The problem of graffiti throughout Bakersfield and other towns about is evidence of those not properly “housebroken.” Years ago when I first began to see gang graffiti on the cottonwood trees along the Kern River I knew civilized people were in big trouble, that barbarians marking their turf had no sensibility of civilized good manners and were not about to learn better, had no interest in learning better.

While the national forests and parks are becoming increasingly dangerous for Americans because of the Mexican drug lords they and their gangs including illegal aliens have not yet taken over the Kern River Valley, and those of us living here count our blessings this is not yet the case. But when it comes to defacing things like cottonwood trees, this is evidence the barbarians have no respect for anything in either Nature or personal property.

In 1969 I filed on a silver mine here locally. A beautiful trout stream, Bull Run Creek, runs through the claim. The first time I ever visited the place in 1948 was at the invitation of an old man (probably my age now). He was the stereotypical prospector, grizzled, gray beard, gnarled hands, stooped back, faded and patched Levi’s, flannel shirt, slouch hat, etc. He happened by our cabin one day and was invited to lunch. While eating, he learned of my passion for fishing. He described where he was living and how to get there going on to say there was a great trout stream with waterfalls and deep pools and plenty of large trout begging to be caught.

The old fellow lived in a tin shack on the claim alongside the stream panning enough gold to supply his few needs and came down to town (Kernville) only when absolutely necessary. He recognized in me a kindred spirit and the first chance I got I took a rough map he had drawn for me and, with tackle in hand, went calling.

Bull Run Creek running free and wild, unprofaned by any pollution and sparking clean, the water so clear I could see the bottom of pools twenty feet deep was everything the old prospector said it was. He showed me a dent in the shack at the side of the doorway telling me he made it chunking a rock at a bear. According to him, the mine was last worked about 1928. It was a Lode claim and every winter the stream would flood it out. There were some old model T and A engines, and an old straight eight that they had used to try to keep the shaft (a stope) pumped out. He said they quit when they couldn’t keep up with the water.

Years later I filed on the claim, naming it the Laura Jean. Only then did I discover that the old boys that had worked the mine had never bothered with this nicety. They simply took the silver and gold and didn’t fuss with notifying Uncle Sam of their enterprise. When I first visited the site a mule trail was still in evidence together with a smelter and the remains of a rock crusher. The ore would be brought down from the mine to this site, and holding ponds for the necessary water were made of granite boulders. One very interesting structure was a long single room made of rock with gun holes all about. The old boys were obviously not going to welcome “visitors” when they were working the mine.

While teaching high school I took several of my pupils back to this pristine, wilderness site to give them the chance to share the wondrous joy of an unspoiled, mountain stream and the wildlife. So many magic hours with young people, my own children especially, in this truly magnificent setting. Oftentimes I cooked trout on the blade of my machete and ate them right beside the stream. Now how can you beat that for quality living!

The country is so rough that it keeps the riff raff out and only other noble souls (fishermen) frequent the spot. It has seemed a sacred trust to maintain it and the very ruggedness of the country has, thus far, kept it so. Only the hardiest can make the hike in and these are, invariably, kindred souls. It is in such settings that we clean out our minds and souls and get our priorities right. There is no other counsel or medicine its equal. But that might be my Choctaw Cherokee blood on grandad’s side speaking- Strong feelings for the land and critters there.

While it remains an intriguing question whether those old miners quit work because the claim played out or they could no longer keep the water pumped out as that old fellow said it was never my intention to work the claim. For one thing, the stope going under the mountain would have to be pumped and dredged then remain dry for at least two years before being safe to enter. At that slant drilling would be required to pick up the vein of silver and determine whether it would be profitable to proceed. No, I filed on it in order to keep this marvel of Creation pristine and free for others to enjoy, and I used to keep the trail open so Forestry could have access.

But eventually a gate had to be installed at the end of Burlando Road out of Kernville to keep the riff raff, the barbarians not “housebroken,” from driving in to the lower area of the stream and trashing it. Still, I take some degree of comfort in knowing the area remains largely without the evidence of barbarians; and while I can no longer make the hike in and long ago set aside my tackle, I have a few pictures and the memories to sustain me.