We’ve been to Chinese Camp before, years ago. It was just a highway historical marker we saw after hours of driving from Yosemite, or some point further west, felt disappointed. Couple of days ago I saw the name, got re-ignited and decided to come back.
We know the road, arrived earlier than last time, the only store in Chinese Camp is still open. We turned to the main street, it’s not that long, from where we turn can see the end of the road. So we turned towards this end: There are peacocks roaming with little chicks following behind. Obviously they rarely see cars, took over the street. We made all the way to the end, nothing special, so we turned around to the other end, there are quite a few boarded buildings, looks like carrying all the dust from past century, telling stories with hushed windows and thriving trees shooting out of porch.
We turned into the only general store. It’s so densely packed, in-between aisles you barely can turn around. The goods are not very organized, I looked further in, two people are drinking in the bar. It is a tiny bar in a small blocked off section with an “Only 21 years and older allowed” sign. But sitting in such a corner and cheering to such an ambience worth a toast!
The lady behind the counter is Asian, so I approached her, it turned out she is from Thailand. And there’s no more Chinese left in town, since even before she took over the ownership.
Someone said life is about encounters with people and places. Chinese Camp was such a place. It fulfilled its role as a foothold for earlier Chinese pioneers, where they called it home far away from their hometown; they left their mark in this sleepy town with their lifestyle, diligence and footprint of their journey. The town also imparted its logo on them with the Sierra spirit: the treasure is not in the pot at the end of the rainbow; it is the ride on the rainbow.
Now it’s all quieted down, sealed with the roaming peacocks and their screeches when disturbed by intruders.
