Trip Date: October 12, 2015
Find this Spot
I cannot remember the last time I took an entire week off work. I am sure it was for my honeymoon 6 years ago, but prior to that, I don’t recall ever taking an entire week off. Part of that is because I have only worked 4 days a week for the vast majority of my career, so adding a day or 2 to a long weekend, gets me a pretty good stretch. Even for our annual Fall trips to Yosemite, we usually go Thursday through Sunday or more recently, have stretched it from Wednesday through Monday. Since this trip was basically taking the place of the fall Yosemite trip because we went in the Spring this year, we wanted it to be a good long trip. Also, even though I have very little vacation time on the books, I plan on retiring (I still can’t quite say “I am retiring”) next July, so I feel like my strings are a little looser these days.
So we went for the big banana; a full week, which not only is a good long stretch, just as importantly, it allowed us to be gone for the entire trip on work days – our vacation was Monday through Friday, and that made a huge difference, even this time of year in this part of the State. We left our place Monday morning for the first leg of the trip. Blasting up Highway 5 to Redding, then turning left to head West on Highway 299. Most of Highway 299 is twisty turny along the Trinity River; a very pretty drive, but not one to try to make time on. The first stretch of 299 West though, climbs up Buckhorn Summit which also is a twisty road, but this adds a nice touch of a real steep climb. To add to the excitement, they are doing major road construction all along 299 and an especially massive project near the summit. Stoppage time and slowness time added an hour easily to our trip, but being day one, and at maximum excitement, it really didn’t matter.
Rolling out of Sacramento about 9:00, we arrived in Willow Creek about 4:00. When I was at HSU, I came out to Willow Creek a few times to go to the river. We had one of the best parties of about 30 college kids at Tish-Tang camp ground on the Trinity, BBQing and sleeping out on a massive sandbar overlooking the river. It was an awesome gathering. Years later, and yet still years ago, my girlfriend at the time, my brother and his girlfriend at the time (now wife Edna), camped there and again had a spellbinding time in the canyon, dogs swimming in the river, and wildlife abounding. The river truly is a special place; the town, not so much.
In the old days, it was redneck central, full of loggers, logging trucks, all other things logging and mill related, and hillbilly bumpkins. Now, ironically enough, it is full of young hippies, Rasta types, semi/pseudo homeless road kids, and Oregonians. It is like the Arcata quad overflowed into main street Willow Creek. It is still kind of dirty and seedy, but in a gentler, kinder way. We followed my well drawn map to our Bed and breakfast for the night on the Trinity River called Moss Manor just a few miles out of town. It was just as advertised – real nice people, on a wide bench above the river, with lots of room on both sides. The place itself was very nice inside, with a massive deck on the back and just 2 private rooms upstairs, both of which are good sized and on opposite ends of the house so there is good privacy. They both have very nice bathrooms and sitting area and decks off the back overlooking the river. The “breakfast” wasn’t much, continental style, but it had plenty of hot coffee which is plenty for me.
The only other occupant was a very nice young woman exploring northern California from SF. We saw her walking back from the river from our deck, and then we saw her when we were walking back from the river and she was on her deck. Otherwise, I saw her at breakfast and we chatted a bit, and I saw the first Bald Eagle of the trip, and that was it. The owners were around a little, but you really did feel like you had the run of the place. I hope she had a great trip further north to her next destination. Kristen and I went into town to have a really good Mexican dinner at the only restaurant we could find. There is a pizza joint and there was rumored to be another café in town, but we could not find it. When we got back, we were able to watch the Mets eliminate the Dodgers from the playoffs in the media room, which made for a very nice benefit.
The next day, we hit the grocery store which had a great selection of fresh meats, and vegetables and beers, and all that one could need. We bought a few postcards to send to my mom and so we headed up to the post office to write and mail the first one. In the little strip mall was a second hand store so we wandered in and bought a few odds and ends – mostly just to support the place and the local efforts that the proceeds go to support. We got a coffee at a cool coffee place on a side street, perhaps because the main street has been taken over by the young street urchins and rasta grunge types. At the cream and sugar counter, I helped an old timer get the lid on his coffee; his hands were trembling madly and he had lost the tip of his thumb. He thanked me and we had a laugh. When we walked out, he acknowledged me from his table where he had joined the other old timers. Those connections you make, a helping hand, a warm smile, a knowing nod, are the things to keep with you, that keep you going, that keep you filled up and strong.
We were looking for pie. The coffee place didn’t have any, so we hunted up and down Main Street for the bakery. It was hard to find because of all the people and dogs and kids hanging out in front of it. It could have been the free health clinic or the pharmacy with all the attention it was getting. They didn’t have any pie either, but we did get a scone and a muffin that looked really good. We went back to the grocery store one more time for pie, but left town pieless.
