Little Lodge on the Lake : One Young Family Discovers the Joys of a Sierra Vacation at Carson Pass Near Lake Tahoe

On the Fourth of July, I was relaxing with my family and two friends on the shore of Granite Lake, enjoying the transparent green water and warm Sierra sunshine.

We had hiked an easy mile to get there, stopping at the top of a waterfall to watch Squaw Creek explode in a white cascade, then following haphazard rock markers over a ridge and down among red fir and lodgepole pine to the lake itself.

The walk had left me lazy but not tired. The largeness of the view, and its elemental simplicity--water, stone and sky--reduced whatever worries I harbored to their right proportion. My daughters, Sylvie, 6, and Rosa, 3, were laughing as they waded in the shallow lake; they had hardly even griped about putting on sunscreen.

To top it off, we had cherries and homemade cookies in our day packs.

Beauty, laughter, treats. . . .

“You know,” said my friend, a video producer from San Francisco, “we really have to get you guys to Kauai.”

I was slow on the uptake. Only after a couple of days, as we walked along another trail in the Carson Pass area, did the remark’s absurdity hit home.

Who the heck needs Kauai?

*

With its quaking aspens and fir trees, abundant water and dramatic views of granite and snow-draped mountains, Carson Pass (California 88) is the most beautiful of all the Sierra crossings.

Since prehistoric times, the region, about 50 miles south of Lake Tahoe at 8,000 feet elevation, has attracted visitors. The Washoe Indians, who lived most of the year in the Great Basin to the east, camped near Silver Lake in the summer months. Some of the trails that wind through the region today originally were their trading routes.

The pass was named, of course, for the notorious scout and American Indian fighter Kit Carson, who in 1844 guided John C. Fremont’s expedition into California.

Not long after, the interlopers discovered the recreational charms of the region. “The History of Amador County,” a book we found on the lodge desk, recorded the enthusiasm of one such in 1881: “Silver Lake is one of the most beautiful sheets of water in the world, and a sojourn on its banks in the summer is one of the most pleasantest enjoyments possible.” After a week on those very banks--hiking, boating, wading and scouting for wildflowers--I quite agreed.

We had come to the area because there was a vacancy at the Kit Carson Lodge. I had learned about the lodge, which lies at the foot of Thunder Mountain on the eastern shore of the lake, last spring. Already enchanted by Carson Pass and ever questing for the perfect family vacation, I called to inquire about renting one of the 14 housekeeping cottages and learned none were available; in fact, I was told they were often reserved two years in advance.

Of course, this only heightened my interest, and I asked to be put on the waiting list. A month later there was a cancellation for a lakeside cottage, Black Bear, and I grabbed it--even though we had already made alternative vacation plans. Except for the lack of bunk beds, the Kit Carson Lodge resembles the summer camps of my childhood. The cottages are natural wood with large decks, green roofs and vast windows to take advantage of lake views. They are low slung, and tucked so well into the trees that the whole complex, which also includes a few motel rooms, a store, a coin-op laundry and restaurant, must be invisible from the air.

The furnishings are Spartan--turquoise Naugahyde day beds, a picnic table and a Danish-modern fireplace in our living room, laminate bureaus and beds in small bedrooms.

To compensate for the lack of chairs, we moved the deck furniture indoors after dark.

But hey, no complaints. There was nothing to dust, only linoleum to sweep. Even with kids, the place was a breeze to keep clean.

Because Black Bear cottage sleeps six, we invited the couple from San Francisco to join us over the weekend and my mom from Laguna Niguel to come for the rest of the week. We arrived on Friday right after check-in time, 4 p.m. Our friends had preceded us by five minutes and already had a motorboat reserved for fishing the next day.

Reasoning that packing, driving and unpacking constituted enough work for one vacation day, we elected to eat at the lodge’s restaurant that evening. I had capellini under julienned vegetables and my husband, Russell, ordered sea bass with black bean sauce. The kids ordered what amounted to $6 plates of chicken nuggets. It wasn’t bad, but the pretensions seemed incongruous. Why not spaghetti? Why not trout?

