Birch Lake It's here, at Birch Lake, a small pond at a Sierra summer camp, that I learned to swim and had my first teen love affair. Today, 45 years since my last visit, I choose the late afternoon light for the photographs I have in mind to recapture my sense of the place. In those summer days, the grassy beach was crowded with families. I spent most of my time pretending to read and chatting with my pals, but really sneaking glances at the bikinied girls lounging on beach towels. We lay on our stomachs in order not to display our admiration.
At the time, I didn't pay much attention to them, but the native residents are still here: a painted turtle rests on a weathered log; a bullfrog sounds his 'wrooonk, wrooonk, wrooonk'; iridescent blue dragonflies helicopter up and down, skim the lake's surface, pose on the tips of reeds. I was hoping for a windfall from the wild apple trees, but most lie on the ground, full of worms. At the lakeshore, the reeds too are spent—bent over, the tops touching the lake's surface. As darkness approaches, I walk up the hill to the still open lodge, sit alone at a table. At the other tables, couples eat in silence, staring past their partners. I look out the windows, past the tall trees down to the grassy shore, see her there again, taste that first kiss, cup my hand on her small apple-breast. ... what was her name? The waiter interrupts my reverie, places the first course... birch trees— |
Now the place is empty of people, the birch trees barren of leaves, the grasses yellow—worn through with bald patches showing dirt.
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