But underlying this collage of remembrance lies a sense of loss. More feeling than image, I can give neither name nor place to whatever was missing this past summer. Slowly my thoughts begin to center on the South Tufa grove. But at the same time I intuitively know that what I seek is no longer there. Surrendering to my intellectual impasse (writer’s block), I leave the depths of the editorial office and begin roaming through the darkened bookstore. Perusing our excellent book selection after hours has always helped me return to writing—sometimes by inspiration, mostly by letting my mind wander out of whatever rut it has settled into.

Tonight the process is much more direct. Surrounding me—on the bookshelves, in the poster bin, on the
T- shirt display, in the postcard rack—are photographs and images of what has been haunting my summer memories.
A certain tufa tower. Rising less than twenty feet above the lake, it was not even close to being the largest. Nor could it be called ornate, quite the opposite in fact.

But this slender, symmetrical, unfettered spire never failed to capture the visitor’s eye or the photographers lens. Photographs of this tower were in the first five books I picked out of the Mono Lake section. I turned around. There it was on numerous cards and posters; in Don Jackson’s excellent exhibit; on the front cover of the 1996, ‘97, and ‘98 MLC calendars; and on the cover of the fall 1997 Mono Lake Newsletter.

What had been a navigational landmark for me during eight previous years of canoe tours had obviously transcended its status as a popular photo subject to become a true icon of Mono Lake. However, I quickly remembered that all of these images and my memories of this tower were in the past tense. For I discovered on my first canoe reconnaissance of the past spring that this tufa no longer stands against the massive backdrop of the Sierra escarpment. Sometime during the winter, probably during one of the destructive storms that hit the area around the end of the year, the tower was toppled by wave action.

Without wanting to think about it, I steered away from this place during canoe tours, so it wasn’t until July that I peered down into the tower’s final resting place. Several feet below the surface I saw a three foot section which used to be the top of the tower lying on its side amid a jumble of fragments. After a moment of recognition, I paddled away and did not return for the rest of the summer.

Now, in the silence of the empty store, I am cascaded by conflicting thoughts and feelings. During the previous summer I noticed the tower slowly being undermined by the rising waters. I knew its days were numbered. "But after all," I reasoned, "a rising level is healthier for the lake ecosystem. And this freshwater is being put into the lake by rejuvenated streams and recharged springs. Besides, most other towers have not been toppled. Some have spring water flowing out of them and are growing once again." Still, I felt as if I’d lost a friend.

The following morning finds me paddling across the wind-rippled surface of the lake. Grebes dive to avoid our bow which is pointed towards the site of the former spire. Being late into the fall, shrimp are scarce and the water is clouded by algae. Floating over the tower, I find that the waves are bending the low-angle sunlight, selectively illuminating, then obscuring features of the submerged pile of shattered tufa. Undulating images of the underwater fragments seamlessly merge between light and dark, recognition and doubt. I begin to wonder why I am here. What am I trying to visually exhume out of the turgid, roiling waters? Why have I navigated my canoe to a landmark that is no longer there?

As I paddle away I begin to feel a sense of closure. I realize that this spire of tufa was more than just a waypoint on my canoe tour route. It was an important landmark in my personal perception of the lake, and now, in my memory. As the lake continues to rise, another tower, perhaps even one that is on dry land today, will capture the imagination of future generations of paddlers and come to symbolize Mono Lake for them.