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California Part VI: Saturday, February, 27, 2010 – Bear Valley and Angel’s Camp
Early Saturday morning, Mike and I took off for the Sierras. Mike suggested we ski Bear Valley—a little mom-and-pop resort in the Gold Rush country between Lake Tahoe and Yosemite. We arrived at Bear Valley about 9:00 a.m. and got on our gear.
(Here is a photo of my from a few years–and pounds lighter–ago, with my gear on, ready for the slopes)
I had a great time skiing the two feet of soggy snow laid down by the storm that had soaked Oakland the day before. Mike, still recovering from a cold, skied like crap.
(Here’s a photo of Mike, also in gear)
That evening we stayed at Mike’s sister’s place back down the mountain. Sue lived in Angel’s Camp, an old gold mining town on Hwy 49—the scenic route through the California Gold Rush country. She’d been living in Angel’s Camp for the better part of thirty years. Nestled in the foothills of the Sierra, the town had no discernable economic engine that I could espy. Sue explained the demographics: mostly teachers, government employees, and commuters to Stockton and Sacramento—about an hour and a half away. In essence, Angel’s Camp was a bedroom community.
(Here’s a photo of Sue. Photo curtesy of Alan Mathiowetz)
By chance Patti—Sue and Mike’s sister—was also staying the night. Three Conners in one room is a combustible mixture, as I knew firsthand. The Conner house in Hopkins had been ground zero for our high school gang. Down in their basement, Old Man Conner would hold the floor against all comers; he and my friend Alan had many a lively—and loud—conversation. Mike’s dad loved to egg us weak-kneed libbers on. Mr. Conner’s children inherited much of his volubilityand irascibility. To an outsider, a Conner summit can be quite a deafening experience. Of course, Conners revel in it.
(Here is a photo of Mr. Conner with my old friend Alan looking at him adoringly. Photo curtesy of Alan Mathiowetz.)
That night the din was incredible. No one Conner appeared to be listening to the other, yet they quickly sabered a repost when they overheard something disagreeable, which was often. Sue and Patti’s significant others were inured to the robustness of the proceedings and sought to carry on civil conversations whenever they could hear each other. But Conners tended to suck all the air out of the room and dominate the divergent conversations. It was great fun and I joined in when I could get a word in edgewise.
We talked about the Recession and the California Abyss. Sue and her husband were teachers and the perennial budget cuts (as well as the “Near Math” philosophy espoused by the California Dept of Education) had them in a lather. California was in a deep financial hole. Sue traced the roots of the disaster back to Proposition 13 passed back in 1978. The Jarvis-Gann Amendment rolled back and capped property taxes; since then state and local governments had been cutting back services. “I was teaching in San Francisco when Prop 13 was passed.” Sue explained. “Within a few years, the city was so strapped for funds that it started cutting staff. It was the same throughout the Bay. I had to move out to the country to find a place to teach.” Despite the problems, none of them were planning to head back to Minnesota anytime soon. “Too cold!” Sue cried.
We lolled away the night in lively conversation.
The next morning Mike and I stole away from the sleeping house, on our way back up the mountains to Kirkwood.
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