Now that the boys had wheels, they could go where they chose, except that the Range was choked with deep snowfields. As long and hot as the days had become, summer hadn’t arrived yet and the Range was white with snow, particularly in the spring of 4475—an El Niño year of some note. There would still be snow on the Hockett Plateau and other parts above 7,500 feet. They could march through some snow, no doubt, but they could hardly look forward to slogging through miles of snow, breaking through thin crust into hidden ankle-busting hazards and foot-sucking mud. They decided to head in from Lewis Camp Trailhead again. As they drove out of Springville, they listened to a valley radio signal fade out in its futile attempt to play “Summertime Blues.”
It seemed to the boys that they wrapped around a hundred bends as they ascended, cutting up the deep, sun-baked canyon. About the time they got into the conifers, they passed a couple of turnoffs to Camp Nelson, and a little later they reached the meadows at Quaking Aspen, and turned at the Golden Trout Wilderness sign.
There was still snow around on the gentle ridge atop the Western Divide as they rode over the crest to the trailhead. The snow wouldn’t be a problem, though, because they’d be hiking downhill into the heat of the valley of the Little Kern. Actually, the snow turned out to be a bonus. The boys got several opportunities to slide down some icy patches of packed snow as they descended toward the river, the last song they’d heard on the radio replaying in their heads.
Once they got to the river, they dropped their packs and their pants and jumped into a pool upstream from the stock bridge. The river water was icy cold, so they climbed out onto a broad granite slab that flanked the river. They sunbathed there until they were hot again, and jumped back in on a mutual dare.
Armen surfaced and looked around. He didn’t see Sam anywhere, and began to worry just as something grabbed his ankle and pulled him under. He inhaled some water as he went down, and kicked and bolted back up to the surface with a coughing gasp for dry air. Then he saw the color of Sam’s hair and torso rising up nearby, and set himself. As soon as Sam broke the surface, Armen plowed a wave of water into his gaping mouth, and broke for the shore. Sam freestyled madly after him while fragments of words like “you fuh—” burst from him between breaths. Once his feet found bottom he began to lunge toward Armen, shouting “you shit!”, as Armen scrambled up the granite slab. As soon as Sam got to shore, he buckled over in laughter.
Armen wasn’t accustomed to seeing Sam laugh, and for good reason. Sam wasn’t one to laugh. Armen didn’t know how to respond for a moment, but suddenly he found himself chuckling along as Sam laughed out his curses.
They got their poles out and found a pool that was just catching its first afternoon shade. They combed the pool with their lures, and then they wandered up and down the river into evening. As the evening shade covered the red basalt high above the river, Sam began to collect fire wood. He cleared out a fire ring to deepen it and laid down some of the pine needles and twigs he’d gathered for kindling. Just then Armen appeared, sporting an eight-inch rainbow trout and a broad grin that seemed plastered to his face. Sam gasped, “Hey! I guess I’ll get out the cornmeal!”
Armen got his knife out of his tackle bag and cleaned the trout, while Sam stoked the smoky young campfire. They baked a couple potatoes under the flames and fried the trout in a cornmeal batter. After dinner, they lay on their sleeping bags to count the brightest stars as they broke through the evening sky. They’d erected Armen’s tent, but they never moved inside, preferring to sleep under the stars, watching for the smooth motion of satellites, the sudden flare-ups of falling stars, and the occasional previously overlooked star pattern.