The lodge is now for sale and closed down in the meantime. It was a little eerie to be there at this time, the high season for tourism, when normally the cabins would be full, the restaurant completely booked, and visitors crammed the cavernous lobby adorned with the mounted heads of elk, bison, moose, Bighorn sheep, and deer, a cheerful fire crackling in the enormous circular fire pit. I could almost hear the animated hubbub and see the ghosts of guests past as we sat waiting for the fireworks in the deepening dusk, red and green lights twinkling on the lake as boats got into position for the show as well.

 

As I watched the boats gathering, I thought back to the year I happened to be on a boat for the fireworks. Kathy James, my brother-in-law Ted’s older sister, had kindly invited me, Richard’s sister Elizabeth, two friends of Elizabeth’s, and one friend of mine to join her in the family Chris-Craft for the festivities. The lake was one of the very best places to see the show, especially when the lodge was open and every table and seat on the porch booked far in advance.

 

The atmosphere on the lake was lighthearted and cheerful. We got an early start and were rewarded with a plum spot near the shore where the fireworks would be the most impressive. Other boats nuzzled in as close as was deemed safe, and soon, the entire area around us was packed.

 

As the light started to dim, Elizabeth’s friend Kathleen looked over at the Never Summers and noticed a long, black, sausage-shaped cloud sitting right on top of them.

 

“I don’t like the looks of that cloud,” she said, and we all cast a glance in that direction. But the cloud was a long way away, and in any case, the Never Summers seemed to create their own wild weather on a daily basis—hence, the name. So we returned our attention to the revelry, the twilight become darker and darker with each passing minute. We knew that they weren’t going to shoot off any fireworks until dusk was spent and night cloaked the landscape.

 

Now, in historic times, before white settlers moved into the area, two native American tribes lived in these mountains: the Ute and the Arapaho. They were bitter enemies and often raided each other’s encampments. Legend told of how one time, the Ute got wind of an impending Arapaho raid, so they put all their women and children on rafts and pushed them out onto the lake for safety. Tragically, a ferocious storm swept in from nowhere and sank all the rafts. The temperatures in the lake are frigid (Grand Lake sits at 9,000 ft.), and it would be an extremely hardy soul who could swim to shore before succumbing to hypothermia. Every woman and child on those rafts drowned that night. Believing the lake to be the repository for these departed souls, the Ute avoided it thereafter with dread, referring to it as “Spirit Lake.”

 

Oddly, this tale flitted through my brain right before the first firework sizzled into the sky and dazzled us all with a magnificent blossom of light.

 

Right before all hell broke loose.

 

 

By now it was pitch black and everyone in a boat was frantically trying to wheel around and make for their dock without smashing into another boat. Spotlights anxiously scanned the black water, erratic bursts of lightning illuminating the panicked scene in some sort of crazy stop animation. In shock, I grabbed my backpacking umbrella (the one that always earned me smiles and sometimes incredulous stares on my hikes into the high country; but hey, the Sherpas in the Himalayas carry umbrellas—so there!), the tiny diameter of which was about the size of my head and shoulders. My friend and Elizabeth’s friend who shared the back seat of the Chris-Craft with me crowded in as close as they could for some protection, but it was pretty much hopeless. We were getting drenched. Not wanting to start screaming our heads off, we couldn’t help laughing hysterically instead. Kathy was doing an outstanding job of navigating the treacherous waters, but I don’t think our hysteria was helping matters. “This isn’t funny!” she shouted, not realizing that in fact, we found the situation the opposite of funny. There have been a few times in my life where I thought, “Uh-oh. This is it,” and this was one of them.

 

Still, Kathy managed to break free of the clot of jammed boats and sped as fast as she could to the James family dock. How we managed to get there without sinking or getting fried to a crisp, I honestly don’t know. We all piled out of the boat soaking wet, chilled to the bone, and gasping for breath. Later, when the cloud finally moved on and the melee quieted down, the fireworks show resumed. But it couldn’t really compare with the pyrotechnics that Mother Nature had staged, and it had the feeling of an anti-climax. Later, I learned that Ted and Richard had been watching the whole thing from the Lodge as they managed the restaurant that night, their hearts in their mouths, knowing about the legend of Spirit Lake, and knowing that their wives were out there, getting slapped around by the spirits and their elemental confederates.

 

Nothing so dire took place this last Fourth of July. The rainy skies cleared for the fireworks, and we sat warm and snug in a glassed-in enclosure that afforded us an incredible view of the show. But in the same way that I could sense the ghosts of lodge visitors past, I could feel the ghosts of the Ute women and children that inhabited Spirit Lake as well. It is a magical, savage, and precarious part of the world. A sign in the high country that greets hikers as they step onto the feral tundra states: “The mountains don’t care.” Remember that, if you ever decide to visit.

 

 

Above:  Spirit Lake, aka Grand Lake, from the James’ family boat dock.