OH CHRISTMAS TREE

The best Christmas trees come very close to exceeding nature. If some of our great decorated trees had been grown in a remote forest area with lights that came on every evening as it grew dark, the whole world would come to look at them and marvel at the mystery of their great beauty. ---Andy Rooney

 

It was Christmas time again and I was feeling a little trapped in the endless hustle and bustle of the holiday. I'd been working a lot of extra hours was suffering in the seasonal strain of holidays when I escaped to a little town holding a Christmas festival.

Christmas trees and lights, hay-rack rides, and a booth selling handcrafted old fashion ornaments and kids standing in line to see Santa. Down the way, I saw the Storyteller. Wearing his old leather jacket and trademark Fedora standing in front of a large bond fire roasting chestnut with a long-handled roaster. He had gathered quite an audience of both children and adults watching toast the popular seasonal treat.

"Are they done yet?" asked a child as I walked up to warmed my hands against the fire.

"Not yet," answered the Storyteller as he shooked the roaster, mixing the chestnuts around. He then looked at me and said "Hey, kid. How've you've been? I haven't seen you on the river lately."

"You know," I grunted, "I get pretty busy this time of year. I barely have time to enjoy Christmas."

"There is always time to enjoy Christmas," interjected the Storyteller. He gave his roaster a brisk shake and began this story.

Photo: National Archives

"Now the fellas on the work crew called him Rusty, but his folks always called him Russell," the Storyteller stipulated, "He was one of the two million young unemployed men to seek work with the Civilian Conservation Corps during the dark days of the Depression."

"The CCC,"  he pointed out, "Was a popular the New Deal program created by President Roosevelt to help employ the boys with jobs in conservation work. They worked planting trees, fighting wildfires, and building dams and roads mostly in the Americas' parks and forests. The men lived in camps earning only $30 dollars a month, most of which they sent home to their families. A bit like the army, the CCC provided the men with food, clothing, and medical care, along with job training."

 "It was President's Roosevelt's speech on the radio in 1933, that moved Russell to join up," the Storyteller theorized,  "When the President said, "It is time for each and every one of us to cast away self-destroying, nation-destroying efforts to get something for nothing and to appreciate that satisfying reward and safe reward come only through honest work."

Photo: National Archives

"They were known as "Roosevelt's Tree Army," acknowledged the Storyteller, "Russell worked planting trees in a western forest far from his home. They were long hard days of dirty work, but he knew he was earning a living and also doing something important for his country.  In the few lines he wrote to his parents he said, "I’m getting settled in here and look forward to sending you some money soon. This is sure a great program and Mr. Roosevelt did the right thing by getting it started."

"To be sure, there was some homesickness," insisted the Storyteller, "There always a bit of that of that sadness at being away from loved ones especially during the holidays. The camp commanders did his best to keep morale high by having the camp recreation hall decorated festively, leading sing-a-longs of Christmas carols and providing a Christmas dinner with turkey and apple pie."

"But for Russell, his favorite part of Christmas was decorating the tree," offered the Storyteller, "But, after planting hundreds of trees he just didn't have the heart to cut one down. He had heard about some fella in San Francisco by the named of Sandy Pratt who lifted the spirits of a sick 7-year-old neighbor by decorating a tree growing outside his home. Like all good ideas, it caught on and inspired others to do the same. Pratt encouraged everyone to light and decorate outdoor Christmas trees saying they would "act as beacons to prosperity and spread this cheerful message of confidence."

"So Russell, picked out a tree not too big and not too small close to camp so everyone would able to see it," recounted the Storyteller, "With decorations being sparse he painted several large pine cones green and red using from the leftover paint used on the on the camp's building. He strung some tin cans, spoons and a couple of rusty cowbells with wire and fashioned a wooden star to sit on top of the tree."

"It didn't have any lights," the Storyteller insisted, "Back then even the ones inside didn't have them either. But, it looked pretty good to Russell and to the boys in the camp as they gathered around it to sing Silent Night. They were all a long way from home that Christmas and just the sight of the tree brought them a little Christmas joy."

The Storyteller finished his story as he was pulling the roaster full of chestnuts off the fire and holding it out for the kids and adults to take one to try.
It was still hot as I picked one out and carefully removed its shell and let it cool a bit before popping it into my holiday. Its sweet, nutty flavor warmed up my holiday spirit."

"Hey kid," the Storyteller, looked up from his roaster with a slight pause gave me this advice, "No matter what, I think it’s wise to slow down, clear our heads and truly appreciate what matters this time of year. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too," I said.

Merry Christmas to all of you from Outside Adventure to the Max.

