RECONNOITERING IN THE EASTERN SIERRA NEVADA & GREAT BASIN
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Forward to Essay: “Clunk Goes the Wedding Bells:”
The year 1980 was not one of my favorite years in memory. I was just finishing up a divorce, without a car and had few possessions. I had a low paying job, a motorcycle and a new mobile home to pay for. A chance to make a bit of money doing photography came my way, thus setting the stage for the events that this essay is based on.

The year 1986 was another year that ranks low in my memory. The bleak winter of 1985-6 in eastern Wyoming, where I had recently moved to, was cold, dreary and I was unemployed. I had a new wife, a step-family to care for and I pined to be back in the eastern Sierra; where at least the sun shone between snow storms. I began to find myself reminiscing about those events back in time – while bad for me at the time – and now seemed humorous and fond. And so I picked up a notepad and pen and started to write. Soon I purchased an old typewriter at a garage sale and began to peck out cornball accounts based upon my experiences in the eastern Sierra. It was therapy for my unemployed emotions and a way to ignore those bleak winter months on the Wyoming prairie.

In those days, “NEVADA” Magazine was published as a homespun state album. I thought my stories would fit in with the magazine's philosophy, so I began to send them in to the editor. During that time, the editorial chair changed hands and the new one started changing the magazine's focus on the gaming industry and tourism. My stories did not fit in with their new bent. However, the editor did kindly make comments and sent the manuscripts back with tips. I revised them over and over, but yet their flavor and style just did not fit. Too corny, too sarcastic, just too allegorical for their invitation to readers to come and play in Nevada's indoor and outdoor playgrounds.

I kept those manuscripts and at times over the years fiddled with them, as they chronicled my life in those dark days of post-divorce and brought back memories long forgotten during those years in which I spent much time in a fog mentally and emotionally before I married again.

Herewith is one of my memories:



“’CLUNK!' Goes the Wedding Bells”
by David A. Wright


A self portrait of me and my Konika, taken in 1981.

The Mojave Desert. An immense stark and desolate place. Not usually the perfect background for wedding photographs. Well, Red Rock – at sunset – it has possibilities. Many folks would prefer the local church, wedding chapel, or an outdoor wedding in some virginal mountain setting – like Tahoe.

On an August afternoon, a bride and groom were doing just that, the picture perfect setting to fill my viewfinder, on Lake Tahoe’s eastern shore.

These people were from a small Mojave Desert town in southern California. They wanted to escape the desert for that day of their matrimony, and desired the outdoors instead of a chapel, even though the chapels of Las Vegas lay 90 minutes distant. The lake catered to their desires.

In their little nook of the Mojave sat a photo studio belonging to my father. One of his portraits captured the beauty of their courtship, so they naturally wanted him to do their wedding package as well. But pops didn’t want to make the 400 mile trip to the lake. My phone rang – I was much close, living near Mono Lake in the eastern Sierra Nevada. “Hello … son? You want to do some wedding photography?”

That was the beginning of my problems.

I had just recorded my divorce, and I certainly didn’t feel up to recording someone else’s wedding. My car was accorded to my ex-wife, leaving me a motorcycle. And I certainly had no record as to who these people were and how to find them among the summertime crowds at the Lake. “You’ll get dinner and paid good,” came dad’s reply to my cynicism. Money talks.

The day came to head up to the Lake. I got up bright and early to make sure everything was prepared. Motorcycle – check. Two cameras – check. Extra lenses – check. Tripod – check. The fun part came when I tried to tie it all on the bike.

I should have taken a clue as to how the day was going to turn out the moment I fired up the bike and put it in gear. If I did, I would have packed it all up and stayed home.


An old dog name Sasha lived a couple houses down the street. Ol’ Sasha never paid much attention to me or the bike. I had bought it not six months before from her master, so to her it was like an old friend.. As I cruised on past, my bike probably looked like something from the opening scene from the Beverly Hillbillies – you know, the old truck with every worldly possession of Granny and Uncle Jed tied on – Sasha’s old and faded eyes beheld an alien presence.

“C’mon Sasha! Settle Down Sasha! STOP it Sasha!! KNOCK IT OFF Sasha!!”

Sasha knocked it all off – and me too – at 35mph.

The dust settled, revealing torn and soiled pants, a bent handlebar, the paint on the gas tank scraped and the fairing cracked. Then I looked behind me. My cameras had fallen from the bag, leaving my main camera looking pretty bad. When I turned it on, no L.E.D.’s greeted me with the assurance that all was well. That left the other camera. My old Konica 35mm SLR back up camera had a big dent in the prism housing. To top it all off, the extra lens was busted, and my filters ruined. If I took a tally of how badly my pride was injured, I probably would have killed the dog. Instead I tied her up – with six inches of chain.


My 1972 Honda CB500-4 shortly after I bought it. This is the bike central to this story.

Forty-five minutes late, I sped out of June Lake. To add to the lost time, I had to make a detour to Carson City to replace the broken filters. The highways were jammed with slow motorhomes. My thoughts were jammed with how in the world was I going to carry off this stunt.

Zephyr Cove was packed. I was glad to have my motorcycle to scoot about. Never having been there before, I was having a heck of a time trying to find the chapel and not finding myself planted into a Yellowstone bumper sticker on the back of some Winnebago. I finally found it, 20 minutes past the scheduled time. My nerves were shot, I was exhausted and felt that I needed a shower real bad.

