring another teenager."
A chant rose up from the point. "Go Katie, go Katie, go Katie, go!"
"She's stripping," said Mama Christie grimly.
"She's a cheerleader," I said. "She's probably doing one of her routines."
"No doubt the X-rated version," said Christie and stormed down to the point. She marched back to camp practically dragging her son.
The party broke up by midnight, but the controversy raged on among the adults for months and led to rules, many rules, for 1996. There were far fewer young guests. Everyone had a good time, but the kids said the year before had been the best ever. Teen Town had become a legend, but it wasn't the only one. "What about when Fawn took Jessica down? That's got to be in the top ten."
"Another is Gene's underwater skiing."
"Don't forget Gino's triple flip." By the time we were through telling our all time favorites, there were more than ten on the top ten list.

I sat at the point, reading. A dad used a giant sling shot to lob water balloons from shore at the kids floating on the lake. A balloon landed near the ones on the long white board. They cheered. I looked up. The people I saw on the board were not kids. They had manly muscles and womanly curves. Our children had grown up on us, on that board, on that lake. I knew we were all getting older at home too, but something about being in a different place helped focus my perception. While we were traveling to that beautiful place every summer, we were also traveling through time, as we always are. Somewhere between here and there our kids traded places with us. Now they are the ones who stay up late partying, playing games, keeping us awake. I thought back to '94, the summer of falling stars. Those stars fell like a finale on their childhood. Now they are adults...sort of.

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To our kids:
Rich, Stasia, Fawn, James, Gino, Justin, Jessica, Rosie, Meagan, Jeremy, Shannen, Kim, Rick, Windy, Kelly, Kyle, Abram, Sadie, Richie, Shawn, Andy, Bryan Paul, Tara, Laura, Julie, Allison, Gabrielle, Luke, Cody, Shila, Jenny.

"May you stay forever young. "
Bob Dylan

Fajita Marinade

1/3 c soy sauce 1/8 tsp garlic powder

1/3 c vegetable oil 1 T. minced onion

3 T. wine vinegar

Combine & marinate skirt steak for 4 hours or more. (1/2 lb. per person.) BBQ.