Coming Home

The Journey Home

Driving straight northward, we snack in Olancha again, then dash through Lone Pine, where the film festival is in full swing. We see a Man-With-No-Name walking down Main Street, draped in poncho and wide-brimmed hat, cigar in hand. A craft fair fills the local park, but we don't have time to stop and look-see. We planned to spend the night in Bishop, maybe catching the Indian Museum the next day; but film festival fans, willing to drive an hour and a half to Lone Pine, have already filled the rooms. A wedding party in June Lake has claimed all the rooms there. The final weekend of summer in Yosemite has booked everything in Lee Vining. As darkness swells around us, we hope there'll be something in Bridgeport. I am beginning to feel like Mary and Joseph. What was that I said about the Fringe Seasons of Spring and Fall. Oops! About ten p.m., we pull into the Big Meadow Lodge just south of Bridgeport. We find a toasty hunter's cottage awaiting us. Someone has recently repainted and refurnished the room, complete with country quilt on the huge pinelog bed. What a welcoming sight.

The next morning, Jeff drives us back toward Bodie, perchance to hear the bells. As he predicted, though, they are gone. You just can't recreate magic. You have to drink it in as deeply as possible and keep it in your heart. As bucolic and slow as life seems along the eastern Sierra Nevada, every day brings change. We return home, the sounds of bells ringing in my mind, taking me once again along Highway 395 to beauty that brings us surprises each time we go.

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