I was happy to leave town, to get it behind us and get up 96 a bit to put some distance between towns and people and us. I would have been happy to leave town if it was still the redneck bumpkin logging mill town it used to be, but I was also happy to be leaving behind the new grunge version. It just felt kind of dirty and musty, full of patchouli oil and those less bathed. It all just needed a good scrubbing. I was hoping this trip would be an escape to some remote rivers, and places few people were or could even tell people had even been, and I was excited to get to those places.
We wouldn’t get far up Highway 96 before our first stop – Tish Tang campground on the Trinity in the Hoopa Indian reservation. This was the site of one of the best parties I have ever been part of. I was at HSU in the early 80’s and a few of us decided to head to the river for a weekend – it may have been a holiday weekend – memorial or such. We told some folks and they told some folks and you know how that goes. But so often, folks don’t often end up coming or going and it is just the few folks that you started out with. This weekend was not that. Maybe 30 kids made the hour long trek from Arcata to Willow Creek to take the steep windy road down to the campground on a high bench above the river.
My recollection is that we “camped” on a huge sand bank, not in the campground, such as it was back then. We had tons of food and beverages and fires and people; close friends and other friends and friends of friends. I will always remember a high school buddy Dana Lersky who was at HSU at the time came and he brought a grammar school friend – Marc Lawrence. It was that type of weekend – tons of fun and mind blowing occurrences. To top it off, Sunday/Monday morning, a tremendous roar came up the canyon. We were interested and scared at the same time, just barely coming out of the deep haze of the long fun weekend. Finally we had our minds blown by these tiny but incredibly fast and extremely dangerous river boats racing up the river. It seemed the bend we were camped on was the turnaround spot for the tiny death traps and now they were turning around and heading back down river in an almost certain head-on crash scenario.
It was total insanity to top off a totally insane weekend. Years later, my brother Mike, his wife Edna, my girlfriend at the time Terry and our dogs Sandy, Peanut, Daisy, and Heidi returned to that spot to camp and enjoy the splendor of the river and the sense that that spot is heavy with spirits and energy and generations of peoples and creatures. It is a trippy place to be sure. While K and I drove through the campground loop, it was obvious someone was doing a lot of work – clearing brush and improving signs, roads, trails, etc. We passed a white truck and waved to a guy working in a campsite as we headed down the rough road to the actual river below. I was trying to recall our prior trips and where we may have been camped while enjoying the scenery and the experience of being back in the spot.
We drove up river past a few fire rings and spots, but nothing looked that familiar. On our drive back down river, the white truck was waiting for us. I didn’t feel good about being watched or followed. But we pulled up alongside and greeted the driver. He was the guy working up top, an Indian guy, with a big smile and warm greeting. We talked for maybe 20 minutes about my prior visits to this place and his work to clean up the campground and make the visits more enjoyable for people and the changes on the reservation and in Willow Creek. He was a very cool guy and we recalled my old Native American Studies professor Jack Norton and the McCovvey clan, some of whom I was able to interview for a report on the “Stick Game” I did. Of course, this guy was a member of the McCovvey clan and we had a laugh at everyone being related in those parts.
We parted ways and K and I drove down river to a place that began to feel familiar; not exactly as I had recalled the place we camped way back when, but it matched pretty well, and the view of the river and being near the bend seemed about right. We got out and walked around the sand and gravel bar. The river was low – both due to the time of year and the 4th, 5th year of drought. I felt really good about being back here, but also glad we weren’t staying here and feeling like it was time to move on.
We drove back up the twisty super steep road to 96 and headed North, further into the Hoopa reservation. We came to Hoopa, the main community of the reservation. It was a little nicer than I remembered it being 20 years ago at my last time through. Better structures, less junk, gardens, buildings, vehicles more taken care of. A few miles further, we came to Weitchpec, the confluence of the Trinity and the Klamath. This town was rougher that Hoopa, even thought this was the location of the new casino and hotel. I wanted to see the actual spot where the rivers meet, and assumed the road would go right over it and we could stop and get out. But apparently, the confluence is a bit West of 96, and before long, we were out of town and heading down the road. I don’t know if this caught me by surprise, or I didn’t want to go back or what, but we just kept heading towards Orleans and eventually Somes Bar.
Orleans wasn’t much of anything at all, no services that I recall. Somes Bar had a little complex of a store, with mail boxes, phone, maps, and information on the fires they had had in there a month or so back. We drove down a side road and walked out onto a massive bridge 100 feet above the confluence of the Klamath and the Salmon, able to look down on the exact pool they came together. Being able to look up and down the canyons of the Klamath was awesome, and seeing the very first spot the waters mix into one river and then head-on out West was pretty cool.
I wanted to swim in that pool, but it was a long way down, and in typical fashion, I was anxious to see what was down the road, around the next bend, and especially to get into the Salmon drainage and find our camp spot for the next 2 nights. We began our journey up into the Salmon, which I was very excited about. You have to really want to get into this country. It is far away and not on the way to anywhere, so I was excited to explore new country and get a sense of how remote it was and how likely BigFoot was still hanging out in these parts.
