Returning Home, to Havasu Palms

Introduction by Bobbi Johnson Holmes
August 15, 2010

The Road to Havasu Palms

            In July of 2010 my husband, Don, and I went on a two week holiday, first to Sacramento to visit our daughter, son-in-law and beautiful new granddaughter, and then to Bend, Oregon, to attend a family reunion for my mother-in-law’s side of the family.  While we were gone, my sister, Lynn, stayed in our Lake Havasu City home, with my mother, Caroline Glandon Johnson, who lives with Don and me.
            While at Havasu Lynn decided to visit Havasu Palms, something she hasn’t done since before the takeover in 1999. This morning she emailed me her thoughts about the trip.
            Lynn has always been an environmentalist, so I understand her sadness at many of the changes she discovered.  While our family was at Havasu Palms – for over three decades – we planted over 300 trees; they are all gone.  The hill, from the front of the Road’s End Restaurant to the road which leads to the launch ramp and store, was once covered with natural foliage. In the springtime, there was an explosion of colors, which included the brilliant yellow daisy-like flowers of the brittlebush and the bright magenta flowers of the beavertail cactus, along with assorted cactus and desert wildflowers. The hill, scrapped of its topsoil, is now covered with commercial pink rock.
            People do have different tastes.  I’m sure those people who view velvet paintings of Elvis as high forms of art will find charm in the senseless rambling rock walls and multi-colored fountain installed by the current concessionaires at the site. - Bobbi Holmes

Looking Back

by Lynn Johnson Galloway

Lynn Johnson Galloway at Havasu Palms

             It had been eleven years since I’ve returned home.  This wasn’t out of neglect, but pure avoidance.  In 1999 after 31 years of labor and love my family was forced out of their home, their income, their way of life.  Much the same as others before us, our ancestors in England, Ireland, Scotland, or our American Native, Black, Latino, Japanese, and Jewish neighbors; the history keeps repeating itself.  We are not unique in this experience of being misplaced, but this is a story told too often.
            So, this being a bitter pill to swallow, I avoided returning to the place I spent most of my early adult life.  At the age of seventeen, with my mom and dad and 13-year old sister, three cats, canary,  and one miniature schnauzer, we left our comfortable life in Covina, California to play out my dad’s dream of developing a resort on Lake Havasu.  My little family picked up roots in Southern California and moved to Lake Havasu in the January of 1968 to begin an adventure of a lifetime.
            During the first months of 1968, I spent my entire life at “The Palms.”  It is during that time, before going off to college, that left such an impression on me.  I would often go back to visit my family and work at the resort during my summers off from college or holidays, just to visit. 

July 2010

High school friends, Wanda & Lynn

            Summer in Havasu can be brutal.  However, this weekend it was only 105 degrees. M y dear friend from high school came to Havasu City to visit for the weekend.  I was spending time with my mom, Caroline.  Even though I live in the Eastern Sierra now, Havasu still holds a special place in my heart.  It’s changed a great deal since the 60’s, and I have often said, “We had the best of times.” 
            Even though I have known Wanda since high school, she was never able to spend time there with me.  Her life took a different turn than mine, children, marriages, and jobs forced us apart.  Now as adults we have reconnected.  My mom and I shared pictures of Havasu Palms in the olds days, and retold favorite stories.  Upon hearing these tales Wanda was anxious to go on a little road trip. 
            Early Saturday morning we loaded up Wanda’s Honda Element with water and our cameras and headed off to Havasu Palms.  The previous night I phoned my oldest son, Kevin, to share my mission.  “Mom, you shouldn’t go.  Remember it like it was.”  I listened to his advice, but chose to ignore it.  My mind was already made up.  I sensed it was something I needed to do.  I never felt I had closure before, with us leaving so abruptly.  My white with gold speckled Vogue ski was even left behind. 
            It’s an hour drive to the Palms from the city, about thirty minutes to the dam, then thirty more over the 12-mile dirt read leading to the resort.  To me, the drive was full of fabulous memories, each bump and turn was like taking a time machine back to my earlier life.  My tummy was turning as we neared the last bend in the road. 

Family of Wild Donkeys on the
Road to Havasu Palms 

            A family of burros munched on some mesquite.  I asked Wanda if we could roll down the windows in the car so I could smell Whipple Bay.  I wondered, “Would it smell the same?”  “Ahh.”  I broke out in a smile, a few tears glistening, and said, “Even if everything else is horrible, the road and smell was worth coming back.”

Havasu Palms Road & Whipple Bay

            “Let’s drive through camp first,” I directed.  Wanda was so obliging, and listened to my stories along the route.  We crept along so I could tell a story along the way; I pointed out our home, where we swam, the docks dad built, and so on.
            Our home, the manager’s quarters, was very run down.  'The yard was crispy brown, with trash scattered about.  There was a stack of metal roofing in the yard with weeds poking up and the white metal fence was speckled with rust.  The house was crammed alongside another mobile, and throughout camp it was much the same, metal and dirt.  I didn’t see any trees in the center of the park, which we had planted years before.  The oleanders were overgrown and dry, in serious need of pruning.  Yard work was not part of the current management’s agenda.  I enjoyed snapping pictures along the route and I would add a story to it.

