Chapter 6 ~ Page 83
Later on that day my credibility was damaged so severely, that no one believed I could read a map. I had been promising that we would camp on the white sand beaches of Lake Isabella, a reservoir just over the next mountain, at the confluence of the Kings and Kern Rivers. We would go swimming in a gem of a lake, in a dazzling setting.
Instead, what really happened, was dropping out of the timber again, we found ourselves looking down on a giant mud puddle, surrounded by dirt clods. More desert.
"Oh well," I promised my disappointed children, "Over there are the Sierras, and this is the last sagebrush we will see for the rest of the trip."
And, Bernice supported me with, "We might even enjoy ourselves the next few days, for I heard that over 200,000 people visited Lake Isabella over Memorial Day Weekend."
"Must be good fishing," whooped James across the switchbacks taking us down the mountain, "after all 200,000 people can't be wrong."
I'm sorry to say, they were. Our trail ended, and we had to cut cross country, or ride along a narrow and busy highway around a body of water that was unfit even for our horses to drink. There was all types of trash floating along the shore, and the surface was covered with a oily, noxious, film.
I picked a spring off the map to camp by, but the county had turned it into a fisherman's park. We arrived to find it crowded with at least one person to each five foot of beach. The spring was ringed by outhouses and consequently this water wasn't safe for humans to drink.
Bernice tried boiling to purify some of this oil slick from the lake. But, even straining it through campfire charcoal and a dishcloth, it still had a distinct Pennzoil flavor. Our next door neighbor realizing our problem, brought over a jug of store bought "Mountain Spring."
I asked him why such a big crowd, and was told that since the Fourth of July weekend was coming, he and the others had arrived early to make sure to find a spot to fish from. I asked if fishing was that great. No, he hadn't caught a thing in two days.
The next day, riding the highway, Bernice called out that she had lost her fish. That is, her yellow saddle slicker. The old-time cowhands, who couldn't read, had named these indispensable raincoats, usually carried tied on the back of a saddle, for the trademark that showed a Down East fisherman holding up a cod. So, I went back looking for our style of fish.
Instead, what really happened, was dropping out of the timber again, we found ourselves looking down on a giant mud puddle, surrounded by dirt clods. More desert.
"Oh well," I promised my disappointed children, "Over there are the Sierras, and this is the last sagebrush we will see for the rest of the trip."
And, Bernice supported me with, "We might even enjoy ourselves the next few days, for I heard that over 200,000 people visited Lake Isabella over Memorial Day Weekend."
"Must be good fishing," whooped James across the switchbacks taking us down the mountain, "after all 200,000 people can't be wrong."
I'm sorry to say, they were. Our trail ended, and we had to cut cross country, or ride along a narrow and busy highway around a body of water that was unfit even for our horses to drink. There was all types of trash floating along the shore, and the surface was covered with a oily, noxious, film.
I picked a spring off the map to camp by, but the county had turned it into a fisherman's park. We arrived to find it crowded with at least one person to each five foot of beach. The spring was ringed by outhouses and consequently this water wasn't safe for humans to drink.
Bernice tried boiling to purify some of this oil slick from the lake. But, even straining it through campfire charcoal and a dishcloth, it still had a distinct Pennzoil flavor. Our next door neighbor realizing our problem, brought over a jug of store bought "Mountain Spring."
I asked him why such a big crowd, and was told that since the Fourth of July weekend was coming, he and the others had arrived early to make sure to find a spot to fish from. I asked if fishing was that great. No, he hadn't caught a thing in two days.
The next day, riding the highway, Bernice called out that she had lost her fish. That is, her yellow saddle slicker. The old-time cowhands, who couldn't read, had named these indispensable raincoats, usually carried tied on the back of a saddle, for the trademark that showed a Down East fisherman holding up a cod. So, I went back looking for our style of fish.
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia