Then at the top of a shady knoll, standing in a beam of sunlight is Bill.ĭressed in working man's coveralls and denim shirt, Bill carries himself with the dignity of the skyscraper tall trees surrounding him. Tree roots the size of water mains burst from the embankment on their way to the lake. Tiny stones carpet the lake bed beneath the crystalline water. My spirits sink until John, the marina manager, calls Bill and we practically skip our way along the edge of the lake to Bill's lakeside home. A notice attached on the post office door reads, "will re-open June 15th." "I'll see you as you cross the lake" he'd said. We arrive, the boat nudges the dock, we disembark, the dock is deserted. The lake sparkles, the sky radiantly clear, monolithic mountains hover above us. The prognosis for the east side is for more starter castles, a phrase Bill used when we last spoke.Īt the appointed hour, Marilyn and I climb into a motorboat. The land on the east side of the lake is privately owned in contrast to the west side, which is predominantly forest service land. I say vintage because the floors slant, a bear came through the living room window last winter and watching "Ugly Betty" isn't an option. While Tahoe is the darling of tourists, Fallen Leaf Lake is still a maid in waiting, especially the west side of the lake, where Marilyn's vintage cabin is. He was.įallen Leaf Lake is a dew drop just south of Lake Tahoe. Marilyn Shreve, a friend and benefactor, said her Fallen Leaf Lake cabin was available so I made a call to Bill Craven, long time resident to see if he was available for an interview. After being bombarded by the Olympics, political babble and the news that Brett Farve had suddenly gone over to the New York Jets, I was desperate for a change.
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