Original Havasu Palms Picnic Tables
from the late 60's 

            In 1968 we purchased some new camp tables, with metal frames.  We assembled wood tops and seats to the frames.  I took a photo of one that remained in camp.  I couldn’t believe it was still there!  It had surely seen better days.

Natural Foliage Replaced by Pink Rocks 

            Have you ever see the television show, “What not to Wear?” or perhaps “Extreme Makeover?”  This place was seriously neglected, and could use an extreme make over.  Trailers or mobiles were crammed like sardines along the road leading to the restaurant and store.  Someone had a brain fart and scraped all the fragile topsoil off the hill in front of the restaurant and replaced it with pink crushed rock.  Where once stood colorful natural rock and flowering native plants, now were dry weeds poking through the pink gravel, like whiskers on an old fisherman’s beard. As we drove past the restaurant a huge banner hung declaring it CLOSED.  All I could see was neglect. 
            We parked along the road leading down to the store and were greeted by an old man with a thinning gray ponytail.  “Hello Girls, did you come down that road?” It’s been awhile since I was called a girl, being almost sixty, and  I wanted to be a smart ass and reply, “No, we took the freeway.,” but  I bit my tongue.  I wanted to see what was up and not tell them who I was until we left.  Wearing sunglasses and a big floppy straw hat, I was incognito!  Wanda is tall and blond , we made the perfect pair of accidental tourist.
            We were friendly.  I told the proprietor I used to come here when I was a girl.  That we were just visiting and I wanted to show my friend where I used to spend my vacations.  The old guy said something to the effect that  it’s changed a lot since you were here, and it’s better now since we’ve had the place, and so on and so forth.  Honestly I was just half listening, taking in the smells and view, remembering, traveling back to the sixties and seventies of my youth.  I wanted to be contrary and told him, no it’s still the same, same road, same view. 
            Wanda was getting irritated with the man, as he was telling us how fabulous it is now compared to when the other owners had it.  He still wasn’t sure who I was.  He may have suspected, because my sister and I look a lot alike, and I am my mother’s daughter.  But I still didn’t tip my hand, not just yet.  After listening to the guy tell us that the road is the same because they want to keep people out, (I had to laugh secretly to myself.)  I knew that road is a wash and would never be able to be paved with the funds available.  It would take millions of dollars and lots of engineering.  I asked if the restaurant was open.  He said, no, cause “Californian’s don’t like to work.”  Well, we all know that’s not true!  The fact is, it takes a lot to run a successful restaurant, and just the logistics of getting the supplies in such a remote area can be a nightmare.  Workers need to be housed or transported to the city.  The restaurateur needs to be motivated and dedicated and there 24/7, or it just won’t work. 
            Nearing the end of our conversation I introduced myself as “Lynn” and my friend, “Wanda.”  I said I was from Southern California and Wanda from Las Vegas.  I asked him his name, and he said “Cotton.”  I had heard of this man in pretty negative terms, but had never had the pleasure of his acquaintance until now.  I asked him if Cotton was his first name or last, and he said, “Just Cotton, like Cher.”  Sorry Cher!
            We needed to make a potty stop before returning to the City so we hiked up a short hill to a little restroom on the hill.  It was a little smelly, run down, and needed a coat of paint.  I remembered when it was new and fresh.  Returning to our car I spotted an old employee of my dad's.  I couldn’t believe he was still there, the turncoat!  I told Wanda to wait, I wanted to talk with Gerry.
            Taking off my sunglasses and hat I yelled at him as I approached the porch.  “Gerry, Gerry is that you?  It’s me, Lynn, Lynn.”  By now, Gerry was standing an arms length from Cotton.  Gerry said, “Lynn, Caroline’s daughter?”  
            “Yes, it’s me, Lynn.”  I replied.  I went to shake Gerry’s hand, but  he seemed genuinely  happy to see me so we hugged.  Gerry told Cotton that I was Lynn, Caroline’s daughter.  That was the end of the conversation with Cotton!  We said our goodbyes and headed out the way we came in, up over the hill, behind the restaurant.

A Hideous Fountain and Cannon
at Havasu Palms 

            Oh my goodness, someone had build a shrine with a purple water fountain, four humming bird feeders dangling from it, a cannon (for any future wars), a wishing well and path paved with roof tiles.  Well, like my niece once said, and I may quote, “everyone has different taste buds.” My reaction was pure horror and “there’s just no accounting for taste.” Something else that fascinated me was there were little rock walls all throughout the park, about two feet high.  There didn’t seem to be any particular reason, I mean, what was the point? 
             You might think I would be depressed by my experience visiting my past.  But, it was like paying a visit to my dad’s spirit.  I felt him there.  Exiting, I took more photos of the road and the burro families. 
            “Thank you Wanda for going with me.” 
             She smiled, and said, “Anytime girl, you know I’m always game.”

Lynn, August 2010