Heading East now up the Salmon on road 93, we soon came to the first campground we were considering camping at – Oak Bottom. It is heavily forested and set aside the road, on the opposite side of the river. There wasn’t much to this spot except a place to sleep. We headed deeper into the Salmon drainage as soon got a taste for what was in store for us. The river canyons up here are all pretty narrow and super steep, so the roads are often simply gouged out of the rocky mountain sides. Falling rock and bigger slides are common all along these parts. But the stretch of road, above the Salmon, just a few miles in, was easily one of the most harrowing roads I have ever driven. It was narrow, one vehicle and barely that. It was high above the river with no guard rail, and it was like this for miles. I got dizzy because my left/outside eye was often gazing down into the river canyon hundreds of feet below, and my right eye was staring at the wall of rock inches from my fender. It was a horrifying drive, but we were on it, there was no place to turn around even if we totally chickened out and couldn’t go on any more.
Getting into this area was a highlight of the trip, so I never seriously considered turning around, but I definitely felt like I needed to stop and regroup a few times. But again, there wasn’t an extra foot of road on either side and stopping was out of the question, so, on we went, in silent fear, with the death grip on the wheel, hoping around every turn, the road would widen, flatten and/or straighten out.
It was several miles of this, and if the canyon wasn’t so beautiful, I may have just stopped. There was no alternative to continuing, but this road was getting the best of me. We were very fortunate not to pass a single vehicle, and eventually, the road was back to a normal back country road, narrow, not always 2 cars wide, undivided, no painted dividing lines or outer lane stripes, but comfortable to drive on. Before long, we came to Nordheimer campground. This was the one I thought would be a good possibility, but as we turned off the main road, a herd of horses was scattered all over the site. Maybe 6 or 8 horses just roaming free, no one around. It was cool to see them, but a tad strange.
We followed the little campground loop road down to some sites further off the road and closer to the river. Unfortunately, they were also near the outhouse. There was no one else at the campground, and it appeared that no one had been there in some time. It was very clean and free of litter. The open sites were right on the road and currently occupied by the horses. It was sunny and warm, not quite hot, but you definitely wanted to be in the shade. The 2 or 3 best sites were in the shade, far off the road, but near the outhouse, and none of them had a view of the river, which was very disappointing. It took an inordinate amount of time to decide to stay here and decide which spot to stay in. Maybe it was the stout influence of the outhouse, but we chose site #2.
The site was cool because we had Madrone, Oak, Douglas fir, and Pine in our site, along with an ample amount of brush. Most of the ground was red with the peelings of the Madrone bark. As Haley knows, Madrone is my favorite tree, and all the shavings kept the dust down. Unfortunately, it did not keep the bugs down, and although they didn’t appear to bite, they were amply annoying. We settled in a bit, had a beverage, and then walked the rough road down to the river. We were below the confluence of the North and South forks, but there was only as much water as I would have
expected above on one of the forks. I have no idea of what a “normal” year would look like, before dams, diversions, excessive human need, but this was October after all, and I felt like it wasn’t too far off normal. It was cold, not terrible, but cold. I walked up stream 20 feet or so until I found a pool deep enough to dip in. I almost never put my head under water as I often end up with ear infections, so this little pool was just about right for a dip.
Once I got under, of course, it felt great and I lingered a few minutes, K staying on the shore to keep an eye out for BF. We didn’t see any Salmon/Steelhead, but we did see the signs warning of low populations and fishing restrictions. Back at the site, we got a fire going and that really knocked the bugs down. A few hors d’ vors, another cocktail or two, camp set up, the horses gone, we were feeling pretty good about the trip so far, and the choice of spots. It was stone quiet, and we were really settling in. We had a great steak and potato dinner with vege’s and a nice fire. After we had cleaned up, we walked out in pitch blackness to the road and down to the bridge over the river, just up from where I swam. The stars were outstanding. It was spectacularly dark and clear. We saw several satellites and K saw a shooting star.
Sleep was a little rough – hot, cold, toss and turn. K was hearing many things rustling in the leaves. At one point we unzipped the tent flap and shone the light to see about a dozen eyes glowing back at us just feet away. They obviously were far more comfortable with us than we were with them. The morning was exceptional, other than the down canyon currents brought the outhouse over to us. The sun crested the ridge just in time to warm us up. We wandered down the service road to 3 of the 4 group camps. These were set up for horses and possibly often used for rafters as well. They were great set-ups with lots of privacy, parking areas, open areas for tents, and under the trees for shade. They each had a nice double room outhouse. Two of these were set along the road, although far below it as the road rose up the hillside near the campground. The third, however, was set out away from the road, out on a peninsula above the old river bed which still offered a view over the gravel bar and riparian vegetation below. You still couldn’t see the river from the bluff, but if you came back in March or April, it may be a different story.
