A view to Sierra Nevada from our campsite.

We knew since last year where to go on Independence Day. This year, Pavlíčeks from San Diego started planning the trip to the eastern side of Sierra Nevada along with us. And since the cell signal around Bridgeport is poor (or more precisely, non-existent), we had a date with them for Saturday at six PM at Jeff's restaurant, assuming we would have found and claimed a camping site before we would take the Pavlíček's family there after dinner.

4th of July parade.

Although it would seem that drive two hundred twenty miles, erect a tent and find a pub would be a task feasible within one Saturday, we managed to insert several bonus activities in it. First, I realized somewhere near Livermore that I packed thin classic camping mats (2 pcs, for the kids), but our inflatables (for infirm, ancient parents) were left home covering walls behinds kids' beds. We pondered for a while, what to do in such a situation, and I mentally inventorized the rest of the contents of the car's trunk, searching for suitable alternatives (blankets, spare sleeping bags, tarpaulins). My Hippo eventually came with the idea to locate a Home Depot in Sonora and buy some insulation by the foot.

Having found a solution, we pressed, stopping at 50's Roadhouse near Knights Ferry. One can eat there with ease, kids get entertained by watching red carps in a decorative pond, as well as horses in a neighboring corral. This more or less worked, we paid and I went out on the deck to call the kids. There was a commotion in progress there, with guests moving relatively briskly down to the yard, shouting "be there in a moment!" and "hold on!". For a fraction of a second I tried to hope that they were fishing somebody else's child out of the pond, but to no avail. Like a misshapen water sprite from a realistic fairy tale, a totally muddy and shocked Tommy stood in the midst of lotus blooms.

Leavitt Meadows. We ride horses down there.

Petra, Verunka and Lisa watching the parade.

I thanked a biker geezer for pulling out my son (the pond had water up to his waist, so besides getting a fright, nothing serious happened), I helped Tommy climb the fence to a parking long (the only civilized path led through the restaurant, and we did not think it decent to drag a mud-dripping, smelly child through there), and went to find some completely dry clothes. We loaned a few dry towels at the Roadhouse, as we carried nothing to dry Tom with. We also attempted to wash the worst of the mud off his clothes and shoes, to make our car hopefully smell less like a swamp for the rest of the weekend.

We picked up more delay in Sonora. We found Orchard Supply Hardware and succeeded in buying two six foot long pieces of bubbles in a foil. Then we sped over Sonora Pass to the other side of the mountain range, to our favorite camp at Cottonwood Creek. Fortunately, we found nobody occupying the site — we could take a spot. Alas, the place was somewhat used; we collected a whole shopping bag of old bottles and cans — I don't understand why people would not take them along when they leave.

Soon we were rushing back across several fords to the road, and to Walker and dinner there. Pavlíček's and our kids were obviously happy to see each other and demanded to run outdoors, where they had discovered a hammock belonging to the restaurant; it was relatively difficult to make them sit down and eat. We had much to talk about with the adult Pavlíčeks about our plans for the weekend, and with Jeff and Amanda about their web site; it was a madhouse. Then Tom came flying in with the news that Lisa injured herself, but could not explain what was happening. For the second time in the same day, I was rushing out of a restaurant, over a deck to a back yard, to a squealing child.

Remnants of snow in Sonora Pass.

Lisa was half hysterical, but standing (on a dry ground) and there was no blood in sight, which made me cool down a bit. Bit by bit, my daughter revealed to me that she was walking backwards and stumbled over a log hiding in tall grass, falling down. Many prairie grasses and bushes defend themselves just the way cacti do, and closer inspection has shown me tens of tiny thorns embedded in Lisa's arms. I was mostly worried about the fact that the tiny punctures were beginning to swell, so I first gave her some benadryl and then started to deal with the thorns. I don't own and thus don't carry miniature tweezers along, they did not have them in restaurant's first aid kit and other guests (whom I interrogated carefully) managed to conjure among themselves only a huge plastic affair, possibly suitable to skewer a bear, but useless with thorns. Eventually one lady advised me to try sticky tape. I carry that (no more carpeting supply tape like in my youth, but a real sports tape), and voila! it helped me dislodge majority of the tiny thorns. Then I indicated milk chocolate and a lollipop for Lisa — back at the campsite she was again running up and down (contradicting the drowsy side effects of benadryl).