Since Rosa, the 3-year-old, was not about to sit still until dinner arrived, we took a walk down a short path to the lakeshore and out onto the boat dock. The sun had set, but the sheer wall of Thunder Mountain still glowed pink in its reflected light; the full moon was just rising over the mountains and illuminating the water.

Even Rosa was inspired to say, “I like it here. It’s so beautiful.”

Our San Francisco friends were up at dawn Saturday to fish, and spent luckless but contented hours in the boat before finally, on Sunday evening, catching three respectable rainbow trout. Triumphant, they bore their catch to the cottage just in time for dinner. Dredged in flour and herbs, then pan-fried, the fish were delicious.

When our friends departed next morning, they left us their tackle, but somehow we never worked up enough enthusiasm to use it. Fishing reminds me of playing slot machines: The likelihood of boredom is so much greater than the likelihood of reward. And we had plenty to do.

*

I had always wanted to try kayaking, for example. With visions of scooting over Silver Lake like a waterbug, I rented one of the small kayaks the lodge offers for $5 an hour. For the same price, Russell rented a canoe for himself and the girls.

I didn’t scoot. I zigzagged. And Russell astonished me by revealing he had done white-water canoeing as a camp counselor in New York 20 years ago. With “help” from Sylvie paddling in front and ballast from Rosa in the middle, he splashed circles around me.

Near shore, we spied a duck followed by a line of ducklings swimming toward one of several islands. The ducklings took turns riding on mom’s broad back, which accommodated two at a time.

I was reminded of mama duck the next day as we hiked back from one of the three Shealor Lakes. Rosa and I were making deals: I would carry her 100 steps, then she would walk 100 steps. The rocky trail was steep, and our intermediate goal was a tree near the crest where I had promised each daughter her own bag of M&Ms.;

Truth to tell, Russell and I had had it in our heads that Gramma might do some baby-sitting while she was on hand, giving us a chance to take longer hikes than Sylvie and Rosa’s short legs usually tolerate.

Gramma was willing, but the kids wanted to do everything we did. So I asked lodge owners Brad and Ximena Pearson, who have an 8-year-old daughter, to recommend family hikes. They came up with three, and late Tuesday morning--after laundry--we drove half a mile west on 88 to the Shealor Lakes trail head.

We encountered four other people on the 1 1/2-mile trail, none at the lake itself. There were plenty of adventures for the kids, rocks to jump over or off of, logs to test their balance. Rosa became a dedicated maker of trail markers, pausing every few steps to stack an unsteady tower of rocks. She also enjoyed bending down to smell the delicate pink and white flowers known as pussy paws, which, as far as I can tell, have no fragrance at all.

It was slow going for everybody except my mom, who left us in the dust after a few hundred yards.

At the top of the ridge overlooking the lake we surveyed a spectacular view, a meadow of wildflowers--purple lupine, red- orange Indian paintbrush, spidery white mousetails--and in the distance the snowcapped peaks of the Desolation Wilderness.

*

Sylvie led me on a tour. “This is the secret passageway to my study,” she said, as we edged between two boulders. When she jumped off a rock, she explained, “This is the dangerous stairway.”

If it all sounds a little precious, well, for awhile there, it was. After comparing “owies” on the trail, my darlings even clasped hands and declared they’d be friends for life.

Then Rosa pitched a complete fit, collapsed on a rock and refused to go another step. Thank goodness for strong parental backs and the promise of M&Ms.;

We deserved not to cook that night, too, and began looking around for alternatives. My mom, who has grown a little clueless living in Orange County so long, suggested we have a vegetarian pizza delivered. I said the pizza would get cold coming from the nearest source, South Lake Tahoe, 50 miles north. We finally happened on the Kirkwood Inn, on 88 opposite the ski resort of the same name.

The inn is a locals’ joint, bar and restaurant in one dimly lit room. On the porch were a couple of large dogs that didn’t look up when we walked by. I ordered a $4.50 bowl of chili that included not only meat and beans but also carrots and celery. Rosa, the mountain woman, ate an entire hamburger and two-thirds of a hot dog. Mom, Russell and Sylvie shared two orders of a chicken stir fry ($6.95) with tons of fresh vegetables and even more soy sauce. Everything was tasty.

