Old Fallen Leaf Lake cabin was a world away

by Ron Walker

"Would you like to spend three days at our cabin? Tom and I will be there for one night and then you and Orllyene (my wife) can be on your own."

Before the words leave Marilyn's mouth, I hoist her overhead and bellow "bring it on girl!" Taking a moment to clarify, Marilyn just turned 80 and I am not far behind.

The illusion alluded to was all in my mind. The anticipation, however, was very real. In case you don't know, Fallen Leaf Lake is just a tad west of Lake Tahoe and that's where the cabin is.

The sweltering heat of Smith Valley is soon behind us. Once on Highway 88, just outside of Minden, Swiss style meadows appear, complete with waving grasses, neat rows of baled alfalfa, tiny bogs and dozing cattle. Jagged peaks, occasional rock slides and a carpet of trees soon bracket the road. We cross into California, nudge the Immigrant Trail cutoff and buzz through the intersection that spurs off to the charming village of Markleeville, just seven miles away. Downtown Markleeville is similar to downtown Smith...don't blink. Two years ago we parked our RV at Turtle Rock Campground, intending to loll away the summer. Our first night there, in May, it snowed. A month later the RV was an oven. When the generator contracted tuberculosis and a mysterious gooey substance oozed out of the fridge compressor, we fled. Too much is enough already.

The charms of Markleeville are its location (mountain greenery home) and its history. An old general store and a café or two are set beside a gurgling stream. An archaic chalet has become a library. Reading about the early mining days, the cattle drives, the thievery and all kinds of shenanigans made me feel like I knew the place. For those who crave statistics, Alpine County has California's smallest; population 1,300.

The drive up the canyon to Hope Valley parallels a gushing stream, hemmed in by walls of shattered granite and flecked with gnarly evergreens. The road is two lanes most of the time with occasional passing lanes for drivers intent on missing the scenery. Suddenly you burst into the "high country," Hope Valley. A meandering stream, a horizon that fairly bristles with jagged mountain peaks and a huge expanse of sky. This is the gateway to remote lakes and forgotten campgrounds. Orllyene and I honored our mothers by sprinkling their ashes along the hillside overlooking a lovely secluded lake at the end of a dirt road a few years ago.

At Hope Valley you turn right, cross a pass at about 7,000 feet, glide through a thickly forested section of highway and dip into Meyers.

I'll spare you the ignominious details of South Lake Tahoe. The dependency of tourists on glitz and shopping when they find themselves in a setting as extraordinary as Lake Tahoe baffles me. "Wow, what a setting!" Let's get rid of those trees, put some asphalt down and put in a mall!" seems to be the credo. A sign signifying "Hand blown water pipes" says it all.

Once on Highway 89 at the "Y", it's just a few miles to the turn off to Fallen Leaf Lake. A grove of tiny aspens introduces us to the back country. Each aspen leaf is attached to a stem just like those you find on maraschino cherries. No wonder the aspen leaves quake. The road is a scrawny one laner that dips and weaves like a football half-back. We tunnel through hulking pines with trunks as wide as a barn door. Chubby jade green cedars and feathery firs fight with spruce for a piece of ground. Curving like an agitated earthworm, the road burrows for about three miles until cottages appear. First boxy little guys, then A-frames and finally a few lodge size buildings that jump back and forth across the road. Our air conditioning off, windows open, the air is ice box cool and scented heavily with pine.

The final quarter mile to the cabin is barely wide enough for all our four wheels. The road descends steeply, is sliced into the hillside, rutted from snow melt and must have been OK for a flivver but our Lincoln Town Car is sorely vexed! Elongated stairways unravel down to cabins beneath us or up to cantilevered affairs on the up side of the road. Marilyn and Tom's cabin is right next to the lake, with 100 foot pines jabbed into the steep slope. There are 34 steps down the hill to the cabin from the vehicle pull out and at 6,400 feet, I do some mighty puffing as I unload the provisions. The cabin has forest green shingles on its sides and a chocolate brown metal roof. Everything inside is rustic and cozy. The raw wood floor of the kitchen slants perceptibly. The oversized windows in the living room look out onto the lake. Creaking steps lead to three tiny bedrooms on the second floor.

Claiming my right to relax, after taking 544 steps (eight trips), I settle into a blissful reverie on the deck. The sound of wavelets lapping, the steady cool breeze, the thick forest on the ridge across the lake and a sapphire blue sky are paradisial.

"This is amazing...it's like air conditioning," I say for want of a better description. The whirr of needles in the trees, the white caps of the deep sea blue lake surface and the brittle mountain peaks on the other side of the lake send chills through me.

For three days we enjoy sumptuous meals, quiet times in front of a glowing fire in the fireplace and hours of peacefully dallying on the deck admiring the lake.

The ridge on the other side of Fallen Leaf Lake is all that separates the cabin from the Angora fire. On one side of the ridge it was scalding hell; on the Lake side it's still lush and green. Nature is on a rampage. The devastation is very real. The forested glades and ferny glens, the rocky ridges and mountainsides that we've taken for granted will be hideously charred for years to come. Sad. Very sad.

-- Ron Walker is a Smith Valley resident and frequent traveler.