THE LEGEND OF TWO PADDLES

Albert Bierstadt, Indians Spear Fishing

                        

It was a day on the river I would like to forget. Mostly due to the result of some nameless rapid and its churning eddy. It happened so fast. The river went one way and I went the other. Spilling out of my boat like cereal into a bowl. Submerged and floating, I reached for the bow only to have it slip away out of grasp. In disbelief, I watched as it quickly ran away through the boulders constricting the river.

"Isn't a little early in the day for you to be quitting?" called a voice from the side of the river. " It was the grizzled old Storyteller who I always seem to find along the river.

"I lost my boat," I told him gasping as I swam to the shore.

"I can see that," he sighed, "Looks like your afoot now. Sit down for a spell and catch your breath before we go after your boat."

I sat down looking glum. Embarrassed about the swim, but just too tired to start the hike down river.

"Cheer up," chuckled the Storyteller, "You're not the first and I'm sure you won't be the last to walk out of these mountains.

"They called him "He Who Wanders or Wandering Spirit," he began, "He would walk everywhere exploring the mountains, canyons and rivers. It's said he heard the song of the tree fairies. These fun-loving forest creatures would only appear to humans when they wanted to be seen. They would sing and laugh, and when He Who Wanders got to close to their music they would call him from a different direction. It was said, they would often take the form of a rabbit or deer and lead him to the river only to suddenly disappeared, with no apparent hiding place.

Because of this, He Who Wanders had a habit of disappearing for days and weeks at a time before turning up unexpectedly, hence his name."

George Catlin, Leopard Hunting in Brazil

The Storyteller looked at the river and then the path narrow path alongside it.
"It was probably a path like this, He Who Wanders was walking when he came upon the bobcat on fire," the Storyteller speculated, "You see after a raccoon was treed by the wildcat and knowing it had no escape. Legend says, the old coon or maybe it was a rabbit, somehow convinced the bobcat to build a fire. As the fire grew, the wind scattered the burning embers onto the poor cat setting it ablaze and screaming with pain."

"His crying tore at He Who Wander's heart," exclaimed the Storyteller, "Seeing the bobcat's struggle he quickly gathered up the animal and tossed it into the river saving its life. The soaking wet cat emerged from the river his fur singed with dark brown and black spots. His raccoon meal had escaped, but he was grateful to be alive. Ever since I'll his kind have been covered with spots."

"Thank you, He Who Wanders, you saved me from certain death," the Bobcat gasped, " the Storyteller continued, "We are now and forever allies," the Bobcat told him, "But I'm a creature of the forest and my place is here. I will offer this guidance. Go forward with courage, follow the river and discover your heart and spirit. When you need me, I'll be near."

The Storyteller then paused, straightened his hat, while studying the river.

"The great cat then disappeared into the evening fog," the Storyteller went on, "Leaving He Who Wanders alone on the river's path. Now let's go find your boat."

While we started down the river trail the Storyteller resumed his story.
"He Who Wanders followed this same trail all the way to the ocean. When he got there he was amazed by the sight of the great water," speculated the Storyteller, "But over the rumblings of the waves, he heard a cry for help. A young female killer whale was beached and dying in the sand."

"Her crying tore at He Who Wander's heart." conceited the Storyteller, "Stranded near the waterline he knew had to get the orca back to into deeper waters and could not wait for the tide. By then it would be too late."

"He comforted the sea creature by covering it with wet blankets and then fashioned a shovel to dig a trench behind the mammal then made a towing harness dried seaweed," the Storyteller divulged, "And began pulling with all his might"

"The Blackfish screamed in pain and told He Who Wanders it was no use she was just too heavy," confessed The Storyteller, "She was right, He Who Wanders could not make her budge an inch."

Baleen Whale Mask

"Then out the sky came the raven," the Storyteller, interjected, "He brought special mushrooms from a place in the forest where the moonbeams fell just right. He told He Who Wanders if he ate them it would grant him Superman strength to carry the whale back to the sea."

"As the raven flew off, He Who Wanders, quickly devoured the charmed mushrooms," guessed the Storyteller, "Giving him the strength of ten men. He grabbed the tow line and with ease pulled the orca back into the surf."

"Thank you, He Who Wanders, you saved me from certain death," the Killer Whale said with " the Storyteller continued, "We are now and forever soul mates," the ocra told him, "But I'm a creature of the sea and my place is here. I will offer this guidance. Go forward with courage, follow the ocean and discover your heart and spirit. When you need me, I'll be near."

The Storyteller then paused, straightened his hat, while studying the foam of the whitewater waves of the river.

"The great orca then disappeared into the sea" the Storyteller went on, "Leaving He Who Wanders alone on the beach path. Hey, I think I see your boat."

