Martin LeFevre: Paradise Lost

Paradise Lake supplies all the water to the mountain communities of Paradise and Magalia in northern California. It is usually so quiet there that you can speak to someone in a normal voice a quarter mile away across one of its inlets. Not anymore. Hell has descended on what was an echo chamber of the cosmos.

We were assaulted by extreme noise from heavy machinery as soon as we exited the car. So loud was the noise from what sounded like bulldozers on the ridge a half mile away, and such a contrast with every time we had been to this special place before, that we almost got back in the car and left. But we decided to walk a bit, and see what demons were at work.

Just three men using high-power hydraulic hoses, the same technology that decimated hillsides and waterways all over California in an increasingly destructive search for gold in the 19th century, carved out the reservoir in 1917. The first dam was an earthen one, which was replaced by concrete some decades ago.

The reservoir is off the beaten track. One has to go to some trouble to get there, driving about ten miles off the highway before taking a narrow road into a pay-per-day park on one side of the lake. No dogs are allowed (which eliminates the vast majority of the American population right there), and no swimming or motorboats either. You can take canoes, kayaks, or small boats with electric motors onto the water, but in a couple dozen visits there, I’ve only seen a few.

Paradise Lake is a well-kept secret. When someone tells another person about it, they say, ‘don’t tell many people; it’s a special place.’ Some of the most intense meditations I’ve had in recent years have occurred sitting next to its often glass-like waters. The silence there was somehow magnified, and in the meditative state one felt that the lake reflected the essence, in microcosm, of the entire universe.

After walking for a bit surrounded by the violent roar of heavy machinery, we came upon an older man, and a family with two young girls. The parents seemed indifferent to the ruckus, and the little girls were content to play in the bushes alongside the wide dirt path. The older man was clearly upset however, and was saying something about the commotion across the inlet on the ridge above.

In reply to the my question, he said with anger, “They are clear-cutting the forest along the ridge.” “How long has this been going on?” “For nearly a month,” he replied disgustedly, “every weekday until 4:30.”

It turns out that the municipality hadn’t purchased the surrounding land to protect the watershed for the community’s water, and some greedy jerk decided that he was going to have his land clear-cut for the money. The city could not or would not do anything about it.

The older man began to walk with us, and we ended up walking further than we had gone before around the reservoir. He knew every turn and trickle of the lake, as well as its history, operation, and flora and fauna. At one point he pulled out his camera and showed us pictures on its view-screen, excellent shots of snakes, deer, lizards, flowers in bloom, and scenes along the shore.

The roar of the beast went on as we walked. We soon came to the bottom of the hill where the madness was taking place. We could spot one of the earthmovers on the hilltop through the trees, uprooting the pines with chains.

The maelstrom stopped precisely at 4:30, just as our friend had said. The land was quiet, but something was different. My companion said the trees overhanging the path seemed to be drooping down, weary and sad. Animals and plants are sensitive to changes in their environment, so she was probably sensing their reaction to the violence.

Has the sacredness of the place been destroyed? I didn’t feel it in the hour sitting alone, though I plan to go again soon, and see. But there is a larger issue. Without confronting darkness within and without, there may be no sanctuary for anyone, anywhere.

- Martin LeFevre is a contemplative, and non-academic religious and political philosopher. He has been publishing in North America, Latin America, Africa, and Europe (and now New Zealand) for 20 years. Email: martinlefevre@sbcglobal.net. The author welcomes comments.

© Scoop Media