On our way back, we both made emergency stops at the outhouse; we were extremely fortunate these nice, clean, unused facilities were unlocked, or BF may have become very angry if he strolled by later and his realm had been soiled. As it was, we had a real nice walk in the sunny morning glow. I took some time for pictures and then we packed up for our day in the Salmon River country. We noted some cemeteries and short spur roads that could be walked and might lead to trails that we could explore. We had been in the car a lot, so I wanted to spend most of this day out, walking, hiking, exploring on foot.
We moseyed on down the road, the country opening up to wide valleys and farms. Suddenly we were in “town”, Forks of Salmon. So much for our map reading skills. We passed one cemetery just outside town, but it was right on the road, not offering much of an opportunity to walk. “Town” such as it was,, was pretty thin. No store, gas, or business of any kind. There was a Post Office, but it was blocked by an apparent food hand out of some sort. It was quite a shock.
There is a certain amount of danger in creating expectations. It is hard to maintain a clear slate and simply enjoy what is offered – just enjoy the experience. I had envisioned an almost entirely natural area – no town at all. Just a meeting of the Forks of the Salmon, the confluence where we could hang out and maybe swim, enjoy a picnic or a beverage. Instead, there were a bunch of people here, maybe 100. Some real rough trailers and even rougher cabins, shacks, and sheds. It obviously was a gathering of some rough folks. The food hand out was especially sad. It brought out the neediest of folks, those desperate for food and support for the most basic of needs.
I couldn’t tell from the white truck and trailer, no markings or labels or logos to tell if this was government support, or a non-profit or a private person who towed that trailer, possibly from I-5 to the East, Yreka, possibly as the Siskiyou County seat, over those roads with a trailer no less, to bring help to these mountain folk. It made me feel like I was in Virginia or Tennessee or Kentucky. Not that I hadn’t been in my share of small towns and even smaller communities, and dots on the map, but these people appeared to be extremely poor and needy, not making it on their own, badly in need of assistance. It was a much poorer side of rural living that I was used to seeing. It was sad and disturbing. But we were happy to see that help was there, and someone was aware of the need and more importantly, doing something to help these unfortunate folks.
This was not a place I wanted to hang out, so we headed up the North Fork road towards Sawyer’s Bar. This too was a narrow, although double track in most parts, steeply climbing road high above the river. Not too far up the road, we passed a guy on a tiny wide spot in the road, with a few odds and ends out for a garage sale of sorts. We passed him by, but, as I am trying to do more of these days, I took the time to stop, like I wanted to do, instead of hurry on to the next bend. As usual, I was not disappointed. This guy was a trip. He appeared to be a rough and tumble mountain man as he was living way out here, apparently alone, having to walk across a rope bridge to get to his place, mush or which was hidden by dense trees and brush. However, as we pulled up, it was obvious he was educated, well spoken and clear. He described some of his stuff. I was specifically looking for a hand ax, which he didn’t have, but I wanted to buy something from him so I picked out a ceramic bowl with a lid and an old Ball jar.
He showed me a signature on the bowl, suggesting it was hand made and one of a kind. He also showed me an insignia and number on the bottom of the Ball jar, signifying it was an authentic Ball jar, made from their forms and not a reproduction. He was happy for the sale, but seemed just as pleased with the company. He reminded me of my cousin John, a maverick out on his own, doing his own thing his own way. Not a hermit, but one who prefers freedom and tranquility to the commotion and noise that other people bring. He started to tell me about the 2 WWII veterans that built the home and that one was a stonemason, so the home has extensive walls, paths, and a pond with stone sides. They made a good living off their mine and had an extensive car and truck collection, including a 30’s or 40’s era touring bus like you see in postcards of Yosemite and Yellowstone and the Grand Canyon.
As we spoke, the mail carrier drove up at a pretty good clip and pulled right in close to us. He hopped out and quickly passed on a price for the copper wire this guy had for sale. He browsed the stuff out for sale, mentioned his daughter lived in Berkeley after noting our window sticker, and was off in another cloud of dust. This guy grumbled about the low ball price for the copper being offered by the middle man. It reminded me so much of the old cowboy days when the stagecoach would not only deliver mail, but messages and news from all along its route. There was no cell service and little phone or electricity in these parts, so travelers and passersby often brought news and information and updates of all kinds. It really was like a bygone era back in here.
This guy had to move on after living in this house some 17 years. The owner lady had passed away and it took them a year to get word to him. The Sheriff came out to evict him, but seeing he wasn’t going to be a problem, and seeing all the stuff he had to sell, gave him a few more months to liquidate his assets and move on. He was going to move closer to town to help out an elderly couple that lived on their own, but were now at the point of needing help. Each in their 80’s, they still drove road 93, the road we came in on above the Salmon that almost made me wet my pants, and these folks, in their 80’s, probably drove it near every day. A different breed.
