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We'll Be Coming 'Round The Mountain When We Come
The Ray Bray Memorial Ride to Mammoth Article, July 18, 2008
By: Elizabeth Fajardo

Driven by a sense of adventure and the unexpected--similar to gold miners in the late
1800's--several members of the California Posse set out for a 3-day excursion to Mammoth
Lake on July 18, 2008. The "explorers" on this leg of the journey were: Walter, Aris, Sparky,
Mike, Ed Breault, Ken, Phil Kamp and Wendy, Jose Del Rosario, Ed Manansala, Keith and
Mary, Chris and Jo, Sporty Bob and Jenny, Jose Baires and Vivian Padua, and Rick and I.
Our group was led by the sharp, leather-vested, and aptly bearded Walter, who managed
with the keen eye of a prospector, always on the alert for the unforeseen. After all, the ghost
town of Bodie—an establishment that could jar the sixth sense--was soon within reach.
As I looked to the heavens there was nary a cloud in sight. The two of us were seated in
Rick's pewter Chevy Colorado truck, with trailer affixed, Fatboy in tow, while we followed (what
would become a familiar sight for many hours) Keith's royal blue Dodge Ram--Mary C., his
passenger. I kept looking in the side mirror hoping to catch a glimpse of a dozen Harleys
positioned ceremoniously on the highway, but to no avail.
In the meantime, unbeknownst to me, Mary C. was attempting to reach us by phone. After
waving her hands in our direction, it suddenly dawned on the clueless, that we should turn on
the cell. A beep signaled a message. "How can they reach you, if your cell is off?" she said
in the voice mail. Good point. When she called again, Rick picked up the phone to answer--
force of habit--until I reminded him about that measly little thing known as a ticket. Not to
worry, Mary and I began exchanging hand signals.
The bikes streamed in, single-file at the exact time we entered the 76 Gas Station in
Manteca, to Walter's satisfaction. There was the small matter of a male pounding on the
Ladies' Restroom door while it was in use. To this day it is still a mystery as to the identity of
the culprit; although Walter's name has come up time and again. Only Sherlock can solve
this case. And then there was the deposition by Wendy, the reluctant, yet, upstanding
witness...
Next in line was the city of Escalon, land of peaches and cream. Shades of orange, like
pastel lights on Christmas trees decorated the fields along the freeway. I spotted statues of
Snow White and her seven dwarfs planted on the front yard of a cozy, yellow cottage. I
wondered how this small abode would compare to Minnie's residence in Disneyland. Ah, but
Minnie's neighbor happened to be Mickey Mouse--no contest!!
Oakdale greeted us with the Whiskey River Saloon--a brown, non-descript building. Any time
now, I imagined a dashing, younger Clint Eastwood, poking his head out, a tough-as-nails
scowl, coming face-to-face with some mangy creature in spurs, six-gun in hand, spewing the
words: "Do you feel lucky? Well, punk, do you?"
The town had its own quaint style. There was the Quilter's Cabin to the East, and a Sno-
White (Yes, same as the princess.) Drive-In to our right. Further down the street stood the
Oakdale Feed and Seed, the House of Beef, and Paul’s Indian Store—whose front wall
displayed a mural of two Native Americans in a full headdress of bright red and blue feathers,
and matching tan leather garb, facing each other in a rain dance—or so it seemed.
Especially appealing for those restless folk was Mike's Card Casino. Still, nothing beat the
unforgettable title of its next-door neighbor, The Battered Beaver (Ed determined later that it
was a bait and tackle shop.). We glanced ahead and took in a mesmerizing picture stuck in
time--three Labradors (two honey-brown and one black) in synchronized posture, calmly
looking at the same time, in the direction of Mike's gaming house. The pose reminded me of
the infamous poker dogs, caught on canvas for all posterity, unlike the typical animals who
tried to jump out of car windows. Mary took care of that, keeping us in stitches as she climbed
half-way out of the truck to wave hello.
Stalks of corn met my gaze down the roadway. Soon rows of cherry trees lined the grounds,
followed by a wooden sale sign for miniature ponies. And the two tan, furry babies in plain
sight were as minute as could be, like those pinkish gems found in "My Little Pony" stories--
only these were real!
Entering Tuolumne County my ears popped and life was good again, notwithstanding the air
conditioning which was a given. We whizzed by the Roadhouse Restaurant and Lodge, not
to be confused by the setting in Patrick Swayze's "Road House." Or would Liam Neeson have
good reason to pick a fight on these premises?
