1989
“We drove five hours and he’s the one who’s late?” Jim said.
“By five minutes,” Bonnie said. “Besides, the drive along that gorge was as beautiful as anything I’ve ever seen.”
“Made me carsick.”
Bonnie climbed atop the picnic table and turned in a slow circle, craning her neck to see the tops of the sequoias, taking deep breaths of mountain air. Jim sat on the bench, brushed a pine needle from the flannel shirt he’d worn to blend in with the locals.
“I feel like the Marlboro Man,” he said.
Bonnie didn’t hear him, or at least pretended not to. Jim scanned the property. With its stone façade, the lodge appeared sturdy enough, but the two-story motel looming in the background looked like it might topple from one well-placed kick, and the small cabins, set at random distances along the periphery of the main clearing, were bordering on disrepair. Nestled among the world’s tallest trees, with the Sierra Nevada rising to the east, it was, as Bonnie said, a beautiful spot. But there were a lot of beautiful places in the world, and Jim didn’t see the point in anchoring yourself to just one.
“That must be Rudy,” Bonnie said, nodding at the short, squat man exiting the main building.
“About time,” Jim said.
“Shush now,” Bonnie told him.
Rudy waved as he walked toward them. Jim stood, looked at his watch.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hood?” Rudy called.
Bonnie nodded.
“Welcome to Camp Nelson Lodge. I’m really sorry about the wait. The plumbing in the lodge got cranky. I’m not going to lie: that happens pretty regular these days.”
Bonnie shook his hand, then turned to Jim: “You see? I told you we’re blessed to have a realtor who doesn’t work Sundays. We’re going to get the inside story.”
Now that Rudy was up close, Jim noticed a fresh grease stain running across the man’s ratty polo shirt. Rudy had muscular forearms, a barrel chest, and a gut that suggested long nights in the saloon. His salt-and-pepper hair was in bad need of a shampooing. Jim pegged him as a ne’er-do-well: a middle-aged man who’d attached himself to a near-vacant lodge in order to keep a roof over his own lazy head.
“What exactly do you do here again?” Jim asked.
“I’m the caretaker.”
Jim glanced around.
“No offense,” he said, “but it doesn’t look like you’ve been busy.”
Bonnie gave him a sharp jab with her elbow.
“It’s okay,” Rudy said. “More honesty: I’m a staff of one with no budget. I’ve been hoping someone would come along and sink some money into this place.”
“Sink?” Jim asked.
Rudy grinned.
“I mean invest,” he said. “Look around. There isn’t another parcel of land like this one anywhere in the world. Every morning I step outside and I remember that life is a miracle. If I had kids, I’d raise ’em right here.”
“Maybe you should have been a realtor,” Jim said.
“Nah,” Rudy said. “I’m not trying to sell you anything. Truth is, it’s sad what’s happened to Camp Nelson Lodge. It used to be bustling with city folks whose souls needed a rest. They’d show up looking like they’d been wound so tight their nerves were snapping, and within a couple of days you’d see all that tension just leave their bodies. This place can be magic that way. But now it’s just part of the Edwards Group’s portfolio, and they’ve let it rot. We haven’t taken a guest in two years. The saloon is still open for locals, but that’s it. Like I said, I’ve been praying Edwards’d sell. I’d buy the place myself if I had the money.”
“I used to come here with my parents when I was a kid,” Bonnie said. “I never stopped dreaming about the sequoias. You’re right: Camp Nelson is magical.”
Rudy gave a solemn nod; Jim sniggered.
“I’d settle for functional,” Jim said.
* * *
Rudy took them on a tour, beginning with the lodge. The lobby was a long, open space with twin stone fireplaces, one at either end. The ceiling beams were made of solid logs (“This is a logging community,” Rudy pointed out), and the floor of ceramic tile. The walls were covered with unfinished wood panels, which Jim thought gave an otherwise stately room the look of a semifinished basement.
“It’s real wood, Jim,” Bonnie said, “not laminate.”
The dining room/meeting hall featured wraparound windows and looked onto a small meadow separated from the forest by a stream.
“The view’s not bad—I’ll give you that. But even my grandmother wouldn’t have put up with this wallpaper,” Jim said.
“You can change the wallpaper,” Bonnie said. “The view is for keeps.”
Jim rapped on one of the windows with his knuckle.
“You’ll have to change these, too, if you plan to be open for ski season,” he said.
Rudy seemed amused by their back and forth. He led them out the back door and on to the motel. With its wooden shingles and log pillars it looked exactly like the saloon-hotel combo from countless Western flicks. There were signs of termites on the porch, and the foyer smelled of mold. The doors to the large but utterly bare rooms all hung open.
“Nothing for folks to steal,” Rudy said. “Might as well air the place out.”
Jim started to say something, then stopped when he noticed his wife smiling like a little girl on a trampoline.
“I have such incredible memories of this place,” she said, then turned and ran up the stairs.
Jim and Rudy followed. They found her standing on a rickety balcony, staring out at a large, overgrown meadow.
“They used to stage Civil War reenactments there,” she said. “Afterwards, there’d be a Southern-themed buffet.”
“I hope you’ll let that tradition lie,” Jim said.
Rudy chuckled. Once again, Bonnie didn’t seem to hear.