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.
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.