I noted a meadow within walking distance of Kistler Ranch Camp. At center was a verdant
pond, very still, covered by a thin green film. So tranquil was the setting, it was easy to
imagine the watering hole as a resting place for fairies and unicorns spending their days
adorning the countryside with their beauty--visible only to those entities who believed in the
magic of wishes and dreams that come true.
The spell was broken as we neared Yosemite (45 miles to go) and the lights of a different
kind of Amber Alert went on: ESCAPED PRISONER. DO NOT PICK UP HITCH-HIKERS. I
immediately gave Mary a jingle. She said, "Hi!" I replied--in a most serious tone, "Did you
see the sign?"
"Yes," she answered.
"So, do you think it's anybody we know?" I asked.
She paused and then shot back, "I doubt it."
I then told her, "We should keep the lines open, just in case." And we both giggled.
A truck with various sizes of American flags and silver ribbons met us just outside of
Jamestown. Immediately, my mind flashed back to the scene of the crime and the vision of a
man in an orange jumpsuit taking advantage of this choice means of escape.
The Harley Davidson Dealership in Jamestown had style, constructed entirely of wood with a
saloon-like architecture and a birds-eye view of the Rawhide Saloon across the street. The
tune "Oye Como Va" by Santana came on the loudspeaker as my eyes surveyed an
auspicious sign taped on an elegant gold Harley--stating that no one sit on the bike, unless
you were absolutely "naked." I asked the closest clerk if anyone ever took them up on the
offer. He said, with a gleam in his eye, "Only on Mondays." Keith, within earshot, pointed out
to me, "They're closed on Mondays.” Rodney Dangerfield said it best, "No respect!"
A few of us took a short hike past the Here's The Scoop Ice Cream Parlor, past the warning
sign "Sheriff is on foot patrol," to dine at the National Hotel on Main Street. The wallpaper
was true early 1900 motif, with rhubarb shades of patterned stripes upon an ivory lace
background, soft to the touch, accentuating oblong maroon chairs in similar whitish tones.
Dimmed light from old-fashioned lamps, gave way to numerous portraits. Especially catchy
was one to my left, of a scene in the making of old codgers wearing red suspenders over
comfy Pendleton shirts, seated at a card table—the game in full swing. A lone, brunette
saloon girl looks on, styled up in a revealing ruffled, burgundy dress, her left hand on the left
shoulder of the man with all the chips. Or did SHE hold all the cards? How does that AC/DC
song go? "She has the Jack."
Also memorable was a black and white lithograph of a 30's-time-frame silent movie couple,
gazing in each other's eyes. The caption underneath read: "Beware of Chance
Acquaintances." Then came wording below of behavior under scrutiny which rivaled even that
of those original Ten Commandments.
An ornate metallic ceiling crowned us from above, as royal silver emblems surrounded the
impeccable molding from end to end. Funnier still, underlying all this classy structure was a
plated warning framed on the sleek mahogany wall that separated the John from the powder
room: "Spitting on floor or wall, prohibited by order of State Board of Health."
Mary, my partner in crime (poor choice of words taking in our close proximity to the manhunt),
stirred my senses back to the present by offering me a sip of her lemonade. Being one who
most often drinks water, I declined at first. She insisted and the stare from her puppy dog
brown eyes was so intoxicating, I reconsidered and took a large gulp.
"Wow!" my eyes squinted as I looked at her. "FANCY lemonade!" I said.
Then I looked at the list of drinks behind the bar: Bull Frog--Vodka and lemonade. Heck, I
preferred the story of toads to any frogs, that one in particular where the toad becomes a
prince. But this frog potion could awaken any woman's fancy--I suppose.
On the road again, we were "the sweep" at the back of the pack, now with the truck and 12
bikes in our view. Big Oak Flat was the latest town, complete with a Miner Mart and the Claim
Jumper Outpost where you could gas up and claim a free soda. The Lion's Club provided
bingo every Thursday and the Iron Door Saloon encountered many a miner then (established
in 1852), and many a Forty Niner now--the football kind.
Smokey the Bear held up a "High" fire sign amid a menagerie of oak and pine trees. I rolled
down the window and smelled the fresh pine. It was Christmas in July, as I breathed in the
magic, and with it, the timelessness of the season. I was truly in my element. Yosemite was
next in our midst and all the greenery emerged as a feeding ground, special enough for
leprechauns who most likely lurked at night when the moon was full, like today’s. This
evening would be illuminated by moonbeams, not unlike those magic-filled nights of the past I
had spent here so long ago.