Happy with my purchases, or at least the thought I had helped someone in need, even though he probably had more money than I ever would, and after selling the vehicles and his stuff, and the vehicles in the other garage that folks didn’t know about, he would probably be fine. But I did what I wanted to do and was happy to help, in some small way, even if maybe it wasn’t necessarily needed. We continued up the mountain, around the corners, overlooking the North Fork of the Salmon far below, happily on our adventure.
After dropping back down near the river, the road flattened and straightened and we soon came to a wide spot and another farm. It was getting close to time for a snack and beverage so we took a side dirt road, but unfortunately a trailer was on this property, blocking access to an open spot along the creek. We headed further up the road and took a small track that brought us near a small creek and a great series of little pools cascading down to meet the Salmon. We dropped the tail gate, but were soon greeted by a healthy and hungry local population of bugs. This spot would not do for lunch, but a beverage and a dip was definitely in order. This was a great little spot amidst dense forest. This little creek was quintessential life; plants, animals, insects, amphibians, reptiles, birds, large and small, simple and complex, all achieve life because of this creek – the water of life. It was quite a spot.
Around a few more bends and twists and turns was a modern school with an old wooden church high above on the hillside. We pulled over to explore. It was an old Catholic Church, built in 1855, with a pretty incredible cemetery, beautiful iron fences, granite and marble headstones and monuments, and beautiful woodwork. On we went around the corner to the berg of Sawyer’s Bar. This was a quaint collection of homes, shacks, and sheds. It had a fire station and a cool Post Office. We stopped to take a picture and out came a real nice lady who was the Postmaster to tell us the town had no electricity, just generators, solar, maybe a wind mill or two – all self sufficient, home generated power. I wasn’t clear if this is how it always is and has been or if the recent fires had knocked it out and maybe someday it would be restored again.
The road climbed again up to Etna Summit, where we again crossed the Pacific Crest Trail and stopped to enjoy a little snack and the spectacular views. In not sticking with the original plan of being out of the car walking, hiking, swimming, or just not driving, especially once we got the vibe in Forks of Salmon, I figured we could drive up the North Fork Road into Etna, down Highway 3 to Callahan, and back the South Fork road into Forks of Salmon and back to our camp fairly casually and without haste, in plenty of time before dark. From here, seeing the shadowy images of ridge after ridge in this steep, deep, narrow canyon country, I was beginning to wonder if we would beat the dark. I did not want to drive these roads in the dark, and I did not want to have to rush and I did not want to cook or eat in the dark once we got back to camp. I wanted a leisurely day and a leisurely evening around the fire, but from up here, it seemed pretty late for all of that.
We rolled down the hill into the back side of Etna. I had stayed in this little town years ago, saw a play in the local theatre and stayed in a B&B. I remember it as a sweet little town. We stopped in the store for some emergency snacks in case we didn’t make it back to camp, and were on our way. We looked for gas, but it wasn’t to be. I was confident we had enough to get back to camp and into Somes Bar back on 96, but it would have been nice to gas up. We headed south on Highway 3 for about 30 miles into Callahan, the site of the last known lynching in California (yet unsolved), and then East on 93, the South Fork of the Salmon road. As we climbed up 93 from this East side towards Carter Summit, I started to see why this area was called Marble Mountains. The limestone rock had a whitish green shimmer/shine to it, like a glacial polish. It was very distinct and very beautiful so I just had to stop a time or 2 to gather a few specimens.
We made pretty good time, good enough to explore a couple camp grounds up top – nothing special to be sure. We crossed the summit and headed down 93, a much better, wider, easier road than the North counterpart. We were nearly back in town when I was pretty sure I spotted a Bald Eagle. I should have stopped, but I wouldn’t allow myself. The road was quiet and empty, so as we approached one of the only cars we would pass, I stopped and got their attention. It turned out to be 2 young guys and they seemed excited at the prospect of seeing a Bald Eagle. They pulled over and began walking which I thought was a great idea. If they saw the bird, they might get a great view of him without disturbing him and even if he flew off, he might circle a bit as he had done with us. I was happy to have stopped to tell them and at the thought of them getting a nice show.
No sooner, had we gotten around a couple bends, but another truck came hauling ass down the road; how unfortunate that this guy would blast through the area the guys were trying to get a good view of the Eagle. But who knows, maybe it all worked out just fine.
We were back in Forks’ in no time. The population had thinned out, so we stopped at the Post office to look about. We walked around town a bit and walked out over the bridge to see the exact spot where the North and South Forks came together. I would have loved to take a dip down there, but it was late, getting on, cooler, and the vibe still wasn’t ideal. We saw quite a few fish in the riffles of the creek there, so that was cool.
