(Author note: I wrote this for a facebook page I started for my friend, Tim. Tim and his father were killed in a housefire a few years ago.)
Tim and I used to quail hunt on the back side of the China Lake ranges. We'd get there by driving north up 395 to the Death Valley turn off. Turning right, we'd cross the several-miles-long-edge of Owen's Lake, heading east, then turn right again and head south for a few miles to yet another right turn – which was an non-descript, typical, unmarked dirt road that led some miles back into wild country called Centennial Springs. There was an old miner’s shack up there, and we’d move into that for a day or two. It had a crude, flimsy table built into the back wall, and an even cruder fireplace, but it was all serviceable – made doubly so by our youth and any opportunity to escape the suburbs.
The quail hunting was usually good up there on the plateaus - plateaus made mostly of volcanic rocks piled up from some long ago volcanic explosion. The whole area was once volcanically active, and we were literally walking and hunting on ancient, pyroclastic flows. The vegetation consisted mostly of creosote bushes. The occasional sage brush lent a clean, appealing smell to the air.
I know a couple of things about this trip that can help date it. I can date it to 1977 because I had my brand new shotgun my pop gave me for my 16th birthday. Now, my birthday is in late September, and as you’re going to hear in a minute, we got cold up there hunting, so it was probably late October or maybe even November. I don’t remember exactly when quail season is out there in California, so I can’t date this trip exactly. There were some patches of snow on the ground during this trip, so it might have even been December or early 1978.
Anyhow, get to it, John! OK, I am.
After arriving and setting up the shack, we had a meal and then set out on a hunt. The way I remember it, we didn’t see any quail. But, as we scoured the high plateaus looking for them, it got late, and we had miscalculated the time the sun set - or more likely just weren't paying close enough attention to the matter. Hey, we were young and had shotguns and had quail to hunt. Planning sunset time was not our strong suit. Anyhow, as it is wont to do during the winter, dusk made its appearance with little warning. We started for the camp, but got caught coming down a very steep cliff face – in the dark – with patches of snow here and there. Not. Good.
We literally had to feel our way down this slope. Tim was our guide. He was a bit older, and pretty much a big brother to me. We finally found our way down. (Later, once in daylight, I figured out that I had scarred up the wood on the butt of my shotgun as I used it as a makeshift cane while coming down that steep, rocky slope.) Tim kept encouraging us (my little brother was along too) the whole way down.
Once down, we had another problem. It was so dark that we really couldn’t tell in what direction we should walk. We found a dirt road, but had no way in which to orient ourselves to our camp’s direction. Tim to the rescue. He said, “I’m not 100% sure, but I think we need to go this direction.” He pointed, but we couldn’t see where he was pointing. Yep, it was that dark. He started off, and we followed. We had no choice but to walk slowly as we just could not see but a few feet in any direction. Coyotes were howling nearby and it was cold. We walked on. I think Tim was part Indian (seriously, I think he was part Indian), as he kept walking and saying stuff like, “Come on. I know the way. We’ll get back. Just keep following me.” Then, “I know we are going the right way.” We all shivered and kept walking. Soon we came to a fork in the dirt road we were walking. Tim said, “I know where we are. Camp is this way.”
Yeah, we found our way back – thanks to Tim. He never panicked. My brother and I got a little scared coming down that rocky slope in the dark. And then again when trudging that dirt road in the pitch black, but Tim stayed cool (literally) and got us back.
He was a natural outdoorsman. He loved to hunt and be in the mountains. I miss our hunting trips. I still have that model 1200 Winchester my dad gave me for my birthday. It sits in the corner of my bedroom. A shotgun is the best home defense weapon one can put forth. Every time I see those scars in the wood of the butt-stock, I think of that trip up to those cold, high plateaus. I think of Tim and his confidence and leadership in getting us down the slope and back to the warmth of that miner’s shack.
We ate some Dinty Moore stew for supper, and as a warm fire crackled in the shack’s fireplace, we had a good laugh and made like we weren’t scared out there in the cold dark. That night, we slept well in our hand-me-down, World War II, G.I. issue sleeping bags.
