So a series of events has kept me away from my normal
summer-camp sojourn, a most welcome escape from the city starting with a ride
up twisty mountains roads to Mendocino, then a turn onto Little Lake Road
and into the Jackson State Forest to
Lark Music Camp, where I’m immersed in a
full week of music in the redwoods.
(Above, Steve, Alec & Mitch, ready for the
after-dance rush in 2009.)
Nestled within Jackson State Forest is the area of the
Mendocino Woodlands – a WPA project built
during the Great Depression – comprising
three separate campgrounds complete with cabins, eating & meeting lodges,
and tent camping areas.
(At left, 2008's stripey canopy, and look at Mitch's
beauteous butterflies... definitely the best-looking C2CH of
all time! And yah, this is really a lark
week here at the green tiger lounge...)
The cabins are
rustic, most with stone fireplaces, bare wood floors, tiny closets and
metal-frame spring beds with thin mattresses covered in oilcloth.
Getting anywhere in camp requires a good deal
of walking, most of it on uneven ground, often using switchbacks to scale seventy or more feet of elevation between places.
(At right, Lawwy on the night shift in 2006 - after shredding 4 pounds of ginger, midweek fatigue begins to show...)
A stream runs through the valley, wending its way among
second- and third-growth redwood trees, many arranged in ‘fairy rings.’
The fairy rings are actually new growth of
trees springing out of the radiating roots of trees that have been cut down.
All along the seven-mile tortuous road
leading from the end of Little Lake Road to the Woodlands, fallen trees and
burned-out stumps (some eight or ten feet high, most about that diameter as
well) line the forest on either side of the road.
The forest is beautiful, despite a covering of dust all over
all the trees & ferns & undergrowth lining the roads.
The dust comes from the road, churned up by
cars – the cars that run that road all summer long, as week by week the
camps fill and empty when the campers come and go.
All kinds of camps rent space at the
Woodlands – family camps, church camps, youth camps, music and dance
camps.
(At right, Hakim, Vytas & DB in 2007. Vytas
really wasn't as pissed off as he looks [probably just annoyed at losing the rhodopsin
in his eyes]... The other two goofballs just couldn't see for ten minutes or
so, blind as opossums [which is ok, because Hakim & DB are/were members of
the Opossum Clan]. Can you tell I'm
missing Lark?)
The family camps are few, since
there aren’t that many families who mount summertime rendezvous of 100-500
people.
Most of the other camps are
pretty ordinary, but the music camps are best.
(Below, A big parking lot jam in 2009, with Crystal standing at left & Lori center in group at right...)
Mickie Zekley, captain of a cohort of loyal musician/volunteers,
hosts the week-long Lark Camp, which occupies all three of the Woodlands’ camps
to play temporary home to about 800 campers, and a bus runs twice an hour from one
camp to the other taking campers to music classes and jams.
I’ve been going to Lark off and on since the 80s, when I discovered
a great escape in the redwood forest filled with music from scores of
cultures. Any kind of music you can
think of is played there at all hours (well, mostly no rock ‘n’ roll, nor rap, by
choice of the campers), and a short walk will take you through many distinct
paradigms: Irish folk, Balkan bagpipes,
Andean flute, Western Swing, jazz, bop & hard bop, Greek dance, Turkish, Egyptian, classical, American folk,
etc.
Over there a very funny raconteur plays 300-year-old French
tunes.
And a little way beyond is a
wacky Armenian American jamming on accordion with some Tunisians playing old
tribal music.
A dance class down by the creek shakes the dust from a stage built in a few hours by that cohort of
volunteers, and a jazz band is cooking in a rehearsal at the striped pavilion for the swing
dance on Friday night.
(At right, The Kids, 2009 - it's crazy love you know for Rosie & Jed... That's Sarah in the middle...)
And in front of the coffeehouse – an impromptu service counter
set up under a tent at the far end of the parking lot which is used all during
camp as an outdoor dining area, flea market and gathering place – a fire in a
metal firepit warms a group of guitarists having a little jam. The coffeehouse staff buzzes about, keeping the coffee brewing & the goodies coming... an expertly-run bakery in Camp 3 turns out excellent baked goods at a fraction of the price you'll pay down in town - or anywhere else.
(At left, in a daytime concert, Eric Hoffman in a cool faux-mudcloth hat!
2009)
That coffeehouse was for years my domain.
I managed Camp Two Coffeehouse, also known as
C2CH and called by many the best of the three simultaneous versions of the Inn of
the Mullah Nasrudin’s Donkey.
