Ice House and Hot Springs

Perhaps there should be some personal account besides news and official records to tell that we live in a time of terror here in America.  We will leave the debate of whether this horror is self-inflicted by America's own doing to historians.  Here, let's note that various terrorist groups, such as al Quada and other Muslim Jihad organizations, were planning to harass big metropolis in the US with some terrible blows of unimaginable weapons, especially during the days of festivity and massive gatherings, such as the 4th of July.

On the other hand, life must go on.  It's time to have some summer fun.  The first thing we did naturally was search the Web for a camping spot in the High Sierras, to hide away from the crowded cities perhaps during the upcoming weekend.  The spot that triggered an uproar of approval was the Grover Hot Springs. Ah, the mineral water of hot springs would do magic to cure any century old itches on old skin.  But, the small camping ground in this resort area was booked solid for all the dates of our intention.  We had no choice but to expand our search, with the hot spring as the center naturally as we were planning to first camp then soak in, all in one trip.

This must be the season of plans.

What we didn't pay close attention was that fact that maps on the Internet can be deceiving.  We thought Ice House Reservoir which had plenty of camping sites available was in the neighborhood of Grover Hot Springs. Of course, we were mistaking.  Ice House Reservoir is located a few miles north of the Highway 50, closer to Placerville than Lake Tahoe.  Grover Hot Springs, on the other hand, locates near the tiny town of Markleeville, another 45 minutes southeast of Lake Tahoe.  But, darn it, they appeared so close to each other on the computer screen.  However, don't fret on our behalf, for both the camping ground and the hot springs were great fun for all of us.

As it turned out, Ice House was a blessing in disguise because it wasn't too far thus we didn't have to drive too much on the first day.  The pre-4th-of-July get-away traffic pouring out of the cities had become rather horrendous already early in the afternoon.  By the time we departed the Bay Area around 3 p.m., Highway 80 was a parking lot in slow motion.  The stop and go traffic literally took us close to three hours to reach Sacramento, which normally takes about one hour and a half.  So, it was wishful thinking on our part to envision a 6 o'clock arrival at Ice House.  That day we didn't get there until around 8.

Please don't cry for us.  If you have ever been to the High Sierras, you know that the views of the majestic mountains with yearlong snow caps, rushing rivers and gurgling brooks since time eternal, endless pine forest, and the ever-expanding pristine views, you concede that whatever it takes to get there is definitely worth the effort and agony.  It's for thy beauty that we commit ourselves again and again.  Once there, our souls free themselves to embrace the aroma of the pines and rocks.  Souls like to fly high up to the mountains and deep into the valleys.  All the pores open up to take a long and delirious breath.  Maybe some of our cells still remember that we used to dwell in caves and live and die with them mountains and trees.  The air is so sweet that some of our genes can recall the days of the original creation of life, and maybe the Big Bang.  Only one wonders why we don't come often and what takes us so long to get here.

There was a huge forest fire a few years back as acres and acres of tall pine trees were burned down.  A ferocious inferno reduced proud and towering giants to charcoal and gave way to an ocean of lovely new pines, not yet so tall but promising in the size of large Christmas trees, basking healthily in the bright summer sun.  The new shade of green on the young pine is at its most delicious state of being.

Our camping ground was located beyond the charred area and amidst the original tall pines by the reservoir.  As seasoned campers, it didn't take us long to pitch our tents and had a nice picnic while stubborn, ferocious and slow-moving mosquitos launched their attacks on us without mercy.  They had no idea what danger hand claps and swats possess to their very livelihood.  All they cared was to bite with abandon and leave huge bumps with their vicious bites.  Maybe they were letting us know that this was their turf.  Good that they were only active for about one hour during the dusk; otherwise, we might have to call 911.

Dusk settled down; but the desire to swim overtook me.  And only my son responded to the idea with overwhelming enthusiasm.  The snow mountain run-off was so clear and sweet.  Though it was a bit cold and even icy, I didn't possess the capacity that evening to resist the temptation.  After the initial shock, the body quickly got used to the temperature and soaking in cold water brought this marvelous feeling of depth as if the coldness penetrated deep into the bones and muscles.  The coldness brought everything in the body closer to the mountains, its snow, its rock, its pines and its moss.  It was a way of rejuvenation and renewal.  It was definitely a fantastic way to wash off the fatigue and weariness from the day's long drive.

Standing in the shallow water, I was struck by the fierce glow of the sunset in its rich crimson simmering behind huge pine trees.  It was a moment of sentiment that only those of us who have the connection can identify...  The post-swim bonfire in the fire ring provided by the campground was almost like the next logical phase of the sunset, the splendor continued into the night.  Looking up, the night sky presented us with a heaven full of stars, a vast number that I sometimes forgot since my childhood back in the village.

