Chapter 6 ~ Page 84
The only reason I am telling this tale is that stopping at a crossroads store that had been too far out of our way to take the pack string to before, an incident occurred which I am still puzzled about. Was it tragic, or flattering?
Damn hot outside, I tied my horse up, and walked in straight for the cooler. I pulled out a frosty can of beer, opened same, and plunked some change down on the counter.
The young lady clerk said, "No!"
"Why not?"
"You don't look 21 years old to me."
"I have a son who is twelve."
"Where is your ID?"
"On another horse, I'm out looking for a lost fish."
"You get out of here, or I'm calling the cops."
That was Lake Isabella. I had written to the local Ranger asking about the Pacific Crest Trail, and had received a reply that could be condensed by a Reader's Digest editor to one sentence that read, 'What trail?" We were invited for ice cream and cookies by a retired couple who had bought a trailer to come West, as it seemed, "A good place to die." A real estate broker found a place for us to camp, and all he wanted in return was that we should take his children along to, "Knock some sense into their thick heads."
Finally, after riding the sidewalks through Kernville, a frantic turmoil of construction, red lights, vacationers on dirt bikes, trailer parks, and everything that goes to make up a resort community that was expecting another 200,000 people in two more days, I opened a gate that lead through a private pasture, to reach a trailhead. As the Murray family rode through, I proclaimed, "Ladies and Gentlemen. The Sierra!"
Damn hot outside, I tied my horse up, and walked in straight for the cooler. I pulled out a frosty can of beer, opened same, and plunked some change down on the counter.The young lady clerk said, "No!"
"Why not?"
"You don't look 21 years old to me."
"I have a son who is twelve."
"Where is your ID?"
"On another horse, I'm out looking for a lost fish."
"You get out of here, or I'm calling the cops."
That was Lake Isabella. I had written to the local Ranger asking about the Pacific Crest Trail, and had received a reply that could be condensed by a Reader's Digest editor to one sentence that read, 'What trail?" We were invited for ice cream and cookies by a retired couple who had bought a trailer to come West, as it seemed, "A good place to die." A real estate broker found a place for us to camp, and all he wanted in return was that we should take his children along to, "Knock some sense into their thick heads."
Finally, after riding the sidewalks through Kernville, a frantic turmoil of construction, red lights, vacationers on dirt bikes, trailer parks, and everything that goes to make up a resort community that was expecting another 200,000 people in two more days, I opened a gate that lead through a private pasture, to reach a trailhead. As the Murray family rode through, I proclaimed, "Ladies and Gentlemen. The Sierra!"
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Text and Photographs © Barry Murray 1971-2007 Mac&Murray Multimedia