I recall a dreamy summer, a small boat and never-ending days of great fishing. If I ever felt the need to go in, I promised myself just one more cast. Hundreds of casts later, I would suddenly find myself in the middle of a pitch-black Webber Lake with a chorus of coyotes curiously timed for effect.
On one such night, I was in Lee’s boat, and I needed to find his dock but I couldn’t see. Somebody’s solar-powered lights flickered on at the other end of the lake, a mild comfort but no beacon for my cause. I turned around and looked toward Lee’s campground, but it lay engulfed somewhere inside the black silhouette of heavy timber on the opposite end of the lake. It was a starless hole, and a bit scary, unlike the clean mountain sky that rested above the tree line. At least the stars provided some light.
I wondered where the dependable lights and campfires of Lee’s neighbors were. Nobody seemed home this eve. Somewhere toward the campground office I heard people laughing and imagined it was Lee making jokes about my situation while plotting a crowd to witness it. For Lee, insults and teasing were always held in the highest regard.
I pulled on the rope, the motor started and I putted off, hoping I wouldn’t crash or bottom out. Now and then I hit a patch of floating weeds that made the motor bog down, but it kept going, foregoing the inevitable torture of getting stranded in the middle of a weed patch with Lee and his cronies applauding on shore. Every now and then a flicker of lightning illuminated the lake, but it quickly returned to black, and the coyotes yelped.
I strained into the void. Suddenly a dim yellow light flickered somewhere off in that best-guess range of view. The light grew white and stronger. I gambled it was Lee and adjusted my steering toward his possible marker. Indeed, it was the pier, and when I docked, he emerged from the darkness, stepped up onto the dock and sauntered down to its wobbly end. He picked up his lantern and said, “Put a shirt on, we’re going to the McCarthys’ for a shrimp fry.”
The next night went the same. I came in late, the lantern hissing at the end of the pier, then Lee walked out and said: “Put a shirt on, we’re going to Harold and Liesel’s for lasagna.”
Then the next night came, with that same old lantern. “Put on a shirt,” he said. “We’re going to Calpine for prime rib.”
And so it went for 17 days before reality finally found me and called me back home. I had turned red from being on the water at 7,000 feet during the best part of a superb Sierra summer.
So now I hear that my aged friend has left us. My sister, Kathy, introduced me to Lee Richardson, and Lee introduced me to Webber. He then merged into my life, and I into his.
I visited him often. When I knocked, he was always excited to see me. He’d say stuff like, “Good God, I’m going to have to enlarge the damn door.” We’d then spend half the day together.
Lee had become a father figure to me at Webber, and he stayed one for many years after. Though Lee was a bit younger than my true father, both men seemed cast from a like mold. With Lee, I would sit at a table, drink coffee and talk for hours before starting each day, just like I did with my own dad. Around lunch I’d finally go fishing and Lee would go split wood or something. But it was those long talks—full of sarcasm and wit and lots of color—that solidified our friendship. I learned so much from him and shared some pearls, too.
My father, separated from me by 1,000 miles, seemed to be pouring out of Lee as he talked. I sensed a bromance simmering here, but in truth, I was only beginning to love him like I love my own father. As both men were storied, they spilled their treasures of knowledge and experience all along their way like a Spanish galleon with a crack in its hull, there for anyone to grab and spend.
As our two lives passed, Lee and I spent time and went on excursions together. He loaded me with his gems, and we made many more. He was a factory for memories, and I will always treasure ours. I grieve for what the world finally lost. Lee, I am hoping we can hook up again when my time comes. I’ll be looking for your lantern, old friend.
Tom Runnion is a retired lifelong public-school employee. He lives in Susanville.