It was a little on the cold side to sleep at night but tolerable for outdoors campers.  Only the bright morning sun and eager forest birds woke up everyone terrifically early.  We slept in the embrace of mother nature who provided no window blinds.  We ate and headed to the reservoir again as the rest of the troops were ready to jump in.  The morning sun revealed a beautiful pond of green water, much fresher than what we drink and cook with in the city.  But we didn't know it was barely 9 in the morning and the water was a little on the icy side.  However, that was the way some of us liked it in the summer.  We were in the mountains as the elevation was around 5000 feet.  Snow caps are all around us.  Back in our mind, we were anticipating the hot spring in the afternoon.

When we were tired of swimming, we thought it was mid-day already.  Thus it was a pleasant surprise to see the watch showing the time before 10:30 in the morning.  We folded up the tents and started out for Grover Hot Springs. The traffic on Highway 50 was still rather heavy as eager vacationers rushed towards Lake Tahoe.  Big SUVs, jeeps, and trucks were playing bullies on the road.  Lake Tahoe was like a zoo on the 4th of July.

It was too bad that we were heading towards Lake Tahoe as the traffic quickly came to a halt and cars traveled in snails' pace for the last five to six miles before the town of South Lake Tahoe.  The good part for us was that we were not going to Lake Tahoe.  We were thrilled to peel off the long dragon on Highway 50 and headed south along State Highway 89.

At high noon, it was intensely sunny.  Ragged and majestic mountains formed a nice enclave for the valley we were traveling in and the trees were vigorous and upright as if guarding the precious peace.  The rocks that were smoothened over by glaciers ions ago appear so tamed and pleasing and sturdy the whole while. But the volcanic rocks are still burning, twisting, bubbling and crying even in darkness and coldness under the sun.  The saddest are the half-baked sandy soil trapped on top of some rocks, falling and yet balancing in high altitude, being pierced by violent gusty winds again and again.  Pain has been sculptured by nature here and there and only those who know can feel them.  Fate plays tricks on everything and everyone.  Only those who have gone through it all take notice with heart trembles.

The State Highway 89 joins 88 in Hope Valley where small rivers of green water snake through vast meadows.  Even though we wanted to linger a bit with grassy and green meadows and to wade through running brooks, we rushed southeast towards dry and ghostly land of California-Neveda border.  It was hot and dry and choking.  Good that Markleeville was quickly in sight and the Hot Springs Road was right in the middle of this one stop town.

Grover Hot Springs sits in the middle of a valley surrounded by big rocky mountains and baked in the hot afternoon sun.  The pools, one cold and the one hot, have a capacity limit of 75, no more and no less.  Nobody comes out then nobody goes in.

We had our picnic under a tree, entertaining a few giant slow moving mosquitos. Wow, they were early here.  Their behavior was utterly lawlessness.  Then ten minutes in the line, we were into the pools of people of all shapes.  The change rooms were tiny and crowded.  And the mineral water was hot, 103 degrees.  Some of us had to sit in the cooler and hot water alternatives every ten minutes also.  But it was fun for about two hours, except for the exposed skin under the scorching sun.  Hey, we promised ourselves a hot spring and we came.  And the water was genuinely mineral and hot naturally.  I think my skin can still feel the soothing impact days after.

On our way back we stopped to wade through the nice cool water in Hope Valley, a place where everything should slow down to enjoy the pace of millennium in the marching.  We saw a baby water snake, as tiny as a child's finger, in bright yellow and black stripes going through the length of the body.  It was over a foot long, waiting among water plants for insects to become its afternoon snack.  The baby snake was oblivious of our presence.  So we turned our attention to the busy swallows, going back and forth to build their mud nest under a concrete bridge.  I suddenly recalled the village life where some folks were proud of the swallow nests in their houses.  Swallows know who is kind and caring and who is not, they say.  Some self-advertisement can be blatant from time to time.  Here under that concrete bridge, a few anglers sitting in the shade waiting for their fresh trouts to bite.  It was a peaceful time in an ultimate pristine setting, considering that it was only about 5 hours away from the city.

We went back on State Highway 88.  Carson Pass still sits quietly among snow caps.  A series of beautiful reservoirs scatter along the road to make it one of the most scenic drives there is in the world, as one can see big body of water nestling under some gorgeous snow peaks; healthy flow of water rush down the rock valleys, forming marvelous waterfalls here and there.  Growing up in the upstream of the Yellow River basin, I can see clearly how much advantage they have here to dam up the water.  The valley beds are rock solid with rocks, whereas the valleys and mountains surrounding my birth village were all soft and shifting yellow earth.  Reservoirs there were all eventually filled up by sod and soil.

Along Highway 88, there are small resorts everywhere, equipped with camping sites, small hotels and fishing spots.  We couldn't help to stop and look and linger.  It was a terrific journey through some of the most magnificent scenes of the great Sierra Nevada.

We got home around 9:30, through some of the difficult driving as the late afternoon sun was blinding the highway.  As it turned out, the only thing terrorized on this particular 4th of July was the leopard gecko at home.  The poor thing couldn't understand why there was this constant booming noise.  Of the fireworks, no less.  So it hid under its rock, not blinking at all.

July 10, 2003