Back at camp, we got going with a fire and cocktails. The downslope currents were again bringing us the outhouse, but the fire, and the food, and beverages made for a fine evening. As we were sitting around the fire waiting for the coals to ready, we heard a squealing I recognized as raptor-like. We moseyed over to the edge of the site, overlooking the river canyon below. Again a squawk and this time, being at the ready, we saw an immature eagle, without the telltale white head and tail, but massive nonetheless, cruising down the river canyon at about eye height. As we watched him go by, we picked up the subject of his attention; a pair of Bald Eagles perched on the cliff on the far side of the river. There they sat, big as life, unimpressed by the youngins’ shenanigans. K ran back to the truck to get the binoculars. But there was no need to rush. They just sat there, in their spot, as we hung in ours. We looked and watched and traded binocs back and forth. After a bit, we went back to our chairs around the fire and still, we could see them, right from our camp chairs in our site. This was pretty incredible.
After dinner, we again walked out to the bridge, but this night was overcast; warmer but not clear. K, being a little more used to the leaf rustling, slept better, which meant I slept better. Not sure about the deers, fishes, our Eagle neighbors, or BF, but we had a good night. The morning was not rushed at all, but we had spent our time in the Salmon watershed, seen much more than we had expected, and I was getting excited about the rest of the trip.
We had our usual breakfast of coffee, OJ, bagels, cream cheese, banana, yogurt. We walked down the path to the group camps to stretch, get in the sun, and enjoy a calm, quiet and peaceful constitutional. We walked a couple trails, and took a short cut back to camp. K began to pick up while I took some pictures. Before long, we were packed up and heading West. I was pleased with our Salmon River junket, but still a bit eager to get beyond that stretch of narrow intrepid road high above the river. Just as K was re-assuring me, the horses appeared scattered all across the road. This made me super happy and was a great gift to us as we left this tiny remote river wilderness behind. I had to stop again to gather a few rocks that seemed to behold the area.
The super scary road we came in, now seemed pretty tame on the way out. Maybe it was because we had such an incredible time in the Salmon, maybe because I had driven so much of those roads in the 2 days we were there, maybe I was just feeling high from the Eagles, horses, and fishes we had seen, but we seemed to just float along, real peaceful like. We stopped on one of the gnarliest spots high above the river to look for Eagles and enjoy the Fall colors. We stopped again above a pool that reflected the gorgeous rock formations and colors in the oak leaves on the rocky slopes above. Soon we were out of the narrow canyon and back closer to the Klamath in wider, flatter, more open valley country. I spotted some cool rock formations along the river that appealed to me and soon past a river access. I made myself slow and turn around, and as usual, this was a great decision.
This is great rafting country at the appropriate time of year and conditions, so all along the river are access points, raft put-in and take-out points. This one was Brannon Bar or George Geary, a former campground, but at some point, the USFS must have decided not to have any campgrounds near the river. Still, this was a great day spot. No one else was there; as was the case with most places in the Salmon drainage. We parked, and walked down the access trail to a magnificent pool. Above the pool was a wide, gentle rapids area, and above that a pool, and above that a rapid, and above that a pool, and on and on up river. I traversed the rocky bar and got to the remnant wall of much darker rock that caught my eye from the road. This place was just awesome.
I returned to K taking pictures of all the froggies that were hopping about. Dozens of them were happily calling this place home – darn lucky Anura. I had to take a dip and this one was for real. Once in, I had a hard time getting out. The water was great – this was a perfect place and a perfect way to end our Salmon River run.
As we cruised into Somes Bar (Somes bar is basically a store with a mail box), we were disappointed to see there was no gas. We were certain there was a gas pump when we first arrived, and now we were happy we didn’t push it any more than we did. We still had enough gas to get to Happy Camp, but we would definitely be stretching it. In the store, we let the good feelings run rampant. It was a very cool store, wooden floors, hip country folk, herbs, flowers, and oils. I wanted to support them and bring home some good memories. There was a bottle of “Virgil’s Root Beer” that would be cool for my friends at work; a California map I was needing for my cubicle at work, some local beers from Etna that I needed to try; a book on the local area written by a local Indian woman; a couple baked goods; and some really nice pottery – a coffee mug for me and a bowl for K. $138 later, we were good to go.
The Klamath River is a massive drainage extending about 250 miles from SE Oregon into Northern California slicing through the Cascades along the way. It is wide and mostly gentle with few rapids or falls. It is a great canoe or kayak trip for most of the year. Compared to the Salmon, this was like wide open country to us, easy and fast driving up to Happy Camp. I don’t recall being in Happy Camp before, but I do recall my mom telling stories about her second husband Gilbert Acosta working there for some time and describing the steep descent into town. We were coming in from the other direction, so we eased into town after first driving through the Karuk Reservation. We wanted to shore up our food reserves, both for tonight and for tomorrow as we didn’t know what to expect along the road tomorrow and we were told there weren’t any stores near where we were staying tomorrow (Friday) night. The store was great – big enough, lots of what we needed, and even a pie. The people were super nice and friendly.
