Twain Harte: a California vacation town that will transport you back to the 50's
Imagine one of those travel postcards, the city in bright block font, images of the perfect beach town filling the letters, nostalgic of vacations past. Don’t you just want to cannonball into their water, or slurp up a bright red cherry (or my personal favorite, blue raspberry) snow cone? That place exists, and it is the place I’ve gone every summer to grow up.
Named after authors Bret Harte and Mark Twain, this tiny town is located in the Sierra mountains, about 2 hours from Yosemite. My grandmother came here as a child, so as an adult her family purchased a plot of land on Twain Harte lake and built a cookie-cutter cabin on the hill. They hung a tire from a tree to swing, benches to sit and contemplate, a teepee for kids to play, and a canoe to explore. The teepee now has the hand and footprints of all of her grandchildren from every summer, slowly getting bigger, even though she has passed and my Grammy can no longer see them.
Growing up, we always kept the windows open as we drove to the cabin, knowing we were getting close with the air smelled like pine cones and sequoias. Lazy mornings were spent on the deck with all the cousins, eating cereal and fresh berries and swinging on the green plastic hammock. Then we would scuttle down to the lake and jump in off the little dock, swimming fast before the lifeguards yelled at us for not using the gate. We learned to swim in that lake, getting the blue wristband as a trophy for passing the swim test, racing and cannon balling and splashing. After hamburgers and snow cones and soft serve for lunch, we would return to the lake, lounging on floaties or the multiple swim docks.
When we were finally zapped by the sun, we would run across the bridge, and then scurry over the hot Rock. The Rock is a giant boulder that serves as a beach on Twain Harte Lake, complete with graffiti and Native American carvings. We didn’t tan here however, the sand was much more fun. And anyway, you can’t build sandcastles out of rock.
In town, about a mile from the lake, there are bars and diners and grills. Of course there are also ice cream stands, a 2 star Mexican restaurant, and my favorite establishment: mini putt putt. The best part? If you get a hole in one on the last hole, the halfway-in-retirement owners reward you with a free ice cream.
Twain Harte is the kind of place where old men walk around shirtless despite their saggy skin. There’s always sunny music playing, hikes to hike, abandoned cabins to explore, and good conversations to be had. Nearby is Candy Rock (a lovely river for cliff jumping), Columbia (the gold rush’s version of colonial Williamsburg), and Dodge Ridge (a ski resort… fun all year long!).
It’s the kind of place where my grandpa would take all nine grandkids to sneak onto The Rock after dark, which is very much not allowed. Papa had each of us bring a flashlight. When the lifeguards on night shift pointed their giant light at us and microphones that the lake was closed, a chorus of nine flashlights flashed back while we booed.
It’s the kind of place where we have wooden board games worn down from years of use, and a wooden ice cream church. It’s the kind of place where we take photos from the same spot on the deck every summer, to show our growth.
If you want to forget about your social media statuses for a little while, and just worry about what flavor of soft serve to get next while you float in clear water under a bright blue sky, transport yourself by coming to Twain Hart Lake.
