About an hour west of South Lake Tahoe off Hwy 50, Wright’s Lake is nestled in a depression high in the Sierra mountains. We arrived late on August 10th with our friends Alison, Ellie, Ron, and Sam following closely in their own gear-crammed vehicle. (Their dog Aztec kept our dog Boomer company in our back seat on the drive up from the San Francisco Bay Area.)
Warm and shallow, Wright’s Lake is surrounded by primitive camp sites and long-lease cabins and cottages that have no electricity. No motors are allowed on the lake, and there are no RV hookups, so it’s a splendidly quiet spot. The ground is covered with a thick cushion of evergreen needles, and every step you take releases a wonderful scent into the dry mountain air. Nearly every camp site seems to have a dog, and they are as welcome as humans to swim and hike around the lake. The lake itself is small and can be easily hiked around in an hour.
Various configurations of our party -- me, Morgan, and Ellie; me, Morgan, and Sam; me, Ellie, and Sam; me, Ellie, and Boomer (who again and again jumped out after 90 seconds, then insisted on being hoisted back aboard); Ellie and Sam; Ron and Sam; Ron and Ellie; Ron and Ellie and Sam; Ron and Alison; Ellie and Alison; me and Morgan; and each of us alone -- spent time in our two-person inflatable kayak at all hours.
One day Sam and I swam across the lake while Morgan and Ellie paddled alongside for safety. Then Sam rode back, perched like an Indian Chief on the bow of the kayak.
Alison had never been kayaking before, so she asked her 10-year-old daughter Ellie, who had a whole week of kayak camp earlier in the summer, to take her out on a tour of the lake. Before they left shore, I supervised while Ellie gave Alison some instructions on how to handle the paddle. They had a fun time and Alison said that Ellie was a thoughtful and excellent tour guide and kayaking instructor.
Although from the kayak we saw fish lurking on the bottom and leaping out to snag bugs morning, noon, and night, our human fisherfolk had no luck with their fishing poles.
A pair of osprey living nearby had better luck -- or better skills. Several of us witnessed an osprey catching a fish: folding wings and plummeting to the lake's surface, snagging the prey with strong talons, and lifting it out of the water with strong wing beats. The osprey flew right overhead once, giving us a magnificent view of its straining wings and the fish held so carefully fore-and-aft, still wiggling in an attempt to break free.
Ducks, squirrels, and chipmunks were abundant, and a lone bald eagle often sat on a snag overlooking the lake or soared above. When we hiked to Dark Lake, Boomer flushed a mule deer buck with an impressive rack. One night just at sunset I went down to the edge of the lake and was mesmerized by a dozen or so bats swooping out of the trees to catch insects buzzing just above the surface of the lake. I sat and watched for half-an-hour, listening to the soft flap of bat wings and marveling at the flying mammals' aerobatic ability; again and again they dove and veered and skimmed and I just didn't see how they could keep from plunging into the lake.
Another evening I took the kayak out just before sunset and was half-way down the lake when a screeching ruckus drew my attention. Looking up, I saw an osprey in hot pursuit of the bald eagle. The osprey, which was far smaller than the eagle, flew above and behind, diving at the eagle repeatedly and screeching. I sat back in the kayak and stared in open-mouthed wonder until long after the eagle had vanished into the trees on the far side of the lake and the osprey had winged its way home.
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