We weren’t exactly Romulus and Remus—that is to say, we weren’t raised by a she-wolf— but close. Transplant two boys from the concrete subdivisions of Southern California into the strange, hot, dry sage covered desert of the Eastern Sierras with minimal parental supervision and see what happens.
My grandparents brought my brother and me here and immediately put fishing rods in our hands and salmon eggs in our pockets. They allowed us to play with sharp knives, build campfires, and be boys of the woods. We never feared the forest or streams or anything that lived in them and believed in our hearts that the entire length of the mountains from Reno to Bishop was our extended playground. When my grandmother said, “You kids go outside and don’t come home until dinner,” she meant it, literally. Subsequently, we became feral creatures, dressed in Budweiser tee-shirts and bandaged blue jeans, we hiked ridges where no other humans had been, built fires on rock slabs, drank spring water from cupped dirty hands, explored caves, swam rivers, and crested barren peaks.
But after all that, we always returned to our favorite campground at Buckeye Creek. Fifty miles south of home, it was the perfect weekend getaway. Driving into Bridgeport Valley from the north, we rolled down the windows of our Dodge truck and let our olfactory nerves feast on the first hint of high mountain meadow grass. The desert smell was like breathing in the dawn of Day One on a new earth. The world outside the windshield became a panoramic scene from the most beautiful wall calendar ever printed. A vast jade-colored valley bordered on the north by a sky-blue lake, the Bodie Hills to the east, and a sweeping enclave of towering peaks to the west. Even in late September, those granite spires were adorned with jeweled ice, embedded so deeply in the shade of the Sawtooth Ridge that they still might be there to this day. We passed herds of fattened cattle, red barns, and rusty-green John Deere tractors.
The truck hummed along Twin Lakes Road, pine trees and granite cliffs filling the windshield. My mind would suddenly go blank; I couldn’t remember the name of my school, teacher, or address; it was all nullified by the sight of the High Sierra draped in alpenglow. Boyish energy stung my muscles: fingers readied to swing the hatchet, pitch a tent, and scoop macaroni casserole onto a paper plate. I could almost smell the burning marshmallows over that night’s campfire. On the way to Buckeye, we thumped over the bridge at Doc & Al’s Resort, where Robinson Creek appeared below the truck, giving us our first look at water conditions.
Robinson Creek was not ours, but it was an indicator of what to expect. High? Low? Muddy? Clear? We studied the flow with the eagerness of trained hydrologists, determining if the fishing would be any good for this trip. What’s biting, Rainbows, Browns or Brooks? On what, salmon eggs, worms, or lures? Yes? No? If so, what color? We never asked why we tried so hard to catch fish. Maybe it was the hunter-gather in us, or maybe it was to impress our grandfather. Probably the latter, you see; this was a time in our society when parental affections weren’t handed out like Tic Tacs; it was something you had to earn.
Wanna move up on the totem pole? Better catch more fish.
Up the serpentine gravel, we climbed with a thick powder trailing behind. The washboard rumbled through our bones and made the excitement all the more feverish. We left televisions and telephones and microwaves in our dust and flew above meadows and streams to where angel’s breath mingles with the evening breeze, where the darkness is held back by firelight, and where we survived the days and nights without conveniences or comforts of our own volition. Please tell me how I can stop time and hold onto this feeling, this need for tents and campfires and stacks of kindling. Where is the eternal two-track that leads to the Fields of Elysian, where you rise and dress by daylight instead of the clock, where every action and reaction is to commune with nature on its terms and not your own?
Too Lofty? Too out there?
Years passed, and I returned to Buckeye Creek with my daughter. She was just under a year old, and the summer bloom hadn’t yet reached the willows. The air was colder than I expected, and she caught a little cold. Her nose ran for days before we packed up early. It wasn’t the idyllic trip I had hoped for, but it didn’t matter. I had brought her back to this place, to the fire ring of my childhood, where her grandfathers once sat, and where maybe one day she would, too.
Later still, my brother and I returned on a June day, now grown men. We no longer needed to prove ourselves with how many fish we could catch. The stream, cold and clear, hissed like static from an old radio. We walked through the meadows, smelling the sweet pine pitch, casting lines into glassy water. We caught no fish, but we didn’t care. We had returned for nights by the fire, the memories, and to relive our childhood under the towering peaks of the Sierras.
Nope. This is how it should be. A place that calls you back, time and time again, to the fields of memory where nature never forgets.
Buckeye Campground has 60+ sites, pit toilets, and no water. This is dry camping, a true throwback to the 1950s when folks like my grandparents would make the 350-mile trip from Los Angeles in a tail-dragging sedan just to pitch a canvas tent under star-filled nights and spend a full week wading in the summer runoff to catch and fry rainbow trout.
Buckeye Creek is designated a Wild and Scenic River and protected from future development. It is just the right size for fishermen of all skill levels. The road in the campground itself is paved with asphalt.
(great for kids on bikes). Within walking distance of your site are hot springs to soak in, a trailhead parking lot for the Hoover Wilderness Area, and any number of mountains to climb.
Need More? Try renting a boat at Twin Lakes Resort, trolling for big lake trout, or hiking Horse Creek Trail past a waterfall. A July 4th getaway? The town of Bridgeport is thirty minutes downhill and has been around since the mid-1800s. It gets its name because supply wagons crossed the East Walker River at this location, while hauling goods between the mining towns of Bodie and Virginia City. Now-a- days, the town still sees thousands of tourists every day and boasts one of the best small-town Fourth-of-July celebrations in California. With the Sierra as a backdrop to the parade, ranch rodeo, craft fair, and fireworks display, it’s like you’ve stepped into a screenplay written by Arthur Miller, a place of smog-free skies, unhurried people, and human themes that play out to a patriotic soundtrack.
Am I partial to all this? Yes, of course, unapologetically.
Buckeye Campground
Lat. 38.237216 Lon. -119.344073
Time of Year: Late May to Late September, depending on weather and road conditions
Directions: From Bridgeport, take Twin Lake Road, 7.2 miles southwest. Turn right at Doc and Al’s Resort and follow Buckeye Road (gravel) 3.5 miles to the campground.
Reservations: No reservations, first come, first serve Ownership: Humbolt-Toiyabe National Forest campground (www.fs.usda.gov)
Operated by: Westrek (www.westrekservices.com)
Number of sites: 60+
Amenities: Tent sites, Travel trailer sites, Picnic tables, Bear boxes, Vault toilets
Water: No water available
Fees: $24 per day, $6 extra vehicle
Fishing: Cold water stream with German Browns, Brook Trout, and Rainbow Trout. A California sport fishing license is required.
Cell service: No cell service
Closest Town: Bridgeport, California
