“It was a dark and stormy night!” It wasn’t, really, I’ve just always wanted to start a story with the infamous line. In reality, it was a beautiful, balmy, summer evening; so there.

My brother, Ronnie, a friend and I were on our way up the Canyon on 178 out of Bakersfield to Bull Run Creek to get in some trout fishing. I was driving the friend’s dad’s truck, a ‘40 Studebaker. I hit the first “S” curve a tad fast and we managed a four-wheel slide through it.  Fortunately, there wasn’t any other traffic. It did not bode well for our journey but we were young and, hence, indestructible and laughed about it.

It was great to be young and single in the Fifties in America and, especially, in California. Tax-fattened hyenas, otherwise known as “politicians,” hadn’t yet perfected their methods of robbing responsible, working folks blind, teachers were still trying to educate, welfare wasn’t yet an approved life-style, you could buy a house for $3,000, gas was fifteen cents (even twelve cents at times) a gallon and Jimmy Swaggart and Jim Baker were still virtual unknowns; all in all, a pretty good time to be alive in the good, old U.S. of A.

It was a beautiful night, filled with the aroma of the marvelous scents of the river and the vegetation as the road wound along its banks, climbing toward Isabella and Kernville. Mice scurried across the road in the beam of our headlights, we could hear the croaking of frogs and the occasional, soft, soggy balloon “pop” as a tire would roll over a toad, his tongue, eyeballs and sundry juices squirting out, tracing an intricate pattern over the warm asphalt. Once in awhile a hawk or owl would make an appearance as they chased their dinners of the smaller critters. We passed road-kills of snakes, mice and one skunk. Don’t mind the smell as long as the little fellows keep it at a respectable distance. But, then, I’m not overly offended at the smell of the old privy either, so I’m a little weird that way (some other ways also, according to my ex-wives and women in general).

In addition to our fishing and camping gear, I had with me one of the first new-issue, Single-Action Army Colts. Beautiful work of art in .38 Special caliber. Colt hadn’t yet put it out in .357. I got one of those later and kept it for years; my favorite sport shooter- 100 rounds and one Jackrabbit, fast-draw. That’s fun and easy on the rabbits. But you have to be a hand loader to afford it and, fortunately, I had been one since I was 14 years old, living on the old, mining claim in Boulder Gulch.

The holster for the Colt was a professional “Hollywood” rig with steel insert. I had been taught by a real pro and thereby avoided the “Clutch and Grab” gang that was popularizing the sport of shooting themselves in the foot by trying to imitate James Arness and Hopalong Cassidy. Actually knew a kid that had managed to put four holes in his leg and thigh with one bullet trying this trick; wouldn’t have believed it possible if I hadn’t seen the holes in him. Fortunately, he was using a .22 and the slug missed the bones.

But to get back to the story; we arrived in Kernville about 9:00 p.m. and took off on Burlando Road. In those days, you could drive past the pavement on the dirt road clear up to the old smelter. Awful rough road even then and you had to know where you were going. A short distance in we could hear the Creek, the swift water making its own music. The stars were shining brightly, trout were waiting for us and we could smell the pines and lupine. Marvelous.

Then, disaster! There was one stretch of the road that cut into the side of a hill, was quite steep and overgrown with branches and often wet from a spring that flowed across it. Breaking brush and branches, I tried to barrel through when the rear wheels of the old Stude hit a slick spot and slipped off the side. So there we were, the right, rear wheel jammed against the brush and branches, dangling off the road and no means of getting it back on track. We couldn’t go backward, forward or sidewise. Stuck.

Exchanging the appropriate expletives and good-natured pleasantries the situation demanded there was nothing to do but start hoofing it back to Kernville in the hope of finding an adventurous tow-truck driver at the local gas-up. Not wishing to leave the Colt unattended, I stuck it under my shirt in the waist of my Levis.

After an hour’s hike through the darkness, we reached Kernville. It was now about eleven o’clock. The only place still doing business was the local “cuttin’ ‘n’ shootin’” joint, the saloon. Feeling the need of some refreshment after our hike, we bellied up to the bar. I was mindful of the Colt, snug in my waist, but the place was peaceful and no one was being rowdy.

While we drank our beers, a couple of guys, feeling no pain, were intrigued by our tale of woe. They were up from L.A. and had been fishing the Kern and getting plastered, alternating pastimes. Nothing else would do but that they were going to take us up the road and get the “blankety-blank” Stude back on the trail. Sloshed as they were, common sense was a “no-go.” Of course, we were in no real circumstances to argue against even a remote possibility. In a spirit of liquid camaraderie, we left the bar on our quest. And then I saw their car. It was a spanking, brand new, Plymouth station wagon.