I had no idea of who to look for, what these people looked like, or what to expect as regards their itinerary after the wedding and what kind of photos they wanted. My only instructions were to shoot a wedding and reception. The chapel was way behind schedule due to the Saturday wedding clearance sale crowd, so fortunately for me my party hadn’t arrived yet. I milled about, trying to looking casual and study the photographs on the wall. What seemed an eternity later, a chic, white Lincoln pulled up to the front and eight sharply dressed men and women spilled out. They boisterously announced their arrival, whose name my ears picked up out of the din of the crowd, confirming these were the people I was supposed to meet. I walked into the hysteria and introduced myself.


I felt pretty clumsy – downright stupid would be more like it. They were garbed in expensive gowns and tuxedos, I was garbed in grub – Levi’s and a sport jacket. I decided to take time out in the restroom to assess the situation.

When I returned, the party was gone. I had no idea what was going on or where they went. Somebody yelled over at me that the ceremony was going to take place on Cave Rock. Cave Rock! Where was that? Fortunately I spotted the rear end of the Lincoln speeding out of the parking lot. I figured the proper and manly thing to do was – FOLLOW THAT CAR!

When the race was over, everyone spilled out of the Lincoln with attention focused on the scenery. No one seemed to notice the funny man with the funny clothes with the funny transportation. I was emotionally exhausted but a few of the brides maids did catch my attention. There I was, stumbling along the overgrown path, trying to get my camera gear straight and not pay attention to the fact that the bride and her maidens gowns snagging on the manzanita and lifting up, exposing undergarments. How much worse can this get?

The answer was yet to come.

I pulled out my old Konica. Looking through the viewfinder I saw a cracked and loony scene. The injuries sustained in the crash had broken the prism. To top it off, the exposure match needle was nowhere to be seen. Great. My first big photo shoot, and I become a victim of camera abuse. Cameras can be cruel, you know.

I prayed a silent prayer that somehow it would all work out and I’d soon wake up as if this was a bad dream. As my mind raced and adrenalin and stomach acid churned, we reached out destination atop Cave Rock. Behind the bride and groom was the immense panorama of Lake Tahoe and the backdrop of the Sierra. I stationed myself behind the chaplain so as to capture the scene of the bride and groom with such a wonderful background. I put the camera to my eye, I again viewed a collage of distorted images and no clues in which to set the camera settings by. The wedding ceremony then began.

I must have been quite a scene – beating, bashing and cursing the little rotten sumbitch, and wanted to hurl the rotten camera into the lake. Then the thought occurred to me to grab my hand held exposure meter. It wasn’t there. Now I wanted to chuck it all into the lake, including myself. I decided that the proper and manly thing to do was – FAKE IT!

I tried so hard to make it all work, I really did. Attempting to make it at least look good or workable, I set the aperture and shutter speed in hopes it would come out. I aimed the camera hoping I got them somewhere within the picture and pressed the shutter – CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!

Oh my Gawd!! I had forgotten about that old, noisy mechanical shutter of this camera, one of the very factors as to why I had replaced it with the newest in camera technology. The racket got everyone’s attention – eyes were boring holes all over me, including the chaplain’s. I felt as if I was going to have a nervous breakdown. Maybe I should fake an epileptic seizure?

Before I got the chance, the ceremony ended and everyone quick stepped back down to the car. Before they got in, the wedding party decided to have some fun with the funny man with the funny clothes with the funny camera and the funny motorcycle who was having the funny anxiety attack. Then the Lincoln sped off into traffic at warp six. I had no idea of where they (we) were going. I only knew that this couple and friends wanted me to photograph their reception. I decided the proper and manly thing was to – PURSUE THAT CAR!

At some cabin nearby, the party got into full swing. I figured that I could loosen up a bit and at least enjoy the party, since the music and festivities were so loud that “CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!” would be unnoticed over the din. I mingled among the crowd, shooting photos, the breeze, and little shooters of something alcoholic. My host wanted me to shoot photos of their wedding supper, which was to be shot at a nearby casino. “Sure, no problem,” I said. Big problem.

“What?! I didn’t know you can’t take photos in a casino!” was my shocked reply to the maitre’d. There I was, happily clunking away, ignorant to the fact that “CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!” was being noticed by security over the noise of the crowded dining room. The Maiter’d politely asked that I put my camera in the bag and place it under the table. That didn’t set well with my host, who wanted the occasion to be recorded on film. He insisted that I discretely keep snapping away. How can you discretely CLUNK!?

My conscience and the fear of the consequences of a covert CLUNKing operation didn’t set well and I kept the camera bag under my table. I finally loosened up a bit and was enjoying my dinner when all of a sudden I became aware of “CLUNK! CLUNK! CLUNK!!” going off somewhere nearby. My host decided that he was going to finish the album come hell or high water.

From the look in the Maitre’d’s eyes, I decided that dinner was over.

Lightning was making a dazzling display from thunderheads somewhere over near Yerington when I topped Kingsbury Summit in the darkness. The road was deserted, my quartz halogen beam punching a single hole in the darkness ahead. My nerves were shot, my blood alcohol level too high, I was happy I was the only one heading south on US395. I needed that long, cool ride through the night alone to regroup and reflect.

One and a half hours later, well past midnight, I pulled into my driveway. Sasha didn’t even bother to welcome me home. Stupid dog. The least she could have done was to complete the day with a surprise attack in the dark.

Two weeks later, my father called. The photos came out darn near perfect, and the newlyweds were very happy with their wedding album.

The old Konica has since been relegated to a display shelf, among others in my old camera collection. The other day I pulled the dented and battle scarred thing off the shelf and began to study it and reflect. Memories came flooding in. I put the viewfinder to my eye, the scene still contorted and distorted. In my mind I was seeing the wedding party from long ago at Cave Rock. I hesitantly pushed the shutter release … CLUNK!

©1986, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2008 D.A. Wright
All Rights Reserved

Page Revised: January 29, 2008