During one of our summer pilgrimages to Bass Lake, California, suffice it to say that Chuck's athletic ability afforded him a rescue of a family member. As an aside, Bass Lake forms one of the earliest memories of my life. I was five and was walking along a paved and winding utility road of a campground with my left hand clutched in my Dad's right hand.
Pictured below was the campsite we claimed in 1962. Funny to see nobody in this picture except for our gear and Dad's station wagon. Black and white and stark. No color from the Coleman stove. No color from the towels and clothing drying on the line. The trees are colorless. And still I treasure these images because these were the tools of pioneers. No one can tell the baby blue colors of the the Ford Station Wagon. 
On Saturday, July 11, 2026, Tom wrote,
I remembered, "Bass Lake." I had the best time ever at any camp spot we ever went to because the people there that had a good size boat who would take most of us one time around the whole lake which had many hidden fishing holes that just seemed like out of a Tarzan movie. I remember we were having lunch at the picnic table that the park provided and a big gopher snake crawled right under the table, like he'd done it a million times, and nobody bothered it. It must of been over 5 feet long. Chuck had the most fun because he knew how to do all the fishing. It was the greatest, Bass Lake.
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