We slept next to the bridge last night, along the bank of the Kern River. The spot was one of those beaten down areas where teenagers descend out of view of the traffic to drink beer on Saturday nights. Again, we were a bit too frugal to walk over to the pay-to-camp site on the other side of the bridge (it's hard to imagine paying a cent to stay in our tent when we do it every other night of every other week) but, as a result, our night was spent waking at every crackle in the underbrush, peering out of the tent into the darkness, holding our breath, waiting for the derelict ax murderer to show himself and finish us off . . .
We got up early and moseyed around town, ended up inevitably at the coffee shop in the middle of things. We were there as the girl opened up and were addressed within seconds by another guy who had came in for his morning cup. "Are you guys hiking far?" And so we start in talking and he offers to buy us our coffees . . . people everywhere, it seems, are driven to goodness, given over to generosity, compelled to lend a hand when they meet us and hear just a bit about what we are doing out here. A woman yesterday afternoon hollered down from the patio outside a Mexican restaurant where she and her leather-clad, hog-drivin' man were sipping a few cool Negro Modelos that she thought we were nuts, carrying all that stuff up on our backs, but good luck to us all the same. Another guy couldn't help himself but charge over and down the sidewalk to ask a battery of logistical questions about how we eat, what we carry, etc. It seems that Kernville doesn't see as many of our kind as most of the other towns we've been through -- and why would it? We're 40 miles off trail.
Then again, there was another guy, an Englishman, who pulled his truck over to the side of the road as we were getting ready to scale down onto a path overlooking the river at a higher point up on the hillside, just before dusk. He wanted to know if we were Europeans out hiking. Nope, Americans, yep, out hikin', we responed. He grinned, took a deep breath and started in on the telling of his own tale of coming from Europe 19 years ago, hitching a ride out of San Diego with his wife and four children to the trail head and starting north. His youngest was only 4 and he said he walked every step of the way right across all this desert up on his own two feet. When the family arrived in Kernville, three months into their journey, they discovered that there was another little one on the way. He pointed down over the river valley to a hillside pasture, saying, "We lived right there in that field for over 5 months. My wife and I gave birth to our youngest, whom we named after this river, Kern, inside the thin nylon walls of our tent. Eventually, once Kern was big enough, we got ourselves a pack of mules and loaded up our packs on them -- you know, there's a lot more to carry when you've got a newborn along." This story, I thought, stunned, has to be the most amazing one there is. They finished the trail after two and a half years, and eventually came back to Kernville. His daughter, Kern, was married just a couple of months ago to a military man and lives now on a base in Texas. Amazing.
well, back to our boring old hike . . .
After a nice relaxed time in the coffee shop we headed over to the riverfront park and laid out in the sun for a few hours. I read and wrote some, listening to the roar of the raging river and the heavy howling winds. We had a really great time, both of us in high spirits, playing on the swings and monkey bars, rolling in the grass and the sun.
For lunch we headed back over to the pizza joint we had hit the night before to partake a second time of their salad bar and watch the news on their big screen TV. About 5 minutes into our huge one-trip, salad-bar plates and just following the report on how Citibank apologizes to the million customers whose personal information it lost in the mail, we were once again approached by a stranger, once again, a man compelled by interest and our own obvious vulnerability
Forty-five minutes later we were showered and set up in a beautiful bedroom in Harry and Melanie's home overlooking the river. They made us feel completely at home, had us join them for dinner -- stuffed shells, steamed broccoli, fresh bread and butter, and breakfast.
I had a number of great conversations with Harry about security and vulnerability, envy, simplicity. He was a very cool guy to meet. He brought us up to the home of a friend of his, local trail legend Bill Jenkins, whose son Jim Jenkins was one of the early trail finders and mappers throughout the Sierras. He wrote numerous books and had a mountain named after him. He was killed early in his life at age 26 in an auto accident and since his death, 25 years ago, his parents have continued his conservation efforts.
I would write more, but haven't the time right now.
It was an honor to meet Mr. Jenkins and we both appreciated Harry's taking us there. He said that it chokes him up to see young folks like ourselves come into contact with someone like Bill who he reveres as a model citizen and human being, a mentor for living and growing old peacefully and healthily.
Harry and Melanie invited us back whenever we return to the area. Perhaps come October when we finish this journey.
No comments:
Post a Comment