A look back from the tailwaves
I happened to be walking down memory lane a while back, along the 2 block sidewalk of historic downtown Angels Camp California, famous for Mark Twain’s “Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County”.
This tiny town in the Sierra foothills of a few thousand souls was where I escaped my deadening city life to guide rivers over forty lucky years ago. I never thought I’d be back after they’d dammed my Stanislaus River. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. They already had a dam. The cement contractors and heavy equipment guys and local movers and shakers just wanted more, so they raised it, by a lot, which also happened to drown out one of the most popular rafting rivers in the world. Killed the joy, the power, the magic, but hey, that’s all froo-froo compared to the almighty economy, ain’t it?
The dam went up for a statewide vote, and there was huge popular support against the project. Unfortunately, we were young and naive and didn’t realize how greedy and powerful people will lie and steal their way to get what they want. Jobs! they yelled. Tourists! they cajoled. More water than a stone could ripple! Not to mention wording the vote so confusingly even John Muir would’ve checked the wrong box.
It didn’t matter that there were a dozen other identical reservoirs within an hour’s drive, nor even that there was already a reservoir right there… just a tiny bit smaller. No matter that rafting brought in thousands of everyday-type tourists each summer who needed lunch and dinner and snacks and motel rooms, as opposed to people towing huge houseboats and speed boats with coolers already stocked with beer and chips from the Bay Area and on-board bunks for all. Nobody mentioned how they were planning on selling all that extra water to farmers down in the valley below, or how that would result in locals soon paying the steepest prices known to mankind just for a glass of tap water in their own home. And as always, the locals, fearing and loathing us scruffy raft guide longhairs took the bait hook, line and sinker.
I could see it coming, being sadder and wiser than my years, and couldn’t bear to watch the river that saved my sorry ass drown. So naturally I did the cowardly thing and left for other rivers, anywhere else, leaving her to die alone. I can’t even think about it.
But back to my stroll.
I stopped at the empty window at the end of the block where Angels Market used to be, where we used to get food for our passengers and ourselves every warm summer day during those best of years.
As I gazed, memories eddying and burbling, I felt a tap on my shoulder. An older gentleman, slightly familiar but bent and using a cane, smiled and offered his hand. “Aren’t you one of those skirt-wearing raft hippies that used to come in here and buy food back in the 70’s?” he asked. Unsure, I shook his hand and said “Yep, that’d be me. Why do you ask?” “Me and my brother used to own this market. We went out of business soon after the dam went in. Whole
damn town died. You were right. They lied to us, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
I had to choke back tears at this simple thing. A good, honest man, from the other side, showing Respect. Can’t take it back, but sorry.
Sometimes a thing will never be right. Try as we might, sometimes we make a mistake and it’s forever. He paused, I nodded. He smiled a short, gentle smile, turned and slowly walked away. Never saw him again. I gazed one last time into the blank window and caught the reflection of my earring, white-tinged mustache and wrinkled cheek, turned and left.