SHORT STORY my first trip to the Sierra Nevada

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My first camping trip to the Sierra Nevada as a boy
The year was 1964 and I was 12 years old. My father’s youngest brother, Kenny had asked my parents to allow me to join him on a trip to the Eastern Sierra. We left Palmdale Ca in his light green 63 Chevy ½ ton pickup just before noon. The truck had a 283 V8 and three on the tree. In the back were his red Honda Trail 55 and a Yamaha 80 that he had borrowed from a friend. We traveled up Hwy 14 north to Hwy 395 then west to Kernville and through a logging area called Johnsondale to the trailhead area named Quaking Aspen. We offloaded the bikes and then loaded all our gear into cardboard apple boxes placed on the bike’s rear racks and headed out the trail. I was riding my uncle’s Honda, with a 55cc OHV engine with the 3 speed automatic transmission and centrifugal clutch. I was rather small statured for my age and had a bit of difficulty reaching the ground flat footed while seated on the Honda. I remember following Uncle Kenny and failed to properly negotiate a shallow stream crossing due to the rocky bottom.
I managed to make it just about halfway across when the front tire hit a big rock under water and stalled the Honda. I did however manage to place my left foot on a boulder I had narrowly missed so I did not yet get my boots wet. The bike had a horn and I was beeping it in hopes my Uncle would hear it and come to my rescue. After a few minutes he did return and was laughing at the dilemma I had managed to get myself in. With his help I got across the stream and continued down the trail. By the time we reached the camp it was very late that afternoon and the mighty Big Kern River was quite a sight, far below our high vantage point.
There were two ponderosa pine logs parallel to each other that were about 6 feet apart. Uncle Kenny asked me to collect pine needles and pile them up between the logs. I was at first puzzled as to what the purpose was. I soon learned that they would provide good insulation and a soft bed under the heavy tarp we placed on top of them. By now it was getting dark and as I laid there looking at the millions of stars I could hear the subdued roar of the river below.
I slept well and awoke to the familiar smell of bacon and new potatoes; although I had never before had either one from out of a can.
After breakfast I was allowed to venture off on my own up the trail with my Uncle’s fixed sight single action .22 revolver and a box of .22 short ammunition.
I remember shooting at least three cylinders full at a small covey of Quail. Finally I actually managed to hit one that then flew into a rock pile out of my reach. The rest of the trip has somehow escaped my fragile memory but these are the details I fondly remember.
 
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Sounds like you need to take a redo on that one. Lots of fun.
 
I live a bit North of you. Never had that experience you have. I've ridden the trails with my Honda Trail 90 all over here & never flopped it or got caught crossing a steam, just gave it the gas & plowed on thru. Once ran it onto a bear but he scared off & I sped off. Funny now but scary then.
 
I was 6 and staying with my grand parents and uncle Jim was just out of the Marines. He said we were going fishing. My older brother and Uncle Dave went fishing all the time, so it was time I learned.

The main part of the farm was on The South side of the gravel road and there was a Quarter Section (160 acres), but there was another 40 plus acres across the road. We walked back through the wheat field under the bright August sun. Then we were in a cool savanna type of woods where the beef steers roamed until ready for market. There was a small stream that twisted and wound through the shadows of oak trees. When I was six, these trees were as big as a house.

We walked up to a pool and Jim looked in the pool and declared that the fish harvest had begun! He had me stand behind one of the trees, while he talked to the fish. All the sudden there was a loud explosion and water flew past the tree on both sides of me. When things settled down the trees were still dripping with water, parts of fish, and a hunk of a frog or two. As we both looked around, he said that fishing seemed to be a wasteful way to use hand grenades and the fishing lesson was over. So the two of us just walked in the woods enjoying the Summer day. This was our last Hurrah before I went to first grade and he reenlisted in the Marines.

The summer before my senior year in High School, Grandpa had planted the North field in alfalfa and needed my help getting it bailed, so I spent the week on the farm helping with this and the hundreds of other chores that keep old farmers from being over weight. On the afternoon that we actually bailed the hay, after we finished I went for a walk in the North woods by myself. The price of beef had fallen so there were no steers to keep the weeds and grass down but I found that the once huge trees had shrunk to 3 feet in diameter by the cool clear pool of the wandering stream. The bark was still marked from my fishing lesson and a smile came over my face. I had just remembered that my best friend since fourth grade wanted me to go fishing with him the coming weekend. I had declined knowing I would still be at grandpa's farm. Besides, fishing just isn't as fun without my Uncle Jim there.

In the mid 90's we had a family reunion at the Conservation Club. A cousin and I were talking about my first trip fishing, when my brother told me to quit spreading lies. I defended my position, but my brother refused to believe! So over walks my uncle Jim and wants to know what the fuss is about. I explained it was about fishing, my brother said it was about tall tales. The my uncle spoke up and said the he and I had been along the stream to see about frogging when they decided it best to just come to us. My brother was surprised to learn that the story of the self cleaning fish was true.

Ivan
 
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