Hotdogs and Cold Duck
It was 1972. My future husband and I were huddled around a small fire built with random sticks we had found scattered and left by past campers. The temperature was dropping fast and we were ill-prepared for an early fall freeze.
We had driven to Mineral King, a mountain valley in the southern Sierra Nevada that some said rivaled Yosemite in splendor, to see the place that had spawned a lawsuit by the Sierra Club. The conservation-minded organization wanted to stop Walt Disney from turning the undeveloped valley, now part of Sequoia National Park, into a ski resort. It was the beginning of an era where groups opposed to projects that could harm sensitive environments could sue developers.
Larry and I had attended a wedding the day before, and the hosts pushed some leftovers on us, knowing that we had just begun our relationship and had no money. Hotdogs and a bottle of cheap, fizzy Cold Duck — that was dinner in the campground that night. We were a young couple in love, and happy to share these offerings with each other as we toasted our good luck in our beat-up Sierra cups.
That good luck ran out in the middle of the night, when the temperature dropped farther and snow began to pile up on our thin, untented sleeping bags. As soon as it was light, we threw our belongings, including the empty Cold Duck bottle, into my not-equipped-for-snow sedan and hightailed it out of there before more snow accumulated.
We never did go back to see Mineral King. And no one will ever confuse me for a foodie after confessing to feasting on wieners and Cold Duck. But Larry and I are still happily together 50 years later, so I guess that was a good start.
Food for thought.
Donna Bacon Ulrich savors her feasts in Trinidad and Junction City. Related reading: Daniel P. Selmi, “Dawn at Mineral King Valley: The Sierra Club, the Disney Company and the Rise of Environmental Law” (2024).