I recalled family outings deep in the valley, when a burning fire fall flowed from the mountains,
disappearing as mysteriously as it appeared, and a song that took a cue from the ancients,
only to leave a child wondering, and hoping that the magic would come back again and again.
Walter brought us across the mountains into the heart of wonder that was known as Tenaya
Lake. We were able to bask in the sunlight among the magnificent rock structures. Just the
reflection on the lake of a pristine sky, left me in awe, surrounded by crevices polished by
glaciers. Far off in the distance were daring rock climbers, speckled on stone. You snooze,
you lose, was the first thought that came to mind. Dead bear signs were also prevalent,
making us aware that we were mere guests in nature's humble playhouse.
As we departed Yosemite and headed towards Mammoth, I read the road sign addressing
travelers to Mono Lake--one of the first lakes my son, Anthony, ever explored (His postcard
from 1987 still hangs on my fridge). I then looked out towards the Sierras. The chocolate
brown and chalk-colored granite rocks appeared to be sprayed with swatches of pure white,
like whipped cream on a sundae. The only thing missing was the cherry on top. Big poofy
clouds circled over the top of the mountain range, carving shadows in deep pockets, like a
matte painting in a Hollywood movie, leaving much to the imagination.
Within minutes we'd reached the Alpenhof Lodge--a glaring statue of an extinct wooly
mammoth elephant was parked right at the entrance. Soon the rest of the gang appeared:
Pete, Manny, Ray Fitch, Bob, Gerald, and Nadine, who surprised us later. We settled on
eating at Gomez's, where the Mexican cuisine was grand, and the Ladies’ Restroom was
even grander; the olive green quarters was adorned with a fabulous gallery of Frida Kahlo
paintings (You had to be there.).
Back at the resort, before the weekend had ended, Pete led the group in a moment of silence
for Ray Bray. A heart-felt toast was then made by Walter as each person sipped wine,
poured from the special bottle that had been labeled with a picture of Ray—a gift from Liz
Davis and their family. I always had the sense that someone was watching over us, and I
made sure to wear my angel necklace to attract our one beloved spirit in the sky.
Early Saturday morning Walter led the Posse to three main bodies of water: June, Silver and
Grand Lakes. June Lake was unique in that there were two humongous boulders at the tip of
the town that easily could've been transplanted from the Indiana Jones ride for safe-keeping.
Glorious waterfalls paved the way to mountainous terrain. The cool, refreshing mountain air
tickled my face as we rounded each curve—off-setting the sting of tiny pebbles that
occasionally grazed my face. Silver Lake was perhaps the most spectacular, as the clear
water blended in so gently with the geologic masterpiece that encompassed its entire body.
Pete decided to christen the lake by wading in the liquid, boots and all. His response to our
questioning stares, "I'm a plumber."
After reaching the top of the Sierras, a few of us rode the gondola to the 11,053-foot summit
for lunch. The panoramic view was amazing as I took in Half Dome and Mono Lake on one
end, and the forested areas and bicyclists on the other side. Brave souls that we were, our
team of Phil Smith, Ray, Ken, Manny, Rick, and I, hardly said a word as the tram took off
unexpectedly before we were quite ready. Lucky for us, we'd already digested our meal.
Finally, Phil Kamp and Wendy became the new ride leaders, leaving us with one final lake to
remember, Mamie Lake. With the motorcycles parked in a straight formation, we
disembarked for a tall view down the valley. The oozing waterfall began where we stood and
ended in a flush of green pastel trees down below, where a smidgen of bridges could be
seen. Quite breathtaking, it was a definite canvas in art, impressionistic like Monet, and as
sterling green as one of Mary Cassatt's originals in oil (circa the late 1800's), perfect,
deliberate strokes that gave quality to still life, yet generated the feeling that all was
seemingly untouched by mere man.
Phil Smith broke the silence as he noticed a single trout lying sideways. "Wish on a dead
fish," he said. It didn't have quite the pizzazz of say the verbiage delivered so eloquently in
"Three Coins in a Fountain," where you were required to wish for a safe voyage back to
Rome. But the concept worked for me, today, as it would in the future, upon a return trip next
year. Now that's a fish story if I've ever heard one. Right Ray?