From Balloons to Bass Boats—A Sierra Weekend That Had It All
By Charlie Pankey | Sierra Rec Magazine
Some weekends remind us just how wide the emotional spectrum of adventure can be. What started as a joyful Friday morning soaring above the Carson Valley in a hot air balloon ended with still water and quiet reflection on the banks of Lake Almanor. In between? Beauty, heartbreak, storms, community, and a reminder that the Sierra Nevada is as complex and full of life as ever.
Friday Morning: Hope Rises in the Carson Valley
The weekend began with one of those rare moments that makes you stop and truly feel the magic of a place. Just after sunrise, I found myself rising gently above the Carson Valley at the Hot Air For Hope event in the Sonoma Star balloon, surrounded by more than two dozen colorful hot air balloons. The world below was hushed, with only the rhythmic burst of the burner cutting through the silence as we floated peacefully over patchwork fields and winding country roads. Cattle dotted the green pastures, horses galloped in distant paddocks, and the stillness of the morning made it feel like time had paused. The balloon crew’s camaraderie and the sense of awe from everyone onboard—it was the perfect opening note to a weekend that would prove far more emotional than I could have imagined.
Friday Night: Into the Wildflowers and Fire Scars
Leaving the valley behind later that day, I wound my way north of Reno on Highway 70 through the Feather River Canyon—a corridor that always feels like a passage into something sacred. This time, the canyon walls were blanketed in vibrant wildflowers. Purples, oranges, and brilliant yellows spilled down the slopes, fed by spring runoff and framed by the rich green of new growth. As I turned onto Highway 89 and entered Indian Valley, the memory of the Dixie Fire came flooding back. Charred black tree trunks rose like silent sentinels from a landscape now pulsing with renewal. Beneath the skeletal remains of the forest, a lush green carpet had returned. Yellow blooms stretched toward the sun, and deer grazed casually along the roadside. There is something emotional—almost spiritual—about watching life reclaim a space that had been so scarred.
Just before reaching Lake Almanor, I pulled off the road near Greenville. The sun began to dip low, casting long golden rays across the Indian Valley meadows. Songbirds filled the air with melody, and the sky burned orange and pink behind the silhouetted peaks. I grabbed my camera and stood there, quietly soaking in a moment that felt both heartbreaking and hopeful.
Saturday Morning: A Calm Launch and a Sudden Storm
By 5:00 a.m. Saturday, I was down at the edge of Lake Almanor and the Plumas Resort marina, where the BAM Trail Kayak Bass Fishing Tournament was set to begin. The lake was a mirror—flat, calm, and utterly peaceful. Forty anglers readied their kayaks in the pre-dawn light, their breath visible in the morning chill. A morning fisherman’s prayer and discussions about the day’s expectations, including possible rain later in the morning, filled the air before the launch. Mark Pilgrim, a local pro and respected figure on the BAM Trail, invited me to ride along in his bass boat so I could capture some footage.
Just after launch, we watched a veteran fisherman land a 17-inch bass just off the shoreline—a strong catch that lifted the spirits of everyone nearby. The water was still, the birds were singing, and the day looked like it would unfold in perfect form. Then the radio crackled. A kayak had been spotted adrift across the lake, and a man was missing.
Without hesitation, Mark throttled up, and we tore across the lake. The lake’s transformation was sudden. In minutes, the wind roared in from the north and lightning flashed, turning the serene surface into a violent churn of whitecaps. The waves exploded into cold spray over the edge of the boat and into our bodies as we rushed across the lake, the boat slamming hard with each crest. Mark was scanning the shoreline, focused and tense. We weren’t just looking for gear—we were looking for a person.
Another boat—an official from the BAM Trail crew—found him just upshore and a bit further off the shoreline. They pulled him from the water and began CPR. From across the waves we approached, we watched, unable to help. The lake, now unrecognizable from just minutes earlier, pounded our boat. Mark stood briefly to assess the scene, only to have a wave crest over the bow and fill the deck ankle-deep in water. He looked at me and said simply, “I need to get you off this lake.” As we peeled away for Pine Resort Marina, I glimpsed back to see the BAM Trail boat race in another direction toward paramedics. (BamTrail Press Release)
Saturday Morning: Starting over with Coffee, Comfort, and a Community Shift
Back on shore, soaked to the bone, I said goodbye to Mark and wished him safe travel as he headed to get himself off the water. I changed into dry clothes and drove to Carol’s Café in Prattville, just down the shore its not even 8 am yet. The shift in tone was surreal—just minutes before, we’d been in crisis mode. Now, I was welcomed with warm coffee, the smell of freshly made biscuits, and the easy chatter of locals gathering for breakfast. Carol, the namesake and matriarch of this beloved roadside institution, was there in person, walking her dog and greeting guests, cracking jokes, and preparing for her day; I wondered if she already had pies in the oven.
I sat at a quiet booth near the windows and enjoyed conversation with Kenny, the local owner of Wilsons Camp Prattville Resort. It felt like a refuge—safe, comforting, familiar. But then the news came through on Kenny’s volunteer fireman radio: the fisherman had passed. As I sat there quietly with my coffee, reflecting on the morning experience, more locals poured into Carol’s for breakfast. Their mood was jovial and full of life; they had no idea what the lake had already claimed today. Kenny invited me to tour the cabins, and I learned the story of Prattville and their family lodge. I hope to return someday and experience this quiet oasis in the forest along the beautiful Lake Almanor.