I ran the
joint like it was my own.
Which, in a
way, it was.
(At right, Nancita Abuelita relaxes before an evening of playing
music, 2009 [note freshly-washed hair...])
But the dust did me in.
The dust ended my carefree camp days.
That dust on the road – the stuff boiled up from the tires of hundreds
of cars – contains spores from the bark of the redwood trees.
And amid all the things I am not allergic to,
among the very few things I am allergic to, those spores are the most virulent.
I was fine
for years – I guess my youth and naturally tough constitution helped me
out.
But then I started getting sick
after camp.
For several years, my week
in the redwoods confined me to three weeks in bed once I got home.
I suffered through terrible bronchial attacks
that kept me from any sort of healing sleep and tortured me almost to the point of regretting
my time at Lark.
Almost.
(At left, Captain Slanty & Bonnie Barnum during the Scavenger Hunt held for the Sea Shanties Workshop, 2007)
But not quite.
I
missed camp in 2010, when I was living in Greece. I’d been sick the year before
that, quite badly.
And the year before
that.
And the year before that one.
So when I came back to camp in 2011, I tried
going for just four days.
That four days
was not enough to let the spores get into my lungs with any strength, and I’ve
been making that curtailed journey into the forest ever since… until now.
(At right, Sarah shows off her fine crocheted hats during the flea market, 2009...)
Now I’m missing camp for the first time since Greece.
And my life this year has evoked much more of
a need in me to go to camp – but unfortunately events conspired to keep me in
Los Angeles (adding insult to injury).
So
I pulled out some pictures and started posting them on Facebuchenwald.
And they got a lot of notice, much of it from
other would-be Larkers who are stuck away from their preferred summer rendezvous.
And that got me thinking.
(At left, a leisurely dinner in the Camp Two lot, 2013...)
So I brought those pictures over here. Here, where I could
tell more of a story than merely giving a gallery of pictures with some cute
captions.
Where I might be able to find
a way to say why & how I miss Lark.
I miss seeing my friends. I miss the smell of woodsmoke all around at camp and then in
my clothes when I take them to launder after camp, back home where Lark is
hundreds of miles and a whole lifestyle or two away.
(Above, C2CH Manager Lori is delighted by it all, 2007)
I miss the coffeehouse, troublesome gamin that she can be,
meting out lessons & rewards in a seemingly haphazard way, but always
leaving the attentive observer with the gift of wisdom.
I miss the sounds day & night – of music floating on the
breezes coming through the trees, of songs sung for centuries in scores of
languages, telling stories, recounting romances and heroic deeds and country humor.
(At left, Steve & Sam the NASA Man prepare for the evening rush, 2007...)
I miss the dueling marching bands, each
coming from a different direction, each playing beautiful ancient songs from
far-off places, coming
this close to clashing as they try to drown each other out –
then the sudden shift as both entire groups play first the one song, then the
other.
I miss seeing strangers sitting
down to play together, people who many times cannot communicate in words
because they don’t speak each other’s language, but who can and do communicate
beautifully in the music.
(At right, James takes time out of being lost to offer cookies all around, 2009)
In the music is
the history of our people – all our peoples. In the music is stored our aspirations, our loves and our dreams, the ties
of family and of loyalty, the emotions and intentions that make us human, that raise
our spirits and give us our power, that send us into flights of hope and
longing, that temper our hot blood and soothe us in our fatigue & sorrow.
And I miss how, in the late chill of the night, the sound of
sweet musical notes comes faintly wafting like a melody woven only of smoke or
fog, a welcoming, the music reminding you of home, as a curtain lifted by a
breeze might reveal the warm glow of a fire on the hearth within to the
traveler returning after a long journey…
(At left, Hakim demonstrates a well-tied Magic Headwrap, 2013...)
I miss Lark.
 |
| We never close. Last call! |
And I know that I shall make a return next year, that I shall
see many of those good friends in the months between now and then, that I can always
make contact (virtual & otherwise) – and all that will assuage my homesickness
as time goes on, but it does little for the
hiraeth,
the
sensucht that gnaws at me now.
I really do miss Lark. Really.
(Artwork at left copyright 2014 Geonni Gray Banner - thanks, G!)
<><><><><><><><>
David Hakim is an
internationally-published journalist and award-winning author who has run
several newspapers – and recently received a commendation for his short story That
Man in the London Aesthetica
Competition. He can be reached at dhakim at earthlink dot net
© 2014 Hakim - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: use without profit allowed only
with author’s express written permission. Please don't make me wake up
my attorney.
Please.
