Into the Mountains, Again
We headed to the hills, again, on this gorgeous Sunday in April. This time, our plan was to drive back into my past — way, way back. We were going to North Fork.
But getting out of Clovis took a bit of time. After all, we had to stop at Target to buy some chips and drinks to go along with the home-made chicken sandwiches we’d packed into our portable icebox. And, of course, once we got inside Target (yes, masked-up, along with every other shopper), we ran head-on into the aisle that carried Panama hats — or, as I call them, Sam Snead hats, in honor of the great golfer I grew up watching on TV.
Well, I needed a Sam Snead hat — that was all there was to it. Not only would it keep the sun off my face during my daily walks — but every time I wore it, it would remind me of those “good old days” when Mr. Snead — widely known as “the Slammer” — wore that same style of hat as he strolled down the fairways during all those early-days-of-TV golf tournaments where I saw him play — in living black-and-white, of course. Yes, the Slammer was Palmer and Nicklaus and Tiger way before they were around — and, unfortunately, well before TV and its advertisers could capture the game and raise the winnings for all the tournaments that came after Sam’s heyday.
Once we got that hat — a nice addition to the Sinatra hat my buddy Albert had given me as a birthday present — but which is way too stylish to wear while exercising — we had to buy other stuff for our picnic. And that “other stuff” led to more “stuff” in Target. By the time we left, we’d spent a bundle of cash and still hadn’t gotten much closer to North Fork.
But eventually we hit the road again, up Willow Avenue to Friant Road to Millerton Road to O’Neals Road and eventually into North Fork — about 35 miles from where we started and at an elevation of about 2,600 feet. North Fork played a big role in my parents’ early married life — and, later, in my childhood. It’s a delightful little (population 500) mountain community where Mom and Dad ran a grocery store shortly after they got married in the 1930’s.
There’s a picture in one of our family albums, showing the young married Harts in front of that store — Mom with a broom, Dad wearing a butcher’s apron. They ran that store for only a few years and eventually started moving around — first to the San Francisco Bay Area and then back to Fresno, where they both had been born.
But while they were in North Fork, they became friends with George and Marcia Putney. George was a Forest Service ranger — and Marcia became the first female judge in Madera County. They lived on 90-plus acres off Road 274 outside North Fork. Dad and Mom remained friends with the Putneys — who were much older — for the rest of George and Marcia’s lives.
And I remember going to visit the Putneys numerous times on their ranch. The house they lived in had been the first Forest Service ranger house in the area. It was on top of a little hill, and their backyard sloped down to Manzanita Lake. I remember visiting their place in both summer and winter — when it was bone-dry, and when snow covered their acreage.
One of the fondest memories of my childhood is when Dad put me on his shoulders in the Putneys’ backyard — and carried me down their small hill to Manzanita Lake.
Mom and Dad’s life might have been far different if they’d just had $250 back when they were living in North Fork. Someone offered them 500 acres of land nearby — for 50-cents an acre. They didn’t have the money. After all, it was the Depression. That same land today would cost millions.
Well, on this Sunday afternoon, our first stop (after driving through North Fork and past that still-standing former grocery building) was up Road 222 at Manzanita Lake. Yes, the Putney land went down to the lake — but the only public access to the water was from a road on the other side of the lake. Once we got there, Manzanita Lake was even prettier than I remembered.
Only a few other people were there — and that was not surprising, since Manzanita is not nearly as well known as nearby Bass Lake, which has been “built out” by Angelinos up from Southern California — and, yes, by Valley residents seeking an easy getaway from the hustle and bustle. We sat at a picnic table and bench next to the lake.
Almost immediately, nearby ducks waddled closer — hoping for whatever food we didn’t eat — or wished to “gift” them. We know we shouldn’t have — but we gave them a small part of our lunch. They liked it, and so did we.
Then it was back to North Fork and up Road 274 to the turnoff for the Putney Ranch. When Marcia died in the mid-60’s (a few years after George had passed away) — she willed their property to the county of Madera for use as a camp for disabled children. And for years, that’s what it was — until the financial burden became too great for the county.
The ranch was sold to a religious group — which ran it as a summer getaway. As we drove up the winding dirt road toward the ranch, I was hoping, first, that we weren’t going to be considered trespassers (and treated accordingly) — and that I’d be able to take that same walk from the backyard, decades after my dad had carried me on his back. But before we got to the ranch, the road was blocked by a big steel gate.
A couple of workmen were there, doing this or that — I don’t know what. I rolled down our car window as one approached, and explained that I’d been there decades ago as a youngster — that my parents were friends with the Putneys — and that I’d love to be able to walk that walk down the little hill next to the old Putney house.
Alas, no luck. The workman said the ranch was closed — had been, in fact, since the coronavirus pandemic started — and said he could not allow us to go beyond the gate.
No amount of schmoozing would change his mind — so, reluctantly, I turned the car around and drove back to the main road. I know that if the workmen hadn’t been there, I’d have walked past that gate and onto the ranch house site and gone down that hill. But there’s always next time.
We drove up the 274 to Bass Lake — just a few miles away — and down to the lake’s Pines Village. Bass Lake was lovely, as always — though much lower than it usually is at this time of year — and the Pines was, as it always has been, charming. Sharon and I have spent time up there during the course of our marriage — both in cabins we’ve rented, and at the Pines Resort itself, complete with rooms fancy enough to have hot tubs.
In fact, our “history” there goes back to our second date — in 1974. That Saturday, I picked up Sharon at her house in Easton. Her right leg was bandaged from her foot to just below her knee — the result of her having inappropriately placed her foot underneath the roller (and it was rolling) of a Trimmer lawnmower. My left hand was bandaged — the result of my having inappropriately placed it through a half-glass door the night before during some horsing around inside our Channel 30 newsroom. It was quite an auspicious date, indeed, that Saturday at Bass Lake. And things seemed to work out after that.
Anyway, after we left the Pines Resort area this Sunday afternoon, we stopped at the lovely and dramatic falls on Willow Creek. It‘s a tourist magnet — and, sure enough, there were parents and kids taking advantage of this warm (75 degrees at Bass Lake) spring day to splash around and sunbathe.
Then it was on the road again — up to Highway 41, then back down into Oakhurst and Coarsegold — two more mountain towns Sharon and I had frequented in the early days of our marriage before we began our cross-the-nation excursions. Along the way, we talked about why we had never seriously considered buying a place at Bass Lake or Shaver Lake — or anywhere else in the mountains. Our answer — we were just too busy working when we were in Fresno — and too busy traveling and working around the nation when we weren’t in Fresno. Oh, well.
We followed the 41 down to our future hillside neighborhood north of Fresno. No, construction on our house has not started — but the builders sent us an indication last week that they know they have to build it. They sent us personalized sugar cookies shaped like houses and saws and hammers. One even had our name on it. Sweet, indeed.
But because construction will take at least four months once it starts, we’ll have to spend more time at our “summer place” in Iowa this summer. We hope things will get finished here before the snow starts falling in the Midwest.