My Secret

My Secret

The first real secret I ever had began when I was nine years old. I’m not talking about when someone tells you something and you keep it to yourself—it’s more like when you know something or have seen something that no one else has, and telling someone about it takes away from your pleasure, from your secret. My secret happened at Fish Lake.

The summer trips that my family took to that small natural lake tucked neatly into the Trinity Alps just south of the Hoopa Valley Indian Reservation became somewhat of a ritual. It was an activity that just sort of happened of its own accord once every year, and we all just seemed to be along for the ride.

My dad said it was the fact that the lake was too small for motor boats, giving him some time for some peaceful fishing. My mom claimed that it was that the place never seemed to be crowded, no matter when we went. In any case, it was pretty well agreed upon that Fish Lake was our place, and anyone we brought up there was our guest.

Now, my family could never really be considered in the Grizzly Addams-class with respect to the outdoors. That is to say, our adventures to the wilderness always included at least one tent, three weeks’ supply of food (for a week-long trip), a gas barbecue, radios, bicycles, and a moped, and one year we even took a small house-trailer with a privy and a sink. Purists and naturalists would call it “car camping” with a derisive snort, but this was about as close to nature as my family was going to get, so I took it as a blessing rather than a curse.

The fact was I liked going to Fish Lake. It wasn’t so much the beautiful wilderness or the millions of things to do. These aspects were nice, but this small campg...

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...eaving, returning to the woods once more. I didn’t think to follow him this time, and at any rate I was far too tired for any more walking right then. I knew that his role in this journey was over—he had shown me what he wanted me to see. To this day I still do not know whether my meeting with the Indian was chance or whether he had sought me out. I have my suspicions, but they are based more on feelings than tangible evidence.

I never told anyone about the pond, and I never spoke of the Indian, either. It wasn’t just that no one would believe me (I did have quite an imagination, after all); it was more like something that was a private part of me. I would return to the pond every summer, but I would go there only once, and for a brief visit only. In all the years that I went, the place never seemed to change.

I guess that secret places never do.