November 21, 2012
A Sierra Memory
Just
beyond Echo Summit where Highway 50 reaches dizzying heights in excess of 7,000
feet, lies a stretch of road that strikes terror into my being each time I
approach it. A flashing sign warns
motorists: “Slow, cliffs ahead for the next four miles.” I freeze, my hands dampen, and my Post
Traumatic Stress Disorder kicks in, big time.
As
we near the dreaded spot, my heart starts pounding madly against my chest. I push my feet hard against the floor
in a vain attempt to brake the car as my companion seemingly delights in
becoming A.J. Foyt’s clone while negotiating the hairpin curves down into the Tahoe Basin.
The
fear emanates from an experience of more than forty years ago on my first trip
to the majestic Lake Tahoe.
The
weather was crisp and clear that long ago summer day. My former husband, a dead-ringer for world heavy-weight
boxing champ Joe Louis, and I accompanied a Don and Marge, a young white couple
and our closest friends, to the lake for the weekend. Don’s parents’ owned a cabin there, and we were all jazzed
about this new experience.
It was the early sixties, and blacks, while not blatantly excluded from
the Lake, were not welcomed there.
We’d learned that our fair skin coloring allowed us admission into
places that frowned persons of color .
“What
nationality are you?” people often asked. Sometimes when we disclosed our
racial origins we’d hear audible gasps and expressions would go from mildly
curious to deep disgust. We learned
to read body language like persons with hearing deficits learn to read
lips.
The
proud owner of a new Chrevolet Impala, Don eagerly demonstrated its formidable
horsepower at every opportunity—especially rounding curves. A joyous mood had enveloped us as we
began the ascent.
Just
beyond Pollack Pines, however, the aftermath of a fatal accident that occurred
moments before our arrival on the scene dampened our mood. A car had crashed through a barrier on
one of the curves and plunged down a steep embankment. Driven by a curiosity reserved for the
very young, we decided to stop for a closer look. There was debris scattered along the embankment: a tennis shoe, a scarf (“remnants of
humanity,” I thought), a car door, bent chrome stripping from the fated
automobile, and, in the ravine below, the horribly twisted car. Rescue workers ushered us away.
As
we continued up the mountain, the road changed from four to two lanes. The radio broadcast a report of the
accident, noting one fatality.
I
focused on the tennis shoe and silently wondered about its owner.
Just
beyond the summit, we reached the first low stone fence marking the danger
zone. “How can that bit of stone
prevent a car from going over?” I wondered as the car gained momentum. The car ahead slowed. Impatient, our driver moved to pass
him. Just then another car emerged
from around the curve. I screamed. With seconds to spare, Don jammed the
accelerator to the floor. We
missed a head on collision by millimeters. Each time I go to the mountain, I pay a memory toll that
mars the occasion for a time.
Today
as we exit the lake, I spot tourists taking pictures from a nearby observation
point. The view is breathtaking, the lake as small as a teacup from this angle.
A few miles down, as pine surrenders to maple and oak and the south fort of the
American River chortles merrily alongside the highway, there is evidence of the
devastation wrought by fires of summers past. Homes on the riverbank are being rebuilt. Some homeowners have trailers as
temporary dwelling places.
Skeletal remains of other homesteads, some with only chimneys left to
commemorate their existence, appear deserted. Fallen trees lie on silt-covered
hillsides. Neat stacks of deadwood
await retrieval. Tall, dead, rust-brown pines line grassy hillsides
intermittently sprinkled with golden poppies and purple foxglove. The haunting
beauty of nature in the wake of disaster is not lost to my eyes.
Still
a mist blurs my vision when I remember the empty tennis shoe.