On the way out, we mailed a postcard to my mom at the Post Office next door. Across the street was an old lady at a road side table selling bulbs. I wanted to stop, but didn’t take the time, figuring we could stop in tomorrow on our way out, even though we weren’t coming this way. We stopped at what was apparently the only gas station in town. We must have been so anxious to fill up, we couldn’t figure out the payment process. A nice kid filling up next to us, said if we were having trouble, you walk across the station, out the cyclone fence, and follow the worn path in the grass to the business down there. So, off I went, not too confident in the outcome, but sure enough, at the end of the path, across the parking lot, the front door was open. Two nice ladies were at their desks.
Already able to read my confused look, not just because I was extra confused, but because I am sure they had seen similar looks dozens of times, the lady was quick to her feet and quicker with a funny retort to my inquiry. Apparently clicking my heels and spinning around hadn’t worked. She talked all the way up the path, making jokes and small talk. At the pump she showed us we were putting the card in backwards, obviously. She had good things to say about the place we were staying, so upon filling up, we were happily on our way. It only took a couple minutes until we were pulling in to the Klamath River Resort Inn. I was anxious to check this place out because it had been under new ownership for the past 6-8 months. Previous reviews of the place skewered it as a rundown dump for local kids to party and low-life owners that didn’t care much about anything but collecting another fare.
The new owners were getting high marks and the recent guests had good things to say, but this was still pretty much the only recommended place to stay. Upon pulling in, we were greeted with silence and loneliness. Nothing was stirring; the “office” sign said don’t knock. We was confused. About the third time we read the sign instructing guests to pick up the phone and call this number, a guy came around the corner and greeted us warmly. He was a talker so I let K take the lead. The room was OK, some new, some cleaned, but some in need of replacement. He was nice enough to give us a room with a King bed rather than the room with the 2 twins we were going to get. Unfortunately, the fishing guide’s cancer had returned so the fisherman that was in the room went home. This falls deeply into the category of TMI.
Nonetheless, the room was cool. We met our neighbor who turned out to be the girlfriend of the guys girlfriend who came up with the girlfriend from San Diego and was staying for a few days. This was apparently the first time the girlfriend had been to the new retirement plan of the guy and she was moving in with the help of her friend. The friend was also sick and we were sharing a kitchen so that was special. After a few more swigs of cough medicine and a beer, she came out with her little dog and the little dogs of the girlfriend and hung out for a while. They were nice ladies and nice little doggies, but a tad too much yapping for my taste.
We were all mid-yapping and I figured I had enough. Perhaps rather abruptly (I was told later), I went inside and got changed and headed down the lawn to the river – just like the pictures said. The Klamath was maybe 50 feet across, maybe a bit more. I could walk across, between waist and chest deep, until maybe the last 10 feet before the opposite bank. Again, the water felt great and I lingered quite a bit; walking upstream a couple times and floating down. K came down to greet me and we hung on the bank until I got cold.
We put the Dodgers-Mets game on the TV and opened the window so we could hear the game while sitting at our little table outside the room, looking at the river and watching the approaching sunset. It really was a great view. However, I am a stickler for noise, and this spot had a fair amount of it. For one, we were just at the bottom of the hill Gilbert used to talk about so the big rigs coming down the hill were on their Jake brakes for much of the descent. Secondly, the party of four at the table at the end of the hotel were loud Southerners; like Georgia Southerners, and the one lady in particular was an air bag with a frightful screech of a laugh. Thirdly, the yapping dogs kept on yapping and the two girlfriends kept on telling them to be quiet, but they never stopped yapping.
Eventually, after a few drinks, most of them settled down or went out for dinner, and we were able to enjoy our dinner and beverages. I must say, the 2 beers I had from Etna Brewing were absolutely outstanding; the best beers I have had in a while. I very much wish I had taken the time to stop there while we were in town. On the other hand, as they say, it is a good reason to go back. That whole Scott Valley from Fort Jones to Etna to Callahan is definitely worth spending a considerable amount of time in.
The ballgame was exciting as heck, I believe it went into extra innings. Our little snack dinner at the table was awesome and relaxing while taking in the river and sunset was great. Our sleep was fairly terrible, as we could hear the dogs yapping next door when they came home late, the fishing, not-so-quiet Southerners were up super early to fish, and the usual not so comfortable bed, different surroundings, and unfamiliar smells and sounds, all made for an early rise. This was fine though, as we enjoyed a little morning by the river with coffee and some of our treats and breakfast like foods, and then we were off with a good early start.