We started down the rocky trail where we could see my bobbing kayak in quiet eddy along the river as the Storyteller picked up his tale.

"He went north following the migrating seals and whales by day and the Northern Lights by night. The lights then were thought to the spirits of the animals: the seals, salmon, deer and the great polar bear," told the Storyteller, "After crossing over into a land of snow and glaciers he heard the whimpering of a tiny shivering polar bear abandon on the ice."

"His crying tore at He Who Wander's heart." pleaded the Storyteller, "Without his help, the little cub would surely die. He comforted the bear by covering it with warm blankets and took it to a nearby village. Where he found a woman who had no sons to care for her. She adopted the young bear cub and it quickly grew and became the villages' best fisherman providing fish daily to all."

"He Who Wanders found a home there too," emphasized the Storyteller, "He became fascinated by the villager's use of their- kayaks. Constructed with whalebone-skeleton frame and animal skins stretched over its hull, the boat had a covered deck with only a small opening on top. Unlike the canoe, they used a double-bladed paddle."

William Bradford Arctic Invaders

"Life in this cold climate was extremely difficult. Those who kayaked knew a single miscalculation could lead to death in freezing water," the Storyteller declared, "It took, He Who Wanders several seasons before mastering kayaking learning all its strokes and rolls."

"But the day came when He Who Wanders needed to wander again," reminded the Storyteller. "And as he was about embarked, the now giant Polar Bear came to him and said, "Thank you, He Who Wanders, you saved me from certain death. We are now and forever brothers, But I'm a creature of the arctic and my place is here. I will offer this guidance. Go forward with courage, follow all the world's waters and discover your heart and spirit. When you need me, I'll be near."

The Storyteller then paused, straightened his hat again, while studying my half submerged kayak floating against the shore.

"The great white bear then disappeared back to the village" the Storyteller went on, "Leaving He Who Wanders alone in his kayak. Look it's your boat safe and sound."

I grabbed the boat with relief and pulled it on to the rocks tipping it over spilling out all the water from its hull back into the river.

"So what happened?" I asked while climbing back into the boat, "Did he ever get home?"

"Like you, I think he found his way back to the water. There were more challenges, of course," replied the Storyteller, "On the third night out, while camping on a beach he heard the howl of wolves. Surrounded by the pack showing glaring teeth, He Who Wanders had little hope for survival. But a giant roar came over the ice and snow. It was his brother the polar bear driving all the wolves away."

"You have discovered your heart and spirit. I will always be with you, like the stars at night and the sun in each dawn," the polar bear proclaimed to him before vanishing into the snow," reassured the Storyteller.

"Twenty-one days later a sudden storm-tossed his kayak around violently just off the coast. He Who Wanders was about to crash on the rocks when a blackfin popped out of the ocean foam. It was his soul-mate, the killer whale. She put his kayak on her back and safely and brought him safely to a protected hidden cove."

"You have discovered your heart and spirit. I will always with you, like the waves in the sea and the ripples of the world's great rivers," the killer whale declared to him before breaching away under the sea," expressed the Storyteller.

William de la Montagne Cary

"Two months later, He Who Wanders was paddling upstream," the Storyteller, concluded, "He was tired and hungry having not eaten in several days when he saw a flash of the spotted coat. It was his friend the bobcat who had caught some game. Seeing He Who Wanders was hungry, he dropped along the side of the river and then saying to him."

"With your new boat and paddle, the river people will celebrate your return and welcome you to a place at the council fire. They will forever tell stories of your paddling journeys honoring your courage and speed, your strength. You have discovered your heart and spirit. From now on you will be known to the world as Two Paddles."

I felt the current of the river give my boat a gentle tug. And just like that, I drifted away from the Storyteller and the bank of the river. Turning down river, I thought of the opening lines of Longfellow's epic poem The Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, whence these stories?
Whence these legends and traditions,
With the odors of the forest
With the dew and damp of meadows,
With the curling smoke of wigwams,
With the rushing of great rivers.

When I glanced over my shoulder one last time and over the rumble of the rapids saw the Storyteller waving goodbye and calling out, "Go forward with courage, follow all the world's waters and discover your heart and spirit. When you need me, I'll be near."

THE CHRISTMAS LETTER

Christmas is a season for kindling the fire for hospitality in the hall, the genial flame of charity in the heart. -- Washington Irving 

It was Christmastime and I was feeling a little homesick. And like always to forget my troubles I went kayaking. I was paddling upstream along the river bank when I came across the Storyteller. Wearing rubber boots, an old leather jacket and his trademark Fedora, he was up to his ankles in the stream stooped over panning for gold. He stirred his pan carefully after standing upright, then held the pan like a waiter holding a plate picking through the big chunks of his find with his other hand.

