After a great visit with Siegy and Linda, we rolled down 99 and cut over to the Lake Isabella area. Rather than going down to Bakersfield and then northeast up CA178, we elected to cut across on CA155 instead. Interesting choice. Shorter in miles, but much longer in fuel and time. CA155 climbs up and down the Sierra foothills in twisting, torturous sinuations, challenging Howie’s engine, transmission, and brakes almost every mile of travel.

The 63 miles took us around two hours, including one 15-minute stop to cool off the brakes on an 8-mile, 4000-foot descent. That’s a 10% average grade for about 20-30 minutes, way more than Howie’s poor four-wheel disc brakes could manage.

Once down into the Kern River area, we found that the river was flowing nicely, despite the horrible California drought conditions. We explored up the north fork as far as Fairview, and then turned back to a (free) camp at Springhill. Like the Rogue River, we were able to find a camp near the water’s edge. Unlike the Oregon Rogue area, this region is stark and sere, near-desert hills and canyons populated by drought-thirsty pale evergreens and desert scrub. Only near the river does a riparian environment evidence itself, with oaks and cottonwoods and willows decorating the few hundred yards of riverbank zone.

After reconnoitering several campgrounds, we settled into the South Spring Hill section and parked about 30 steps from the water’s edge. The river is flowing nicely here, with a quiet reassurance that there are yet a few drops of water remaining in California.

Some kind souls left some firewood near the camp entrance. Once we set up camp, we took Ralph back to tote some of the (heavy) pieces back to help shore up our meager firewood supply. Karin was brave enough to steady the logs on the tailgate while I gingerly drove over the uneven dirt road.

While wandering around, we met a charming Aussie couple, and after “chatting them up” for a few minutes, invited them back to camp after we’d both had our dinners.

A cheery camp fire, a few margaritas, some politics and family histories – – such is the venue of fellow travelers meeting in the American outback. Hugh is a Qantas 747 pilot, and despite our huge differences in aviation matters, we managed to swap some mutually-interesting stories and ideas. We had a wonderful few hours together, and will undoubtedly share future experiences via email or blogs.

With our evening chat lasting to midnight, we woke up late Friday morning to a cheery, balmy day. During coffee and breakfast, a guy showed up from the local fishery. His job was to stock the river a couple of times a week, which he did by the amazingly low-tech procedure of filling buckets with fish and carrying them down to the water’s edge, then throwing them 20 yards out into the river. Re-fill buckets, repeat throw. About 200 fish were cast into “real life”.

I assume that hatchery fish are not too wise or wily, and I’m guessing that most of them end up as hawk dinners or pan-fried over a campfire. Nevertheless, it was an interesting sight to watch “flying fish” go past our eyes.

Shortly after the fishery guy took off, the air overhead started to groan, and before I could identify what it was, a fighter jet streaked directly over our campsite at about 500 feet agl. The sound was like 10,000 bed sheets being ripped to shreds in two seconds. I had no idea that this was a military operations area (I don’t recall having to deal with it when I used to fly in this region).

It happens rarely enough that it’s way more cool than annoying. Kind of like our own air show. I’ll bet the flying fish enjoyed a sense of camaraderie, don’t you think?

By Friday evening, we still had only a few neighbors. This area is not too bad at all.