The tournament was officially canceled. Outside, the lake had gone still again, and I watched as kayakers streamed across the calm water back to the marina to hear the news of their friend’s passing. The lake seemed to understand the weight of the moment.
Saturday Midday: Resilience on Display
With the tournament called off, I used the rest of the day to explore the region and gather visuals for an upcoming feature. I started at Dyers Point, where the lake stretched calmly into the distance. At 9:30 a.m. on a Saturday morning, this day-use area was peaceful, not a soul in sight, and I felt like I had this beautiful lakeside cove all to myself. It was quiet again on the lake as I watched a trout fisherman troll by.
Next, I headed to Butt Valley Reservoir, expecting to see signs of heavy fire damage. But what I found was something else entirely: tall evergreens lining the shore, campers sitting in quiet reflection, deer moving gracefully along the water’s edge, and the distinct calls of pelicans, ducks, and geese echoing across the reservoir. I met a retired couple who, despite living nearby, chose to camp here every summer. “It keeps us grounded,” they told me. “No Wi-Fi, no deadlines—just the sounds of the woods and brilliant starry nights.”
Later that afternoon, I visited the West Almanor Golf Course, a charming 9-hole course tucked among towering cedars and pines of the west shore. Hole 3, in particular, stood out: a rolling green guarded by trees and framed by a tranquil fountain. Locals smiled as they played through, waving and calling out greetings. A foursome of gentlemen laughing at each other’s tee shots from the fairway across the pines at Hole five reminded me of what time in the mountains with friends is all about. Despite the earlier chaos, the laughter, play, and resilience all around were refreshing to the spirit.
Saturday Late afternoon and Evening: Bikes, Cookies, and Local Business
Later that afternoon, I met up with Robert Smith of High Elevations Rentals—a guest from a recent podcast episode and a passionate advocate for Lake Almanor recreation. He and his family brought me a mountain bike, fresh cookies, and an infectious energy. His two young sons were bouncing with excitement to hit the Lake Almanor Trail.
The trail itself, paved and gentle, winds along the lake’s western edge through stands of old-growth forest. As we pedaled under towering pines, the storm that had shaken the lake earlier that day seemed a world away. I hadn’t been on a bike in over 15 years, but as I coasted along the tree-lined path, wind in my face and the laughter of kids echoing ahead, I felt rejuvenated. It was healing in motion.
Even when the winds returned and the lake began to churn once more, the forest held us in a quiet embrace. That trail ride became a personal turning point—a reminder that joy can return quickly if you let it.
That night, I met Mark and his wife Erica at Plumas Pines Resort for a beer. The restaurant was buzzing—live music on the deck, families dining together, prom-goers posing for photos—and the energy was celebratory. I headed back to St. Bernard Lodge for dinner, joining Sharon and one of the bass anglers from the Shasta group who had arrived for their tournament. We shared stories, warm food, and a sense of gratitude for this place.
Sunday: Waterfalls and Wildflowers
Sunday morning brought a new adventure. I met up with Katherine Sansone, PR director for the Lake Almanor Foundation, at Cravings for breakfast in Chester. Over coffee and eggs, we plotted a short trip out of town to explore Deer Creek, about 30 miles west.
The drive along Highway 32 was a treat in itself—dogwoods blooming in white clouds beside the road, the forest thick and shadowed, Lassen National Forest stretching out in all directions. The Deer Creek Trail is a modest 2.5-mile hike through pines, oaks, and cedars carved into the banks of volcanic and granite outcrops. At the trail’s end, we reached a dramatic gorge where the wide river surged through ancient stone. It’s here that the state has built fish ladders to aid salmon in their spawning journey—a rare, humbling sight. The water thundered through the gorge, frothy and alive. Standing there, it was impossible not to feel small. We wondered if some ventured in for this danger on kayaks.
Afterward, we drove upstream along Highway 32 to Deer Creek Falls, a spectacular 100-foot plunge over a volcanic cliff. With mist in the air and the sun breaking through the trees, it felt like a hidden paradise. Every sense was engaged: birdsong above, rushing water below, and the earthy scent of pine needles. After a few short stops for the dogwoods along the roadside, this adventure trip needed to come to a close and we headed back.
Final Moments and the Drive Home
Back at St. Bernard’s Lodge, it was time to pack up and say goodbye. Katherine encouraged me to grab lunch at Salt and Sage in Quincy before heading home. As I drove south on Highway 89 through Indian Valley one last time, the wildflowers still held their ground. The sun was out, and the hillsides were alive.
In the Feather River Canyon, I stopped at Spanish Creek Bridge. The history of this region is ripe for another story at another time. There, I met a local realtor who shared tips about quiet spots like Butterfly Gulch and spoke proudly of the area’s history and solitude. “We don’t always tell people our secrets,” she said with a grin. “But we love it when someone really sees it.”
Lunch in Quincy was a perfect finish. Salt and Sage offered not just great food but a welcoming conversation. A quick stop at the new visitors center in downtown Quincy had me learning more about this region, including a new PCT shower room in the visitors center for future Zero Day occupants from the PCT. Quincy is the kind of stop that leaves you smiling all the way home.
Passing familiar favorites in Graeagle—like The Brewing Lair—I felt the tug to stop again. But home was calling. It had been a weird, wild, and utterly wonderful weekend. And I wouldn’t change a thing.
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