“Winter is the most successful time of year for finding gold," he said as he noticed me coming towards him still sorting through his pan, "It was then and it still is now. Back then miners worked in freezing cold weather 10 to 12 hour days in leather boots, canvas pants, and a woolen blanket or coat. It was cold but if you were lucky you got gold.”

I beached my kayak along the shore and found a flat rock to watch him work.

"So how are you doing this holiday season?" he asked glancing up from his miner's tin. Seeing my expression he didn't let me answer before running calloused fingers through the sand and gravel again.

"Christmas was like gold in the mine camps," he explained, "Almost every miner took the holiday off, which was always a welcome relief. I think I'll take a break for a little bit too, besides my feet are getting cold in this water."

He waded out the water and sat down on the rock beside me. He was quiet for a moment while scanning his pan for anything before flecking its contents back into the river.

"They were predominantly young men who came out west seeking gold, so their Christmas celebrations were a mixture of unbridled carousing and lonely contemplation. They realized after getting out here that finding their fortune in gold was a lot harder than they previously thought," the Storyteller continued,"They found themselves in a harsh country a long way from home missing family and loved ones. And Christmas just reminded them of just how alone they were."

"One gold seeker named William," pointed out the Storyteller, "Found himself snowed in at his claim site far up along the river. It would not be much of Christmas for him he thought. Because of the drifting snow, he wouldn't be even able to make it to the gold camp to celebrate. The preacher there would offer some short Christmas message in the makeshift saloon. Then after singing a few carols, they would usher in the holiday by whooping it up and firing a gun or two into the air around the fire while a fiddler played a jig."

"Now, nobody called him Bill, " asserted the Storyteller, "It was always William. He came out here from someplace back east, maybe it was Wisconsin. He had been here for almost a year and so far hadn't had much luck and like many certainly hadn't struck it rich."

"He was spending his Christmas, alone and thinking about family back home while writing a letter to his sister Emma he wrote,

"Emma, It snowed hard all day yesterday and got so cold last night made it hard to keep a fire going. I wish that I could be at home today since it's Christmas. We could have a Christmas party. We would have the old gobbler roasted with a score of fat hens, pound cakes, pies, and lots of other good things. But the best of all would be the pleasure of seeing you all. Probably if we live we may be with you next Christmas. And signed it your loving brother, William."

"He wished he might be able to post the letter," the Storyteller speculated, "But back then especially in the wintertime,  the weather and the terrain made it difficult, he had all but given up on getting his letter out or even hearing from anyone back home till next spring. For William, it would be a gloomy Christmas indeed."

"Helloooooo," echoed through the canyon," proclaimed the Storyteller, "Happy for any type of company William grabbed his coat and flipped open the flap of his makeshift cabin door and went outside."

"The snow was gently falling through the trees where William could make out a figure in a Mackinaw jacket and wide-brimmed hat propelling quickly towards him. It was Snowshoe Thompson one of the most dedicated mail carriers of the Sierra Nevada."

"Snowshoe was wearing a pair oak skis carved himself," emphasized the Storyteller, "They were nearly ten feet long and weighed about 25 pounds. As a young boy in Norway, he had used them to travel quickly over the snow-covered terrain. As a mailman Thompson's skiing ability soon became legendary. He could rocket down mountain slopes at nearly 60 miles per hour holding his balance pole out in front of him, dipping it one direction and then the other, all while carrying a pack that could exceed 100 pounds of mail and supplies. It was said nobody could dance on the heavy wooden boards like Snowshoe Thompson."

"With his charcoal smudged cheekbones to prevent snow blindness and beard layered with ice" the Storyteller explained, " Snowshoe whisked himself up the cabin."

"God Jul! Happy Christmas! William!" He exclaimed skiing up to the entrance of the cabin."

"Now most the time," reminded the Storyteller, "Snowshoe would just throw the mail toward the house, and then glide out of sight, up and over a hill. But today being Christmas he was on a special trip to spread some Christmas cheer."

"Merry Christmas!" William called out to him," continued the Storyteller, "Come in and sit by the fire."

"But Snowshoe shook his head and said he couldn't stay long he had more deliveries to make. He pealed the rucksack off his back and set it in the snow then open its flap and reached inside of it pulling out a package wrapped in a brown paper package tied with twine."

"I thought you might be snowed in up here," Snowshoe said to William with a thick Norwegian accent "I knew when I saw this package for you in town, I just knew I had to get it to you by Christmas. So here I am. "

"Snowshoe handed the package to William," said the Storyteller, "It was his first word from home since coming to California. He held it gently and read his sister's handwriting."