Now you really have to see the trail up to the smelter to understand what was going on in my mind. It is a twisting, jagged path hardly deserving of the name “road.” Pan-bustin' rocks jut up from its surface here and there, it’s full of holes and in some places large granite boulders line both sides of the narrow path. In other places, tree limbs and brush rake the sides of any vehicle going through. An occasional muffler or pipe will be found to give mute testimony to its ruggedness. And a couple of drunks were going to take us up this “road” in their brand new vehicle! And we were going to let them!

Piling into the Plymouth, we hit the highway. Long live truth, justice and the American way! We got to the end of the pavement without incident. Fortunately, there was no traffic on Burlando at midnight as the driver took his half out of the middle and both sides going. Then we hit the dirt at the end of the pavement with a cloud of dust and a hearty “High Ho, Silver!”

A deep trough of sand in the road helped slow us down as we got to the first boulders. “Crash” as the Plymouth bounced off one and “Crash” it went against one on the other side. “Bang, crash, crash,” we caromed off the rocks. “Wham” into a hole. “Clang” went a rock against the pan.  By now, drunk as he was, a note of genuine doubt and concern began to creep into our driver’s voice. A pine limb scraped against the windshield as another large boulder banged against the left, rear door and he hit a large hole at the same time. “I don’t think she’ll make it boys!” the guy said. We were sure she wouldn’t make it.

To the accompaniment of loud and colorful language together with gut-wrenching impacts of the wagon against various obstacles, he managed to get the poor, hapless Plymouth turned the other direction. He was going considerably slower now. Even so, he added a few more dings in the skin of the “used to be new” vehicle going out.

There was a pronounced shimmy to the wagon as we got back onto the pavement. We could hear the roar of the exhaust where the pipe must have been dismembered and a loose shock was knocking against the back axle.  There was also a scraping noise as a fender was chewing rubber off one of the tires.

We managed to get back to Kernville and I discovered I couldn’t get the door of the wagon to open on my side. Ronnie and the kid got out ok but I had to roll the window down and crawl out it on my side. The poor Plymouth looked like it had been through the wars, as indeed it had. We didn’t wait around to exchange pleasantries but beat a hasty retreat after quickly surveying the damage. I’ve often wondered how those good Samaritans felt when they sobered up and could clearly discern the carnage. Not good, I suspect.

Well, here we were with no answer to our dilemma. We trudged across the bridge in the hope of seeing something open on the other side of town. Suddenly, our luck changed. The local sheriff pulled up to us.

“What’s the story, fellows?” the deputy asked somewhat guardedly. We explained our predicament and the constable, a young fellow also, was a good Joe and invited us to hop into the squad car saying he thought he knew someone in Isabella that might be able to help us out. I crawled in front with him and Ronnie and the kid got into the back seat. It was only then, sitting next to the deputy that I thought about the Colt in the waist of my Levis; an interesting situation.

I considered the reaction of this minion of the law if he knew I was sporting a loaded Hogleg under my shirt. My emotions were mixed as I tried to keep from laughing out loud at the possibilities. Fortunately, for all concerned, we got to Isabella without incident and the deputy found a fellow with a truck who was willing to help us. He was a little dubious about our telling him we had gotten the old pickup in as far as we said. He knew the “road.” So, bidding a fond “Adieu” to the nice, young deputy we set out into the warm night back to Kernville.

To make a long story short, he got us there and managed to get the Stude out of its predicament and, after giving him twenty bucks, a princely sum back then, went on his way. It was now about 3 a.m. and we finally crashed in our sleeping bags.

We were up early and the trout were obliging. Some of the pools at Bull Run are as much as twenty feet deep with beautiful waterfalls emptying into them.  I’ve caught five-pounders here. Some years ago, Forestry put up a gate at the end of the paved road to keep the riff-raff out. I’m glad they did as some bums had begun to litter the place with trash. Let’s face it folks, if it’s easy to get to idiots will ruin it.

It was later that I found out that Ronnie had an AAA card and could have used it to pay the tow truck driver. I was not happy. But my brother has never been noted for his quick wit in a crunch. Oh well, if you are a real fisherman and know Bull Run you know that in spite of our minor set-backs the fishing made it all worthwhile. Now, many years later I have almost forgiven my brother his moral lapse, having that Triple A card that would have saved me the twenty bucks and the whole incident is a mostly pleasurable memory of simpler times and continued thankfulness that poor, unsuspecting deputy never learned of the Colt.