From Marble Creek we make the short but somewhat technical trek to Lost Lake where we find another perfect campsite, marred only by an afternoon flash mob and prehistoric lake inhabitants. A predicted storm inspires Jesse to dig a canal system around his tent.
Joel and I considered a camping coffee maker while we were acquiring essential items but it seemed like too much bulk. And once Jesse promised to be camp barista, I imagined perfect tall, skinny, triple shot lattes each morning.
I think I’ll buy that coffee maker for next time.
Once adequately caffeinated, by one means or another, we packed up and set out for Lost Lake. Along the way, Joel’s new compression sack slid down and and got to know the back tire. The tire wasn’t friendly. A few tears were shed but soon we were back on our way.
There are no roads into Lost Lake. The Forest Service map shows a dotted line which might have been anything from a faint, log strewn hiking path to almost a road. Casey is a new rider on a new motorcycle so we hoped for something at the easier end of the spectrum.
Across the creek, we soon had nice views.
When the trail became bumpy I was glad for the new skid plate fitted just days before (after breaking the rubber mounts twice on the factory plate) and suspension upgrades. I rather enjoyed the trail—largely smooth punctuated by some technical bits, a good combination for the GS.
Casey had a little more work of it.
He was a bit shook up by the last get-off. He went sideways and impacted a stump hiding in the brush on the left. He and the bike hit the ground. I took pictures while he caught his breath.
By the time we arrived at the lake, I’d seen Casey’s bike on the ground four times and he wasn’t saying much. I was sure the great surroundings and, of course, awesome company would perk him up. The lake was completely vacant but for our site. Perfect!
Hard to have a better setup than this. We marveled at the serenity.
And then … it seems Labor Day weekend caught up with us. About four different groups of several people each made their way up the trail, through our campsite and to the shore to catch crawdads.
I joked with the first several about charging a toll but it stopped being funny when they kept coming and a baby began crying inconsolably. We saw they weren’t there to camp so we retreated to our tents for an afternoon nap while waiting for them to leave.
After a couple hours, the place was ours again. Jesse was curious to try the apparently famous crawdads and began corralling a few.
Joel was assigned crawdad guard duty whereupon he began disparaging the prison construction. Inmates had to be kept under control with scolding and a special baton.
Joel and I agreed that anything having the appearance of a giant insect is unappetizing. Processed mammal parts are far more appealing.
I walked both directions from our camp site in search of a path around the lake but was deterred by dense brush.
When we shopped for groceries we wondered if we were getting enough. Granola bars, check. Oatmeal packets, check. Sausages, check. Beans, check. We couldn’t think of much else. “Oh well, we’ll be able to fish.” And so we brought some butter.
Jesse claimed to have already caught one while he was out of sight. But, you know, it got away.
And maybe we could have had fish but crawdads distracted everyone.
Since removing ugly branches with Photoshop would be unethical I waded out and did it by hand.
The disappointing crowds finally left us to our idyllic campsite.
We were told there would be a storm that night. The lake bowl filled with an inky darkness, heightening our anticipation, before the moon cleared its rim and silver light crept toward us across the water.