We had three weeks of summer vacation left last August, when my wife decided she wanted to visit her friend, Joan, who lives in Boise, Idaho.
Idaho? Why there? That’s just about the last place I wanted to visit.
The only things I knew about Idaho were that they grow a lot of potatoes; that there are no major professional sports teams; and that the B-52’s once did a song about “living in your own private Idaho,” whatever that means.
That was about it. It didn’t seem that exciting. Needless to say, I wasn’t that keen on going.
Noreen reminded me, however, that her friend is married to a Hollywood movie executive, and they had just bought a new home in Boise.
Ah, right! My first book had just been published and I harbored the same fantasies every new author has – that someone would notice the book and it would be made into a big Hollywood movie starring a big Hollywood star. So why not go up to Boise for a visit and drop off a few copies for Joan and her husband to read?
And so it was that we loaded our baggage, a few copies of my book and our 2-year-old son into our little Ford Escort, and off we went for a two-day drive through the backcountry of northern California and southern Oregon on our way to Boise, Idaho, USA.
We headed northeast from our Humboldt County home, cut up through the Oregon border, cruised through Grant’s Pass and other little Oregon towns and spent the night in a modest hotel in downtown Klamath Falls. Our dinner consisted of sushi and beer that we bought from the Safeway down the street.
The next day, as we drove up along U.S. 395, a lonely, twisting mountain highway in eastern Oregon, and reached the 4,200-foot mark, we saw something that struck us as quite odd—a lovely and mysterious lake so still, so noiseless and so lifeless that it seemed to come from a dream.
What a breathtaking sight this was, this single, solitary lake, impossibly high up in the Oregon mountains. There was not one beast or bird in view, not one living thing—but the lake waters were clear and perfect and reflected the clouds and sky so seamlessly and joyfully that one almost couldn’t tell from a distance what was sky and what was lake. I half-expected to hear angelic music wafting above.
The shoreline playfully weaved little heart-top shapes along its way, and the colors of the shores – sandy pink on one side, chocolate brown on the other – lay in mute testimony to the otherworldliness of the place. Behind us, on the other side of the highway, were great blocks of basalt rock tilting toward the lake, like hands of a subterranean beast-giant grasping for infinity.
I listened closely for the cry of a bird or the chirp of a cricket or even the blood-hungry buzz of a mosquito, but I heard nothing. Come to think of it, we hadn’t seen another car for the past 30 minutes or so, and there was not a rumble of one anywhere near.
This didn’t feel right. I needed to hear something, anything to confirm that I was still on Earth, in the third dimension, in the year 2003, in the physical plane, not in some meta-reality. But now I wasn’t sure. Was I suffering from some kind of high-altitude dementia? Was this lake some sort of desert mirage, perhaps?
As I stared about me in wonder, my wife walked down a hill toward the lake, but stopped when it became too steep. Meanwhile, our little boy walked toward a big tourist-information placard that had been installed by the government. He pointed to it and beckoned me to come look.
The government placard told us that we had come upon Lake Abert, habitat for several species of bird, and one of the largest lakes in Oregon. The lake and its surrounding lands are comprised of about 100,000 acres that are under the control of the U.S. Bureau of Land Management.
 We also learned later that those giant basalt formations behind us are part of Abert Rim, a 30-mile stretch of rising rock that is believed to be the largest exposed geological fault in North America. One of the formations rises up to about 2,000 feet.
It turns out that Lake Abert has no outlet – no water flows in or out. That explains why it’s so still. Water can only leave through evaporation. During one severe drought about 140 years ago, the lake almost went dry.
Going much farther back in time, way back to the most recent Ice Age – which began about two million years ago and ended about 10,000 years ago – this lake was part of a much larger body of ice and saltwater. It was once 375 feet deep, reaching high, high up the cliffs of Abert Rim.
Thunderous herds of Ice Age beasts – mammoths, bison, camels, horses – rocked these highlands in the days of this lake’s greatest glory. Their fossil remains are still unearthed every now and then.
When the ice melted and the ancient beasts died and humans came to dominate the land, an Army lieutenant, John Fremont, discovered this lake. He named it after Colonel J.J. Abert, his commanding officer.
Life there now consists of transplanted bighorn sheep that walk the perimeter of the Great Basin, birds, brine shrimp and the occasional hawk flying above the lake. Other than that, there is not much more – just the whisper of eternity.
Scientists say there may have been as many as six Ice Ages in the history of the planet Earth. The current age, the one we are living in, is merely a brief warming period between Ice Ages.
And as I enjoyed the warmth of the noonday sunshine, I was not thinking that maybe someday in the future the climate will change, the air will become cold and inhospitable, the earth beneath the Great Basin will pitch and heave again, the ice and water will rise to new glories and herds of big beasts will return to reclaim their turf. I was not thinking that maybe these large creatures will rule the ice planet again, that maybe their thunder will shake these highlands once more.
All I knew was that there was no life at all to be seen on this day and no thunder of ancient herds to shake the silence. There was just a lonely lake, haunting me, teasing me with its stillness, its beauty and its serenity.
“I am a lonely lake,” it was saying. “I am the loneliest lake in the world.”
“For now, my friend,” I whispered back. “Just for now.”
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