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Nicholas Cage’s 1998 City of Angels movie has a scene: when a human dies, the Angel retrieving that soul asks, “What was your favorite part?” If I were asked, my reply would be: “Wow, those were some amazing days, maybe even some of the very best days of our lives.”
It was our first summer in Chester. We were Bay Area transplants, coming to manage a B & B Inn. We were provided a one hundred-year-old barn residence next door to the Inn, and we spent the previous fall and winter renovating it to make it family-living worthy. We were a young couple, both in our twenties, with three children, ages seven, three, and two.
After our first winter, exhausted by the changes from the past year and by our small children, we decided to go on an adventure whose sole purpose was enjoying a day exploring and playing. We had not had a day off for about 10 months.
We stuffed our family of five, as well as our Rhodesian Ridgeback, into our newly purchased for $250, 1967, rusty, sun-bleached baby blue and white VW bus, a total jalopy: springs poking out of seats, no air-conditioner or heater, small rusted holes through the floor just big enough to watch asphalt whiz by, car seats bolted to the floors; and we headed off to a beach in an undetermined location at Butt lake, about 15 miles from our barn dwelling.
Ian, the adventurer, was more comfortable with the road less traveled, so we took the one made of dirt and followed it about halfway around the lake until we spotted from high up on the road, the only family-sized, smooth beach where we could spread blankets, and babies could take naps. It was in a rocky and steep area, and we had to explore our way to the beach. We parked at the boat ramp, poured out of the bus, all of us carrying as much as possible, even the little ones. We had towels, food, water, shovels, buckets, floaties, and a beach bag full of sheets so we could make forts and play cards in the shade. Ian loaded what we couldn’t carry into our little canoe. We all had to fade through a tall patch of reeds to discover the hidden, hundred yards long, marshy deer path (fortunately, we had on our water shoes, as the path was soggy, gooshy clay). Butt lake was filled with water and empty of people, even in the summer. On this brown beach covered in clay, driftwood, shredded shale, crumbly sandstone, and even some very small crystals, the only sign of life here was poop. We spent the first hour identifying what sort of animals made these poops and identified the poopers as geese, deer, coyote, and owl. The children decided the obvious name for this place is Poop Beach at Butt Lake, and then they laughed and laughed.
In the decades that followed, we spent a hundred, long, hot, serene summer days making forts, playing games, picnicking, exploring, kayaking, daydreaming, watching thunderheads form, Eagles soar, and observing the Osprey hunt. We brought our new babies to sunbathe, nurse, and nap while their mother recovered from birthing. This is where we taught our young ones to swim, both children and puppies. We hunted for bugs and rolled logs in the water while trying not to fall off, played Sharky Dinner and Marco Polo, dove for hidden treasure, took naps, watched sunsets, built forts, collected rocks, shells, and even the clay mud. Our family of seven experienced a full life on this beach.
After the children all grew up and left home, I tried to go to Poop Beach with a dog or two, or on my own, or Ian and I would drive down for the old familiar swim, absent the squeals of excitement from the kids and the dogs whining in anticipation of a cool swim. One day, as I sat alone, looking off at the pristine lake view with not a soul to be seen, I was still missing those tiny swimming, playful bodies. I realized that I love this place, but the absence of them is still too much to bear. It's been a few years since I have been.
I am sure if I get the blessing of being a grandmother, I will bring the grandchildren to Poop Beach at Butt Lake in Plumas County and we will play on the words, accentuating the syllables that sound like things they ought not be saying, and we will giggle about the absurd name for such an epic place.
Kim James, Chester
It was our first summer in Chester. We were Bay Area transplants, coming to manage a B & B Inn. We were provided a one hundred-year-old barn residence next door to the Inn, and we spent the previous fall and winter renovating it to make it family-living worthy. We were a young couple, both in our twenties, with three children, ages seven, three, and two.
After our first winter, exhausted by the changes from the past year and by our small children, we decided to go on an adventure whose sole purpose was enjoying a day exploring and playing. We had not had a day off for about 10 months.
We stuffed our family of five, as well as our Rhodesian Ridgeback, into our newly purchased for $250, 1967, rusty, sun-bleached baby blue and white VW bus, a total jalopy: springs poking out of seats, no air-conditioner or heater, small rusted holes through the floor just big enough to watch asphalt whiz by, car seats bolted to the floors; and we headed off to a beach in an undetermined location at Butt lake, about 15 miles from our barn dwelling.
Ian, the adventurer, was more comfortable with the road less traveled, so we took the one made of dirt and followed it about halfway around the lake until we spotted from high up on the road, the only family-sized, smooth beach where we could spread blankets, and babies could take naps. It was in a rocky and steep area, and we had to explore our way to the beach. We parked at the boat ramp, poured out of the bus, all of us carrying as much as possible, even the little ones. We had towels, food, water, shovels, buckets, floaties, and a beach bag full of sheets so we could make forts and play cards in the shade. Ian loaded what we couldn’t carry into our little canoe. We all had to fade through a tall patch of reeds to discover the hidden, hundred yards long, marshy deer path (fortunately, we had on our water shoes, as the path was soggy, gooshy clay). Butt lake was filled with water and empty of people, even in the summer. On this brown beach covered in clay, driftwood, shredded shale, crumbly sandstone, and even some very small crystals, the only sign of life here was poop. We spent the first hour identifying what sort of animals made these poops and identified the poopers as geese, deer, coyote, and owl. The children decided the obvious name for this place is Poop Beach at Butt Lake, and then they laughed and laughed.
In the decades that followed, we spent a hundred, long, hot, serene summer days making forts, playing games, picnicking, exploring, kayaking, daydreaming, watching thunderheads form, Eagles soar, and observing the Osprey hunt. We brought our new babies to sunbathe, nurse, and nap while their mother recovered from birthing. This is where we taught our young ones to swim, both children and puppies. We hunted for bugs and rolled logs in the water while trying not to fall off, played Sharky Dinner and Marco Polo, dove for hidden treasure, took naps, watched sunsets, built forts, collected rocks, shells, and even the clay mud. Our family of seven experienced a full life on this beach.
After the children all grew up and left home, I tried to go to Poop Beach with a dog or two, or on my own, or Ian and I would drive down for the old familiar swim, absent the squeals of excitement from the kids and the dogs whining in anticipation of a cool swim. One day, as I sat alone, looking off at the pristine lake view with not a soul to be seen, I was still missing those tiny swimming, playful bodies. I realized that I love this place, but the absence of them is still too much to bear. It's been a few years since I have been.
I am sure if I get the blessing of being a grandmother, I will bring the grandchildren to Poop Beach at Butt Lake in Plumas County and we will play on the words, accentuating the syllables that sound like things they ought not be saying, and we will giggle about the absurd name for such an epic place.
Kim James, Chester