"Open it would you now," said Snowshoe, "So I can see what you got for Christmas."

"William," sighed the Storyteller, "Carefully untied a string and unwrapped the package containing a knitted scarf and five folded sheets of paper. It was a letter from his sister Emma updating with news about his family back east. He quickly read the letter's opening lines."

"Dearest William
I hope this letter finds you well. I only hope searching for gold in California is treating you? With any luck, this will arrive by Christmas for I know this scarf will keep you warm. I hope it will remind you of home and how we missed you."

"William again asked Snowshoe to stay for a spell, But once again Snowshoe shook his head and said there is a storm brewing and he would like to make get his deliveries made before it hit," explained the Storyteller, "William quickly went into the cabin to retrieve his letters home and a couple of coins he had been saving to offer payment. Snowshoe took only one coin for the postage of the letters and turned down the rest before soaring off like an eagle on his skis."

"As William finished the last lines of the letter saying,

"God bless you and keep you safe till we meet again your loving sister, Emma" concluded the Storyteller, "Snowshoe was just going over the hill."

"Merry Christmas Snowshoe Thompson!" hollered William."
"God Jul! echoed back.

The Storyteller then picked up his miner's pan and went back to the river. I found my paddle and went to my kayak.

"Hey kid," the Storyteller, called out to me my boat, then with a slight pause then added "No matter where you are kid, Christmas will find you. Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas to you too," I said paddling away.

Merry Christmas to all of you from Outside Adventure to the Max.

TWO PADDLES AND THE GREAT RIVER RACE: A CAMPFIRE TALE

Canoes Races, George Catlin

“Don't adventures ever have an end? I suppose not. Someone else always has to carry on on the story.” J.R.R. Tolkien

It was going to a long wait along the South Fork of the American River. I had lost the coin flip and was delegated to being the shuttle driver for my paddling companions coming down river. I picked up some coffee, beef jerky and some caramel popcorn on the way down to the river access and settled in for a long tedious wait. Sitting back along the bank of the stream I was hypnotized into a trance as I watched the dancing billowing waves stream over the rocks and then subside into a quiet pool at the takeout.

"You know this used to be more of a pit-stop than the finish line the first time paddlers came down this river." said a voice behind me. It was the grizzled old Storyteller who had told me tales one evening around the fire while at Loon Lake.

"It all began with a big race that started way up there past what they call Chili Bar now," he continued, "In those days they didn't have dams or give the rapids names for that matter. And they raced non-stop for about 100-miles all the way down to the confluence of the Sacramento River or as one of the area tribes called it  "Nome-Tee-Mem", meaning, water from over the hill."

Under the Falls, The Grand Discharge, Winslow Homer

Now most boaters know, the South Fork starts high in Sierra Nevada Mountains and is fed mostly by melting snow. The 20-mile or so run from Chili Bar to Salmon Falls that features about 20 named rapids and countless other little ones. In summer, flows are usually rated up to Class III or so, but with high water, in the early part of the season they can bubble up to a good Class IV rapid in places. After that, the river flows into Folsom Reservoir, then into Lake Natoma before heading almost straight west for about 25 miles to the Sacramento River.

"You see Native Americans inhabited the American River valley for at least 5,000 years before the Spaniards and Americans showed up." said the Storyteller, "They called it Kum Mayo, which means "roundhouse" and used its resources for everything. The oaks and pines provided shelter while the deer and fish provided food. And to honor the Kum Mayo and the river spirits that brings the salmon back from the sea to spawn and later die. A race was held to show the young  salmon the way back to the ocean since they have no parents to guide them."

A long paused followed. He straightens his Fedora. Then took a flask from his jacket's pocket. Opening it, he then and took a swallow, then looked at me and then back to the river.

"A great adventure is what lies ahead of them," he whispered,

"Other than walking," the Storyteller went on to explain, "Canoes and rafts were the primary methods of transportation for the tribes and they relied on them for hunting, fishing and trading expeditions. And of all the area paddlers, Tahoe was the best of the best."

"Hold up there," I interrupted, "You mean a guy was named after the lake?"

Lake Tahoe, Albert Bierstadt

"It was the other way around kid," claimed the Storyteller,  "Legend says he put out a forest fire by paddling his canoe around the lake so fast that he created massive waves and tornado-like water spouts that extinguished the fire, saving the villages along the shore. They say his super human paddling caused the lake to fall from the heavens, hence the name Tahoe meaning "Lake of the Sky."

