Editor’s Note: This column was originally published on Oct. 15, 1995.
EAR LAKE — There are places you know in your heart you shouldn’t go. North Korea, skid row bars, the room where O.J. keeps his diary, those kinds of places.
And the beach at Bear Lake.
The beach at Bear Lake, according to a recently published guidebook, is the best beach in Idaho. The guide also proclaimed the lake to be one of the state’s loveliest, its bright blue color owing to carbonate deposits, or possibly a Slurpee spill.
OK, so I made up the last part. But the area was supposed to be scenic and the fishing passable, which is why I found myself at Bear Lake on a recent vacation, marveling at the spectacle of a man driving 350 miles to be at one of the bleakest bodies of water in the West, not counting Wyoming.
Bear Lake, at least on this particular day, was not bright blue. It was roughly the color of dirt, which happens to be one of the chief ingredients in the scenery. From the north side, you see dirt, sand, sagebrush and not much else. Bear Lake may be Idaho’s answer to Coney Island in the summer, but by early fall the crowds have thinned. By crowds, I mean me.
It would be hard to imagine a lonelier spot. Bear Lake is a big lake, roughly 120 square miles, ringed by dry hills. You can see for miles, and in all that space there wasn’t a sign of human life. It was a little like being on the moon.
Still, I had come 350 miles to fish and frolic on the beach. The beach was a long way from the road, however. Here and there, ruts in the sand led to the shore.
I looked at those ruts for a long time, knowing in my heart I shouldn’t follow them.
My pride was another matter. The former owner of my car had said that with snow tires it could scratch its way up Mount Fuji. What was a beach compared to Mount Fuji?
The car wallowed sickeningly, then began to sink. It was like a B-movie scene of a panicked bwana sinking in quicksand. It was like that, exactly. The car sank and sank. When the sand hit the axles, it stopped.
No one has ever felt more alone.
What to do? Unfortunately, this wasn’t Mount Fuji. Was there such a thing as sand tires? Why hadn’t I thought to pack a backhoe? And where were the guys in ORVs with tires the size of Montana when you really needed them?
I tried digging sand from around the tires with my hands. It didn’t help.
I built a “road” by digging furrows from the car to the real road. That helped even less.
I tried putting clothes under the tires and backing over them. The car didn’t move. The clothes moved a lot.
I checked my emergency rations — a bagel, a banana and a can of warm beer — and cursed myself for being so unprepared. It could be days before anyone came along. I should have brought at least a case of beer.
There wasn’t much shelter. I was deciding which sagebrush to sleep under when something flashed in the distance. Closer examination (a camel wouldn’t have crossed that much sand) proved it to be the sun sparkling on the windows of an ORV. It had tires the size of Montana and a new tow rope.
Its owner was a model of politeness. He didn’t even smirk when, after pulling me out, he asked how I could have missed the beach access road.
I told him I was the type who liked a challenge, then got in the car and left Bear Lake, preferably forever.
One man can only have so much fun.
