Thanksgiving at Charlotte Lake

by Donald L. Reavis

It’s Thanksgiving Day. I expect you’re looking for a heart-touching, tear-jerking story of a
Thanksgiving past. I did my research and found one that may fit that description.

This comes from an old friend of mine, William Lindberg. Over fifty years ago, William and his
young wife, Claire, left their family in Wisconsin and moved west in search of a place they could
raise their children away from a civilization they felt was becoming destructive. Deep in the High
Sierra Mountains, they found that place. Here’s William describing their first Thanksgiving.

****

I remember that morning as if it were yesterday. It was our first Thanksgiving here at Charlotte Lake. I’d like to say the snow had come early that year, but truth is—it always comes early at this altitude. It crunched under my boots as I carried firewood to the cabin. The sky was clear, and the air was crisp. It stung my lungs.

Claire was frying corn mush on the wood-fired cookstove when I accidentally slammed the door. She gave me that chastising look I knew well—followed by the smile that always made it right. We didn’t have a lot to be thankful for that year. Our cabin was only half-finished, the roof still leaked when it rained, and an early frost had wiped out our garden. Our food came from what little we had in the fruit cellar and from what I could fish or hunt. The lake had frozen over, and the forest had gone silent. Even so, Claire was humming a hymn as she flipped the mush, her face lit by
the lantern’s glow.

I remember looking down into my watered-down coffee and thinking I didn’t know what we were
going to do. I tried to apologize to Claire for bringing her out here. She turned, those soft eyes
steady and sure, “The Lord has been good to us, William,” she said. “We have each other—and the children. He will provide.”

I wanted to believe her, but that morning, my faith was small, no stronger than the faint trail of
smoke rising from our chimney. I told her I’d check the traps one more time before noon, hoping
for a rabbit or two for dinner. The morning air bit at my fingers as I reset each snare, but I kept
going, thinking of the warmth of the fire back in the cabin. Still, my hopes lifted a little as I walked
down the trail and spotted fresh deer tracks near the stream.

Then I saw him.

Just ahead, standing in a grove of pines, was a buck—tall and proud, his coat glistening in the weak morning sun. He stood still as a statue, his breath rising in soft white puffs. For a long moment, we just stared at each other. I raised my rifle, and then lowered it again. I can’t say why—mercy, hesitation, or simply awe at the beauty of him. The deer didn’t bolt as I expected. He took a slow step forward, then another, until he stood barely twenty yards away. I declare he looked right through me.

When I finally took the shot, it was quick and clean. I knelt beside him in the snow and whispered a prayer—not just of thanks for the meat, but for the reminder that we weren’t alone out here in the wilderness.

By evening, the cabin was filled with the smell of roasting venison and wood smoke. Claire had baked a couple of potatoes and a cobbler from the last can of peaches. We sat at our small table, the wind moaning outside, and joined hands. She thanked the Lord for sending us food, for keeping us safe, and for giving us the courage to carry on.

When I opened my eyes, I saw tears on her cheeks. They weren’t from fear or hunger. They were
from gratitude. She had faith enough for all of us.

Later that night, I stepped outside for more firewood. The moon was rising over the ridge, lighting
the frozen lake in a glow of silver. Somewhere on the mountain, a wolf called, and I thought of all
we’d left behind in Wisconsin. Yet standing there, I knew we’d found something richer.

It wasn’t just the food that made that first Thanksgiving special. It was the stillness, the struggle,
and the quiet certainty that God had led us here.

So when I hear folks talk about being thankful, I think back to that night—the warmth of the fire,
the prayer whispered over a simple meal, and the miracle that found us in the wilderness.

****

Over the next five decades, the Lindbergs watched Charlotte Lake grow into a vibrant community
of over two hundred settlers. No longer did they have to worry about food or a leaky roof. They had
their struggles but found God was with them in every challenge.

Being a fiction writer with an imagination that doesn’t even stop when I’m sleeping, I couldn’t
recycle some old feel-good story—so I employed a couple of characters from my Charlotte Lake
series and asked them to share theirs.

God bless you, my friends, and be thankful in all that comes your way.

Donald L Reavis is a retired air traffic controller, whose love for backpacking inspired the Charlotte Lake series. He lives in Indiana, enjoys golf, painting, and experiencing new things with Sharla, his wife of 43 years. Visit his website at dlreavis.com.