Rodeo.

The pack (of our children) immediately after arriving at the camp site began demanding a camp fire and marshmallows. Since the marshmallows get typically devoured after five symbolic seconds of being skewered on the stick and waved over the flames, the kids did not even get too sticky. Despite the haste with which they roasted them, the went to bed after ten o'clock; by then we were all mostly chased by cold. Cottonwood is at almost nine thousand feet above the sea, and on the edge of a prairie and desert, where the difference between day and night can be truly felt.

Tom woke me up at seven by taking care of nature calling. He crawled back in the tent, but after some half hour of kicking me, he said that Lukášek and Verunka were already out and that he wanted to go as well. I let Lisa and Hippo sleep and bravely emerged into the morning chill. I made myself a coffee, cocoa for Tom, hoping we'd unfreeze. Pavlíček's kids, who allegedly got up at the crack of dawn (I have no idea how Péťa does it, but their children did not manage to wake us up for several hours), looked really freezing, but a breakfast fixed it.

Lisa riding on her own.

By ten o'clock we reached Bridgeport, reserved a table at Hays Street Cafe and watched the 4th of July parade for a while. Lisa was most interested in the horseys while Tom collected candy tossed from the parade wagons; then it was time for 2nd breakfast. And we had to work out our schedules. We went to check out the rodeo, trying to understand their afternoon program, but we received only vague information. Lisa clutched the railing of a corral watching cowboys practice, and since a small (about eight-years-old) girls was riding a horse there, she, too, asked to ride. It took us great effort to convince her that she could not ride a rodeo horse, promising to try elsewhere. Pavlíček's kids were not interested in horses. Thus we chose separate schedules with an option to meet at three in the afternoon at the rodeo, or at six in pizzeria; every family went theirs own way.

Tom on a horse.

We headed for Leavitt Meadows, hoping to fulfill the horse wishes of our kids. The gate to the pack station was firmly shut, but a little farther up, in front of his house, Craig (the owner) was getting into his car, and we surrounded him. Instead of kicking us out, he told us that he was closed that day as he was headed to Bridgeport for the celebrations and the fireworks, and that on Monday he could not be with us either, since he had some other people coming; then he told us he'd be returning home for dinner and if we show up by five, he'd figure something out. We let him go and wondered what to do until five. Eventually we chose to first drive up to Sonora Pass and let our kids run in the remnants of snow; by three we got back to the rodeo.

Lisa stuck around the horses.

Pavlíčeks did not show up, which crossed our plans a bit, as we had hoped to tell them about not being able to be at the pizzeria by six on account of the horses. On the other hand we (correctly) assumed them being able to take care of themselves, and manage with or without us (which is exactly what happened — they did not come to the rodeo, for they drove all the way to Yosemite and concluded most sensibly that it made no sense driving up and down). We watched a different part of the rodeo than we did a year ago: herding young cattle and loading them into trailers. This we found an especially entertaining endeavor, beginning with horses in the trailer and calves in a corral, and supposedly ending with all cattle in the trailer and horses and cowboys lined up outside. More than the skills of the cowboys, the race seemed to depend on the willingness of the individual animals to cooperate — we saw a level-headed calf that reckoned all by itself that the trailer offered shade and quiet, and headed for it, but we also watched bewildered calves zig-zagging the corral. And also many (un)cooperating horses — the team that loaded cattle in a record time was disqualified on account of one horse having run away. But it seemed that everybody was taking all this with a great deal of humor — in the corral and on the stands. I was rather surprised how many people came this year to see the rodeo — compared to last year, when we sat scattered on half-filled stands, most seats were taken and we had hard time finding room to fit in.

Lisa would have probably lasted endlessly, watching the horses and the cows; Tom was entertained for about an hour, after that he kept asking when we'd be leaving. His time came soon, for we had a ride promised at Leavitt. Had we not forgotten a camera bag at the rodeo, we would have probably not been ten minutes late.

Expedition to Virginia Lakes.