We tried another hike on our last day of vacation, Thursday. If possible, it was more beautiful than the first two--from the trail head at Schneider’s Camp through a meadow strewn with yellow mule’s ears and a dozen other wildflowers up onto a ridge from which we could see the blue of Lake Tahoe to the north and Caples Lake to the south.

Even in July we were hiking among melting snow fields, crossing and recrossing rivulets that would combine to form streams, creeks and eventually the Mokelumne River, a few miles west. The girls were delighted by the snow and turned their dad into a sled, sitting on his lap and sliding down the slope. They each got three rides before, his bottom numb and his pants soggy, we talked them into another pursuit.

*

Frustrated by our ignorance of flowers, we had brought colored pencils, markers, crayons and paper in our pack, and the four of us sat down on the trail to draw what we were seeing. When we got back that afternoon we bought a wildflowers poster at the lodge store, and after dinner we brought out our drawings and did our best to identify them.

We were delighted by the names of some flowers, like the orange trumpet-shaped “skyrockets,” drooping pink or purple “languid ladies,” and brilliant magenta “pride of the mountains.”

All in all, we figured we had seen 20 varieties on our walks, not counting a few that remain mysteries.

My account makes the week sound strenuous, but it wasn’t. I like to cook when there is no pressure to do so and, besides preparing simple dinners, I had the leisure to bake two cakes. Three afternoons, Sylvie and Rosa found friends with whom to build castles at the lodge’s small, muddy beach. Back at the cottage, we read Beatrix Potter books aloud, shamelessly fed Cheerios to the fat chipmunk that lived under the deck, and taught Sylvie how to play rummy.

Russell was preparing to teach a class in the fall, and he spent hours reading anthropology books on our deck overlooking Silver Lake. Walking to the store for another pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream one afternoon, he drew a breath of pine-scented air and said, “What I like best about this place is that, whatever I’m doing, I’m happy.”

Kauai indeed.

GUIDEBOOK

Lodge Life at Kit Carson

Getting there: From Los Angeles, Carson Pass is about a nine-hour drive. Take Interstate 5 north to California 99 toward Bakersfield; continue north to Stockton, and go right (east) on California 88 (also called Waterloo Road). The closest commercial airport is Stockton, about 80 miles west of Kit Carson Lodge.

When to go: The Kit Carson Lodge is open mid- May through mid-October, with high season July 4 to Labor Day. Summer weather is fairly predictable: highs in the mid-70s to low 80s, overnight lows in the 40s and 50s. Afternoon thunderstorms are not unheard of. Spring and fall weather is dicier; there was a Memorial Day weekend snowstorm this year. The lodge is busy in summer but often has spring and fall vacancies. The area also is known for winter recreation. Kirkwood, five miles east of the lodge on California 88, is a major downhill and cross-country ski resort.

Where to stay: Kit Carson Lodge, Kit Carson, Calif. 95644, telephone (209) 258-8500. Off-season, when the lodge is closed (Nov. 1-May 15 ), contact Brad and Ximena Pearson, 5855 Carbondale Road, Plymouth, Calif. 95669, tel. (209) 245-4760. High season rates for housekeeping cottages are $460-$890 per week. Motel rooms are $90-$95 per night, both including complimentary, buffet-style continental breakfast in the lodge. Nearby, there are condominiums available at Kirkwood, and cabins at Caples Lake Resort and Plasse’s Resort, as well as six campgrounds. The information office of the Eldorado National Forest, 3070 Camino Heights Drive, Camino, Calif. 95709, tel. (916) 644-6048, has lodging and campground information.

Where to eat: There are half a dozen options within 10 miles of Kit Carson Lodge, including the lodge itself and the Kirkwood Inn on California 88, tel. (209) 258-7304. If you plan to cook your own food (advisable), don’t count on local groceries to provide much beyond potato chips, ice cream and sodas. The closest full-service stores are about 45 minutes from the lodge in South Lake Tahoe or Pollock Pines, Calif., or in Gardnerville, Nev.