"Now there were three types of canoes used," the Storyteller reminded me as he continued his story, "Dugout, birch bark and reed canoes and all them crowded beach come race day. Tahoe's canoe was a sturdy and heavy dugout. He craved it from an oak tree and painted it with streaks of fire. He and his craft would surely be unbeatable."

"A cheer of exuberance came over the crowd as a young warrior toted a small narrow watercraft down to the river over his shoulder. Constructed with whalebone-skeleton frame and animal skins stretched over its hull, the boat had a covered deck with only a small opening on top. Carrying a double-bladed paddle the young venturer was known as Two Paddles."

Father and Son Out to Sea, I.E.C. Rasmussen

"The very first kayak on the South Fork," I blurted out with excitement.

"That's right kid and I'd estimate there have been about million or so since," asserted the Storyteller, before he continued his tale.

"Now Two Paddles was the bravest of all the braves. He had paddled area lakes and rivers and had even traveled to the far north where he had learned to paddle like the Inuits,  perfecting a technique that allowed the kayak to be righted after rolling upside down."

"Tahoe scoffed at the narrow little boat with two points and said to Two Paddles, "You will be crushed on the rocks where the Water Babies reside then eaten by the Water Lynx."

"Two Paddles laughed and said, "I will fly over the Water Babies' rapids like the wind and hurtle past the great water cougar where the river become one."

"You see aside from distance and rapids, the paddlers would face three crucial challenges in finishing the race," revealed the Storyteller, "The Water Babies living in the rapids of the gorge, the Water Lynx that lived at the confluence of the north and south forks of the river and the Fish-women at Suicide Bend. All could prove to be deadly."

"Water Babies, sea monsters and mermaids?" I questioned.

The Water Babies, Jesse Wallcox Smith

"If you believe in that kind of stuff," he murmured, "Washoe legend tells of small humanoid type creatures inhabiting bodies of water sometimes causing illness or death of a person. Hearing and responding to the Water Baby's cry can result in catastrophe. Kinda like a gremlin, I suppose. They like to upset and roll canoes in the fast water. I'm sure they still exist to this day, so try to ignore their crying if you hear it."
"The Water Lynx, " he continued, "Was a powerful mythological water creature that was something of a cross between a cougar and a dragon. Those who saw it, and not many who did survived, said it was an enormous monster with a long prehensile like tail made of copper or gold that could snap a canoe in half drowning its paddler."

"And last there was the Fish-Women," the Storyteller smiled, "These were beautiful half-naked creatures with fish tails and the upper bodies of goddesses. They would sit on the rocks at the edges of the deep pools or above swift rapids combing their shimmering long black hair while singing alluring love songs to young warriors encouraging them to jump into the fast-moving stream. The name stuck. They still call it Suicide Bend."

"As expected Tahoe took the lead at the start of the race," the Storyteller emphasized, "His heavy canoe smashed through the rapids, waves and even through the rocks of Kum Mayo leaving behind the armada canoes. Two Paddles even had difficulty keeping up with Tahoe's canoe at first."

Courtesy of Weird U.S.

"In the gorge, the sound of Water Babies the crying echoed over the canyon and the foaming river. Canoes and paddlers turned broadside into whirling water as the little demons appearing like human babies made the warriors try to help them by reaching into the water, only for themselves to be pulled into the swift current by the little devils. It wasn't long before most were swimming and their boats were sinking. In his hefty boat Tahoe lost little time ignoring the weeping Water Babies while proceeding on. Two Paddles, however,  was turned upside down in the swelling boil and came face to face with one of Water Baby's devilish grins. But he rolled his kayak back up in a swirling cesspool of debris and fragments of the busted canoes and paddles."

"Only a handful of paddlers emerged from the gorge. Tahoe was in the lead and Two Paddles was at the very end as they approached the confluence of the two rivers," the Storyteller pointed out, "It's all dammed up now with Folsom Dam, but back then, past the peninsula where the two rivers met was the home of the Water Lynx."

Courtesy of Cryptomundo

"Tahoe awoke the slumbering panther as he paddled into the rivers' junction. It gave out a mighty roar as it slapped its paw at Tahoe's canoe. Missing by inches, it sent a wave of water over Tahoe's bow. The next paddlers were not so fortunate. The half lion and half dragon snapped the next canoe in two with a mighty blow from its serpent tail made of gold and then proceeded to wrap it's glistening tail around another boat, lifting high into the air, before smashing it against the wall of the canyon as the terrified canoeists scrambled out of the water and ran for their lives."

