Generations of memories found at Priest Lake
Summer's winding down. My years are winding down. But somehow — in this wonderful circle I lived at Priest Lake these last two weeks — I see how the season never really ends.
(Photo courtesy CAROL SHIRK KNAPP)
We've just returned from two weeks camping at Priest Lake. I go back to childhood there. I remember as a young girl standing in the water one evening at Indian Creek campground with my pale, barrel-chested grandpa — still hardy well into his 80s.
Like many in our area the generational memories spread as broad as the lake. Terry and I were married in the Community Church on Kalispell Bay over 50 years ago. On this recent camp out we had children and grandchildren spending time at our site.
A 10-year-old grand paddled his little pump-up plastic raft out in the water early one morning and sat in the smoke haze dangling his fishing pole, Huck Finn revisited. An 11-year-old celebrated her birthday, opening gifts around the camp fire. The 5-year-old turned her floatie into a water taxi — ferrying her grandpa's crutches back and forth to him so he could get in and out of the lake.
Packer Falls is a secret gem a short hike back in the forest — 6.2 miles north from the Nordman store. I underperformed the first time — not going far enough. Backtracking to Nordman, the jovial bartender drew a map on a napkin. There is just a wide spot in the road for pulling off and a trail opening in the bushes. What a beautiful fanning waterfall. The Forest Service, I assume, has placed some “hidden discoveries” along the trail.
The birthday girl found what we thought might be a cougar hairball at Hughe's Meadow. The old smokejumper's cabin, dwarfed beneath towering cedars, is still there. Terry and I won't forget taking shelter in it as teens when our snowmobile broke down on New Year's Eve 1969. I stayed behind with our friends while he rode their machine a long way out for help. Now our granddaughter stood in the doorway peering into the dim room.
An 11-year-old grand visiting from Minnesota who was out in the boat with grandpa, caught his first fish. A nice trio of kokanee. His teen sister sat in the sand on the campground beach, half in and half out of the water — like a mermaid. I learned later her love for water, and how when it flows around her it heals the sadness she sometimes feels.
The same 10-year-old with his pump-up raft brought a survival backpack loaded with all kinds of essentials — a wicked knife, a youth Bible, matches, a first aid kit, a toothbrush and seed packets — always his seeds. He looked to be growing cantaloupe, tomatoes, and beets if he was stranded long enough.
My brother and sister-in-law from Nashville arrived the final weekend of our camping. We played musical recreational vehicles and moved our trailer down to their spot. Terry doesn't do tents anymore so he came home and I slept in our tent — the smell of canvas wafting those childhood memories of Priest Lake camping — bringing me full circle.
I woke to waves crashing the shore — a mighty wind kicking up lake surf so that it seemed an inland ocean. The following morning the water was soft and placid, like a baby sleeping. I found smooth flat skipping rocks, and spun circles across its surface.
The poet Robert Frost says the heart of man considers it a treason to “bow and accept the end of a love or a season.” Summer's winding down. My years are winding down. But somehow — in this wonderful circle I lived at Priest Lake these last two weeks — I see how the season never really ends.