Three years ago, I was standing behind the register at the Glacier Point Gift Shop when I first heard the story. It began with a shout from a co-worker whose name, I’m sad to say, I can no longer remember, though his presence remains vivid. He was an odd one, full of strange quirks. He once told me that the water in Yosemite National Park was safe to drink–the water from the streams. He had a sort of black build-up on the gumlines of his teeth. I’m not sure I should’ve trusted him. But I did.
That day, he shouted across our small shop at a man wearing a yellow T-shirt. The shirt had a simple image of a pond with a plane jutting out of it, alongside the words: I got mine at Lower Merced Pass Lake. My co-worker hollered one thing: “Hey Yah!”
To provide context, this coworker–I still cannot recall his name–was an odd one. Once, for reasons I still don’t fully grasp, I agreed to go hiking with him. As we were walking below the base of Half Dome past Mirror Lake, my coworker screamed out, with no warning, at a group of peaceful tourists, “Mirror Lake! More like Mirror Fake!” It was jarring, not just because it came out of nowhere, but because it didn’t make any sense. That was him in a nutshell—unpredictable, bewildering, and a little unhinged.
So, after his latest outburst in the gift shop, I leaned over the cash register and asked why he’d yelled at the man in the yellow shirt. He looked at me with a wistful glint in his eye, then pointed toward the distant peaks of the Clark Range. And with that, he began to tell me the story of Yosemite’s legendary weed plane.
He first told me the story in the summer of ’21. It’s been four years since I first heard the tale, and I’ve been obsessed ever since—unable to shake it. My college thesis documentary was titled High Sierras: The Legend of the Yosemite Weed Plane, and my thesis script was Lodestar Lightning, a fictional retelling of the story. I even wrote a campfire song about it. For four years, this story has lived rent-free in my mind.
This week, I finished—almost—a pitch deck for Lodestar Lightning. It’s due tomorrow for a pitch competition, and while they only asked for a logline and a three-page write-up, I may have gone a bit overboard. What I’m delivering is a pitch deck styled as a 1970s Yosemite travel brochure, complete with the logline, story breakdown, archival photos, maps, and even sheet music for my original song. It’s reminiscent of high school when I handed in a meticulously crafted 1950s suitcase full of fictional letters and artifacts instead of the simple binder that was assigned. What can I say? When I like an assignment, I become a bit of a crazed overachiever.
Whether or not I win the competition, I’m one step closer to telling this story. Now I’ve got an over-the-top pitch deck, ready to flash at anyone willing to take a look. Step by step, day by day, I’m getting closer to getting this stupid movie out of my head.
In other news, this Saturday marks a town hall for our latest documentary project, Gold Country. I’ve mentioned it in passing, but to offer more detail: we are chronicling a small but passionate secession movement in El Dorado County, where a group calling itself the Republic for El Dorado State seeks to break away from California. Comprised of Constitutional originalists, the group argues that California’s government has failed them, neglecting its duty to uphold a republican form of governance. Though they represent the 221st such movement, their mission—forming the 51st state—remains captivating. Carson Bennett and I aim to document their efforts and explore the motivations behind such an impossible endeavor.