A huge saddled mare stood ready at Leavitt Meadows, sporting a fitting name Large Marge. I must say that I have probably never met such a nice and accommodating horse. Craig was leading Marge with Lisa, and later with Tom, around the yard, explaining how to "steer" a horse — then handing each of them their reins, so the kids each actually rode "on their own" while Craig walked in front of them and navigated around the barns (which makes me suspect that Large Marge follows Craig like a dog, paying attention more to him than to the timid steering attempts of the kids). Anyway, the whole affair was a huge success; the only problem came when Craig refused our payment (after he had driven tens of miles to Bridgeport and back, changed his plans, saddled the horse and then patiently led her, teaching our kids how to ride). We shall have to pay him back some other way.

Blue Lake panorama.

Meanwhile the time of our dinner date has passed and we found ourselves some thirty miles away from the pizzeria, thus we did not try to catch up with the impossible and ate at Jeff's in Walker, where it was not as crowded as in Bridgeport. After dinner we fit in a short walk along the river and tossing of rocks, then it was time to drive back to Bridgeport for the fireworks.

It surprised me how even this year Lisa still feared the fireworks; I had thought that last years anxiety was caused by tiredness, but even now she clamped her ears and closed her eyes, so I don't know. It's true that the show starts after nine o'clock, which is a time when our children are used to be in bed (they go by seven thirty). Still the rest of us wanted to watch the whole show, and Lisa had to endure it.

We got together with the Pavlíček's family after the fireworks were over and we got back to the campsite — they did not make it to the rodeo, we did not make it to pizza, and no one seemed to mind. On the next day (Monday) even Lukášek and Verunka slept till seven. Tom woke me up again and subsequently kept kicking me, while Hippo snored, so when Tom fell asleep again by seven thirty, I could no longer sleep. I got out of the tent and chatted with Péťa. By nine thirty I began waking up the rest of my family, as we still needed to pack and fit in some program.

Dunderberg Peak.

We made it by lunchtime to Hays Street Cafe; invigorated we took our guests to our obligatory Virginia Lakes. Péťa claimed that their kids would walk up to a mile or perhaps two, but at Virginia they did more like three or four. There's always something to do there — toss rocks, cross creeks, admire old prospector's cabin — and from a certain elevation up one can do snowball fights. We got beautiful weather, warm but not hot, very idyllic.

Then we had to say good-bye — the Pavlíčeks were bound to cover a long stretch of the road south to a hotel in Lone Pine; we turned north to highway 108 and then west over the Sierra, back home. While approaching Bridgeport, we decided to try Buckeye. We were hoping that on a weekday, it may not be as crowded, and we would solve a problem where to bathe the kids. It was clear we were going to get home late at night, and neither of the alternatives made sense — putting the kids to bed totally dirty or forcing them into a tub around midnight. Hot springs BEFORE leaving home seemed like a reasonable idea.

Bath in hot springs.

From the opposite slope, we could not see any car on the impromptu parking lot above Buckeye Hot Springs, but before we finished passing through a small grove and over a bridge, one other visitor still showed up. A young man hopped down the ravine to the river and I started feeling sorry for him (for we were about to spoil his solitude, rolling right in with a whole family). Before we finished scrambling down, he sat in water — as soon as he saw us, he came out as to leave. Since I knew he could not have been there more than five minutes, I told him to not leave on our account, for there was plenty room in the pools. This made him much happier. Then he looked us over and asked if we really mean to bathe naked. We told him so, and he took off his boxers and followed suit. I don't know whether people with their clothes take off their prejudices and inhibitions, but we — like so many times in these springs with other naturalists — enjoyed a good chat about traveling and mountain hiking.

All that's left is crossing Sonora Pass and driving home...

I only made one tactical mistake, namely dipping kids into the icy river. They liked it very much and since then kept jumping from the spring to the river and back, making me rather nervous. This year the rains were long (followed by much snow), spring came late, and there was till much water in the river and strong currents, hence I kept having to carry juniors to a less dangerous spot and keep an eye on them, before they disappear among the riverbed boulders.

We were departing home, feeling totally relaxed — an exemplary weekend with pleasant experience and finished with a cleansing bath. Another experience awaited us along our favorite East Carter Road — owls sat on the fence posts by this dirt road. There had to be several tens of them — huge birds that always hesitated whether our car was a reason enough to leave their respective perches, and then flew away reluctantly.

We got back home late at night; it's good that the kids have vacations and we don't have to pull them out of their beds in the morning. For three nights they were staying up well past their regular bed time, and they must have been exhausted.