"Two Paddles and his kayak race past the splinters of the sinking canoes," emphasized the Storyteller, "Only to have the lynx catch sight of him and give chase. It was a game of cat and mouse as the dragon-cat ran on top of the water in hot pursuit. But Two Paddles was just too fast as he rolled, weaved and somersaulted across the water. The Water Lynx soon tired of the hunt and made one last pounce, but Two Paddles slipped away by a whisker has creature dove into the deep underneath him."

"The race was three-quarters of the way over and only three paddlers remained," the Storyteller explained, "As they approached a bend in the river they heard the most beautiful sound they had ever heard. It was the song of the Fish-women. Legend says that these sirens had even bewitched the river here by confusing it to turn sharply to north creating a vibrant wave train of chaotic churning water over a clay ledge only to make it turn again with a sharp pivot to the left, sending the stream backward in a circular boil. It's still the river's last rapid and the place where the Fish-Women set their trap for the unsuspecting."

Mermaids, Jean Francis Auburtin

"Their voices were like angels," the Storyteller speculated, "Enchanting and alluring, calling them ever so close and asking for them to stay forever. Tahoe was overtaken by their beauty and paddled closer and closer to see their desirable form.
"Their song is as lovely as they are," yelled Tahoe, "I must get up to see them, to hear them."
"Don't listen to them or look at them," warned Two Paddles, 'They will only bring you death."

"But, Tahoe was spellbound and had to stop to gaze at them and when he did the creatures grabbed his boat from below and started rocking it violently trying to make Tahoe fall into the stream. But, his canoe was too heavy for them and Tahoe used his paddle to knock them all away. The other paddler, however, wasn't so lucky. Under the same spell, he also stopped paddling and capsized in the circular eddy of the last rapid. He was quickly pulled under by the Fish-Women and never seen again."

"Now only Tahoe and Two Paddles were left," proclaimed the Storyteller, "There would be no more rapids or monsters, now only the river tested their endurance. You see, in those times the river there was a boundless string of marshes and wetlands giving it the appearance that they were traveling through a chain of lakes. It was here that Two Paddles and his lighter craft was able to catch Tahoe and his lumbering heavy dugout. For the first time in the race, they were side by side."

"The setting sun was blinding as they approached the finish line, the brown silty water of "Nome-Tee-Mem." Faster and faster they paddled, with each stroke the river loomed ahead of them. Their bodies ached and sweat poured from them, but they would not slow down or stop paddling."

"Along the shore, the local bands gathered to watch," divulged the Storyteller, "But wasn't just the humans of the valley, the deer, bear and wolf viewed from the woods. Eagles and hawks peered down from above, while the otters, salmon and trout watched from below. They would all tell their children and their children's children of this epic race."

"So who won?" I finally pleaded.

"It's a mystery." said the Storyteller looking off to the river. He was watching my two friends paddling together after going through the last rapid.

Indian Canoe Race, William de la Montagne

"One story says, Tahoe crossed first into the big water only to die when his heart gave out from paddling his heavy canoe, " he sighed, "Another legend says that Two Paddles finished first, only to have Tahoe immediately challenge him to another race. The next day they raced on to the ocean and some say they kept paddling from there."

"So which one do you believe?" I queried.

"I think they crossed together like your friends out there," the Storyteller concluded, ''They started out as rivals and ended up as brothers. Each looking out for one another while on the water. Because in the end, winning didn't matter as much as the journey together."

THE STORY OF LOON LAKE: A CAMPFIRE TALE

 “The world is indeed full of peril and in it, there are many dark places. But still, there is much that is fair. And though in all lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows, perhaps, the greater.” –J.R.R. Tolkien

The fire was burning to its last. Everyone else was asleep after the day's paddling on the Western Sierra's Loon Lake. It was just me and the grizzled old storyteller who had shared tales all evening with the folks around the fire. But he saved his best story for me.

"It sure is pretty up here." I told him, "But I can't figure out why they call it Loon Lake. There aren't any loons in California anywhere I've seen."

Now loons are large water birds with rounded heads and dagger-like bills. Their eerie calls echo across clear lakes of the northern wilderness. Less suited to land, loons are powerful, agile divers that catch small fish in fast underwater chases.

"Back in Minnesota on a night like this, " I said with a bit of homesickness in my voice, "I could hear the loons calling across the lake. I've come to miss them since moving to California and sure can't figure out why they call this place Loon Lake. There is not a loon within 2,000 miles of here."

"It wasn't always called Loon Lake you know." grumbled the Storyteller, "At one time, the Washoe called it the Valley of the Medican."

"The Medican?" I asked.

"Bigfoot, Sasquatch, the Abominable Snow Monster, if you believe in that kind of stuff," he said. A hush came over the trees and the embers again ignited with a pop. I could see his eyes in the glow of the flames.

