Cove Mountain
This isn't a Grandma Jar question, but my blog got so long and autobiographical that I thought I should include it here.
Memories are magical things—in moments a word, a place, or a thought can transport one back in time to a place where past events return in vivid technicolor. Cove Mountain has always been a special place for me; so many of my favorite people inhabit the mountain. In many ways my whole life can be cataloged by Cabin trips—It’s the constant in my life. People come and go, I grow (and grow older), we may move from here to there, but the Mountain is always the same—solid, immovable—absorbing and preserving the memories of a lifetime.
Last weekend the John Larsen family, in mass, descended on the Mountain for a weekend of family, fun, food, and frivolity. As we drove up the dugway I was flooded by memories of past trips and people. On the dugway I re-lived the terror of the 1981 trip when I was riding up the mountain with Dad and Mark Crawford was in his truck ahead of us. Both trucks were pulling heavy loads of building materials and Marks truck started to slip back into us. I don’t remember how we got out of that situation but the memory of the terror lives there on the dugway to be remembered and relived every trip.
In the bottom of one of the hairpins I return to a magical cabin trip when I was only 7 or 8 years old. We were traveling up the mountain in Grandpa Porters old blue pickup when our chariot conked out. After much deliberation I was declared the hero (heroine) because the elastic from my braid was used to fix the engine. If I remember correctly, my elastic was still in place when Grandpa sold the truck several years later.
Hunter’s Flat is always peopled by Aunt Bernell. One year when she was far advanced in age (she was probably about my age now) we were on our way up the mountain and she had insisted on riding in the back of the truck with the rest of us kids. Someone had provided her with an old rickety lawn chair and she sat there with all the majesty of Katherine Hepburn as Hepburn controlled the tiller of the African Queen down the Zambezi River. I have many memories of Aunt Bernell but for some reason that on is the most vivid.
The ghosts at Big Lake are of a much more recent vintage. Three years ago the Larsen family had the brain storm to go swimming in the lake. We took a red rubber mattress and floated out to the middle—and then we couldn’t get back. Steve and Sheldon tried to swim behind and steer us home but it wasn’t until Michelle joined the rescue effort that we all returned to shore safe and dry?
Christensen Spring is the site of innumerable rescues; trucks pulling and being pulled out of the mud—especially right before the gate. I was so impressed with the road this year; it was dry and smooth—halleluiah!
Ah! The pasture memories—Reunions, quilts, baseball games, hikes, dutch-oven dinners, family, friends, and kids—first me, Susan, Bruce, Carol, Robin, and Rick; then the younger cousins; and before I knew it it was my kids, and now my grandkids. Dad asserts that the mountain was created for kids and each successive generation proves this out. My grandkids had a ball this trip. Little Davis was in seventh heaven with 160 acres of DIRT! Mylee, Steve, Davis, and Grandpa went on an exploration to find Clover Flat—they didn’t find it—but they did find cliffs and deadfall, danger and challenge before they finally made their way back to the cabin.
It was Jon’s first cabin trip and he had his wishes fulfilled almost immediately when a beautiful little four point buck wandered through camp, gave us the once over, and then sauntered off down the road. He, John, Steve, and Stacy saw more deer and a herd of beautiful elk down by the gate during their early morning spotting forays.
Chelli and I broke out the dutch ovens and treated the crew to gastronomical delights—all of the meals were delicious but the mountain cries for good dutch oven fare. We roasted marshmallows and hotdogs over the campfire (and may I mention that I am still a master marshmallow cook). And as usual ate too much junk.
The first night we rigged up a screen and created a drive-in (sit-in) movie theatre on which we watched Meet the Robinsons. We experienced a few technical difficulties—the generator overpowered our sound system and the theaters air-conditioning was out of control. Half way through the movie—frozen stiff—we called it a night.
All in all we had a wonderful week at the cabin adding to an already rich store of Mountain memories.
Last weekend the John Larsen family, in mass, descended on the Mountain for a weekend of family, fun, food, and frivolity. As we drove up the dugway I was flooded by memories of past trips and people. On the dugway I re-lived the terror of the 1981 trip when I was riding up the mountain with Dad and Mark Crawford was in his truck ahead of us. Both trucks were pulling heavy loads of building materials and Marks truck started to slip back into us. I don’t remember how we got out of that situation but the memory of the terror lives there on the dugway to be remembered and relived every trip.
In the bottom of one of the hairpins I return to a magical cabin trip when I was only 7 or 8 years old. We were traveling up the mountain in Grandpa Porters old blue pickup when our chariot conked out. After much deliberation I was declared the hero (heroine) because the elastic from my braid was used to fix the engine. If I remember correctly, my elastic was still in place when Grandpa sold the truck several years later.
Hunter’s Flat is always peopled by Aunt Bernell. One year when she was far advanced in age (she was probably about my age now) we were on our way up the mountain and she had insisted on riding in the back of the truck with the rest of us kids. Someone had provided her with an old rickety lawn chair and she sat there with all the majesty of Katherine Hepburn as Hepburn controlled the tiller of the African Queen down the Zambezi River. I have many memories of Aunt Bernell but for some reason that on is the most vivid.
The ghosts at Big Lake are of a much more recent vintage. Three years ago the Larsen family had the brain storm to go swimming in the lake. We took a red rubber mattress and floated out to the middle—and then we couldn’t get back. Steve and Sheldon tried to swim behind and steer us home but it wasn’t until Michelle joined the rescue effort that we all returned to shore safe and dry?
Christensen Spring is the site of innumerable rescues; trucks pulling and being pulled out of the mud—especially right before the gate. I was so impressed with the road this year; it was dry and smooth—halleluiah!
Ah! The pasture memories—Reunions, quilts, baseball games, hikes, dutch-oven dinners, family, friends, and kids—first me, Susan, Bruce, Carol, Robin, and Rick; then the younger cousins; and before I knew it it was my kids, and now my grandkids. Dad asserts that the mountain was created for kids and each successive generation proves this out. My grandkids had a ball this trip. Little Davis was in seventh heaven with 160 acres of DIRT! Mylee, Steve, Davis, and Grandpa went on an exploration to find Clover Flat—they didn’t find it—but they did find cliffs and deadfall, danger and challenge before they finally made their way back to the cabin.
It was Jon’s first cabin trip and he had his wishes fulfilled almost immediately when a beautiful little four point buck wandered through camp, gave us the once over, and then sauntered off down the road. He, John, Steve, and Stacy saw more deer and a herd of beautiful elk down by the gate during their early morning spotting forays.
Chelli and I broke out the dutch ovens and treated the crew to gastronomical delights—all of the meals were delicious but the mountain cries for good dutch oven fare. We roasted marshmallows and hotdogs over the campfire (and may I mention that I am still a master marshmallow cook). And as usual ate too much junk.
All in all we had a wonderful week at the cabin adding to an already rich store of Mountain memories.
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