Yesterday, I visited a high school friend I had not seen for
at least thirty years. Before diverting north, the trip started through the
Carson Pass in the Sierras. It was a beautiful drive and I thought anyone
should feel privileged to view these magnificent mountains. Then I remembered
Genoa, a way station for 49ers. I was cruising at 60 MPH in climate controlled
comfort, while the early pioneers were lucky to eke out 10 miles in a long, determined
day. The view probably wasn't uppermost on their minds.
My friend owns an isolated forty acres next to national
forest. Getting there required him to come down the mountain to lead me through
trails that would challenge a city-bred sedan. Although he had owned the land
since the early seventies, he didn't move there until semi-retirement in the nineties.
Now his wife descends the mountain every
day to work, while he struggles to make his home self-sufficient. He may want to
be independent, but he’s a distant cousin from the long-gone, mountain men who lived off
the land. PG&E provides electricity to supplement his solar panels, propane
is delivered to his door, a tractor can carve out roads and plow snow, and cell
phones keep civilization a touch screen away. Technology is a wonderful way to
make a rustic existence comfortable. I even noticed a Verizon Hot Spot winking
away on a book shelf to bring the entire World Wide Web directly to his
mountain top. The pioneers could only wish they were so lucky.
We had a great afternoon wallowing in nostalgia for our younger
days. We have lived very different lives since high school, but reconnected easily. We
had been neighbors in high school and had peddled bikes towing surfboards to the beach nearly
every day. We learned to surf with a couple of other friends and
spent untold hours lazing about the beach; sunning, talking, playing
volleyball, and flirting with girls. Growing up at the beach in the sixties was
a singular experience and a great way to meander our way to adulthood.