A long pause followed. He straightens his Fedora. Then took a flask from his jacket's pocket.  Opening it, he then took a swallow and then looked at me from across the fire and said, "You do, don't you?"

Now, all through Northern California, there are tales of Yetties and Bigfoot sightings.  The mythological ape-like creature is said to inhabit its forested regions. Folklore has usually described Bigfoot as a large, hairy, bipedal humanoid, yet scientists discount its existence.

"California had loons a long time ago." he said as he leaned over to stir the fire with a stick, "Thousands of them. But the Medican ate every one of them. That's why they're none here today. For their survival, over time they changed their migrating routes to avoid the monster. Otherwise, there might not any loons at all. Legend had it that the Medican would swallow them whole. But that's not the worst of it. With the loons gone. The monster needed another source of food. So, it turned to the local native children."

"Terror swept through the nearby village when they learned this. They knew they had to devise a plan to kill the monster. But how? The creature was so big and so powerful, that spears and arrows would never work."

"But, that night, a medicine man had a vision of the monster's weakness. He saw that the fierce and terrible Medican could not swim and would sink like a stone if lured into the deepest part of the lake."

"But wasn't this lake built back in the 60s?" I questioned

"It was a long time ago, kid." said the Storyteller, "Legend says, that the lake then was even deeper than Tahoe.  But let's get back to my story. "

"How can we get the Medican into our canoes to bring him to the center of the lake they asked the medicine man. And what shall we use for bait? There seemed to be no answers."

"Then Two Paddles spoke up.  He said he could go to the land of the sky-blue waters and bring back a loon to the valley. He told them when he returned it would be winter and they could lure the Medican onto the ice of the lake. Hopefully, it would then break through and sink to the bottom."

"Now Two Paddles was the bravest of all the braves. He had paddled area lakes and rivers and had traveled to the far north to learn how to paddle like the Eskimos. He left the next day down the Truckee River, portaging the Great Basin to the Missouri River and then up to Mississippi to its source and the home to many loons. Using lumps of sugar, because everyone knows that loons love sugar, he caught the bird that would be used as bait."

"He hurried back along the same route, returning to the valley on snowshoes with the loon in a basket.  It was now the dead of winter with the lake encased with a sheet of ice. The villagers told him that so far, no children had been eaten but the monster was very, very hungry.  Just then they heard a terrible howling echoing through the mountains. It was the Medican.  They had little time to waste.

"The next day, Two Paddles trudged out to the center of the lake leaving behind him a trail of sugar lumps and staging a large pile of sugar at the center of the lake. Under his feet, he could feel the ice weaken. His trap was almost set. He returned to the shore and released the loon. The loon scooted along the ice eating up the sugar along the way until it reached the center of the lake where Two Paddles had poured the largest pile of sugar.  The loon consumed the sugar quickly by gulping it down till it could barely move."

"The scent of the loon, by now had filled the mountain air. A roar came out of the trees. It was the Medican. Fierce and hungry it raced toward the hapless loon on the weakening ice. It grabbed the loon and howled with delight, then opening its mouth, the monster tossed it in swallowing the loon whole."

"At first there was nothing, as the entire valley held its breath.  But then there was a large thunderous CRACK, followed by another and another. It was the sound of ice breaking under the monster.  Two Paddles looked on to see his trap had worked. The sheer weight of the sugar-stuffed loon caused the loon-stuffed Medican to break through the ice. He heard the monster shriek and wail as it sunk into the frozen water fighting to cling to the ice. And then there was no more as it plunged into the depths of the lake."

"So, to this day," smiled the Storyteller, "They call it Loon Lake in honor of the bird that saved all the villager's children that still sing, a loon full of sugar helps the Medican go down."

Current Adventures Kay School and Trips provide an overnight camping trip to Loon Lake for the meteor show across the heavens. The lake renders the perfect backdrop for the annual Perseid Meteor Shower during its peak in the month of August. The Crystal Basin Recreation Area's lake on the western slopes of the Sierra Nevada Mountains just west of Lake Tahoe, offers scenic beauty, limited crowds and no light pollution. Tucked away and only a short drive from Sacramento, California, Current Adventures Kayak School and Trips has been hosting kayaking campers for the meteor shower for nearly a dozen of years. With meals, camping equipment and kayaks provided, paddlers and first-time campers enjoy a cozy "roughing it" in-style camp-out.

If you want to go

Current Adventures Kayak School and Trips 
PHONE: 530-333-9115 or Toll-Free: 888-452-9254
FAX: 530-333-1291
USPS:Current Adventures, P.O. Box 828, Lotus, CA 95651
info@currentadventures.com
owner Dan Crandall dan@kayaking.com