The pumice that resides on the shores of Yale lake seems to reflect more sunlight than it recieves. Light from that silver band around this lake adds to the clarity of the place. The deep black green of the Douglas fir that scales the steep mountains on either side of the Lewis River gorge, now Yale lake, add to that clarity.
When I was a child and camping on that lake shore I would watch as the logging trucks would travel down the oposite bank. It was a never ending train of trees to be turned into everything from houses and toilet paper, to crucifixes and coffins, and probably protestors signs who would protest such logging.
That was a long time ago now. And the hills are lush and green and the lake, my lake, my swimming pool, my friend, companion, and playmate, has not seemed to change. As I walked, alone, through the silent empty campground, passed the dock, over the shore where twenty eight years ago I skipped a rock off the back of my own brothers head, the spirit of a thousand children, skipping a thousand million stones, filled me soul. I could hear the talk of families, scampering of wet feet in the bushes. I could smell the 2 stroke oil mixing with gas in the powerboats, and the burning pitch on cut fir cooking hotdogs.
I know that somepeople like the outdoors and some people tolerate it and others just plain don't like it. Yale lake is not remote. The campground is not a "hardman" campground. And it isn't an escape either. To camp there is to come home. To return to the city is a Babylonian captivity. And always we seek to return to the promised land. Back to that lake, and its timeless connection to the act of being happy.
It is winter and the lake, like the black bear, is sleeping. But as the rays of sun strike those gleaming stones, are absorbed by the dark woods, and reflected off the cool water, it will awaken once more and I want to be there.