I did want to see if the bulb lady was back in town, although I doubted she would be back so early the next day. We also wanted to check out the gift shop next to the Post Office. Sure enough, no bulb lady. I have since written a letter addressed to the “Bulb Lady” c/o the Post Office in Happy Camp, so we will see if that goes anywhere). In the gift shop, the lady told us she only comes in to town on Thursdays, so, another lesson to stop when you feel like it and stop when you get the urge, and stop when there is an opportunity, because they don’t come along all the time. The gift shop was pretty cool; lots of Big Foot stuff and some Native American stuff, and some cute local arts and crafts, but mostly a big cup of hot coffee to lead us up the hill.
Up the hill apparently was close enough to I-5 and all the “State of Jefferson” bullshit to see a few signs. I guess these folks thought that the crappy trailers and shacks they could afford were better than the public schools, water systems, sewer systems, roads, dams, airports, Medicare, social security, military, fire, forest service, etc. that that damn government came up with. Them folks be ignorant. But, the dot on the map of Seiad and the adjacent Seiad Valley would be worth coming back to explore. Seiad Creek Road lead out through the valley, then up and over Cook and Green Pass into Oregon. Beyond Seiad Valley is the berg of Hamburg, another dump of a place touting the benefits of secession, was the last we saw of Highway 96 before turning south on Scott River Road. Although we had received word that there had been many forest fires all along our route from 299, to 96, and in the Salmon River drainage, this was the only fire damaged area we actually drove through. It was a big one with extensive damage and evidence or a very hot fire burning everything to a fine gray ash. Just out of the fire zone, back down along the Scott River, about 10 miles South of 96 was the Scott River Lodge. This looked to be a real high end place, but it was truly out in the middle of nowhere, set right along the river – definitely a spot to return to.
Years ago, when the kids were little, a group of college friends used to camp together every summer. We made it 11 years in a row and we called these the Humboldt trips. One of them was on the Scott River at Indian Scotty Campground. I recalled a great swimming hole and ferrying the children across the river to a small sand bar where they could play and have fun “on their own” on their side of the river. I felt like a mother Otter with the brood of kids on my back. Back and forth, coming and going, the kids squealing and laughing and having a blast. We found that spot and I grabbed a beverage and headed for it. The water may have been a little lower than that time many years before, but not much. I had a grand time floating in the pools and sitting on that same sand bar, different sand and water by now perhaps, but the same rocks, in the same setting. It brought back great memories of the kids, our friends, and those great times we shared.
We stopped in Fort Jones, a fantastic little town with all the charm and qualities of a real small town. We mailed another post card to my mom, and cruised town a bit. Again, we had a bit of ground to cover and didn’t want to be hurried on the other end, so we skedaddled on down Highway 3 through the fantabulous Scott Valley, through Etna, past massive gravel piles, through Callahan, up and over Scott Mountain Road, and then down to the Trinity River, completing our loop from where we first picked up the Trinity along 299 outside Weaverville. This was a fun moment for me. In a few miles, we picked up the signs from my hand drawn map, turned on Eagle Creek Loop, past the beautiful and historical Eagle Creek Ranch, across the creek and into the Ripple Creek Cabins property.
We were greeted warmly by a man who we learned later turned out to be the owner. Our cabin was great; it passed the cleanliness test of Kristen’s, and the setting, privacy, solitude, and view met my standards. The timing was good, the weather was good, and although we were a bit saddened this being the last night of our trip, it had been a great trip, and this appeared to be another great place to stay and fitting spot for our last night out. We unpacked our stuff, put the ice chest stuff in the refrigerator and freezer, poured a drink, and wandered down the road.
Just across the creek was the famous and historical Eagle Creek Ranch. The main residence, constructed with modified dovetail jointed logs, dates back to 1858, when it was the area’s telegraph station. From that same time period, the Carriage House was a Stagecoach stop on the old California – Oregon Trail. The two story Guest House dates back to the 1930s. This is a quintessential California ranch, with creeks and rivers on all sides, great meadows, timber, main house and many outbuildings. The garden, pond, and grounds were just exactly as one would have them. The many horses came down to the wire to greet us, let us pet them for a moment, but were off in a huff as soon as they realized we were empty handed.
We went on down to the bridge we came in on, going out to the middle to get views up and down the Trinity and up at Eagle peak in the Trinity Alps Wilderness looming high above. It was pretty spectacular. On our way back, I noticed dozens of Cedar posts that had been pulled up and replaced with metal posts for the fencing around the meadows and pasture. I wondered if they could be salvaged and milled into boards. I bet the grain and wood inside would be spectacular. (I have since written to the Eagle Ranch proprietors asking if they would be interested in selling the posts). We were back at the cabin in time to replenish our beverages and walk the grounds; the wash room, ping pong tables, bikes, meadow with the horses, and wander the paths to the various cabins. The grounds were impeccable; the hundreds of rocks forming planters in tiers and the many cute items used as planters. The grounds were really really nice.
We started the fire in the Weber they supplied and settled back on the deck and the table and chairs. The owner came by just as our wood and paper fire had peaked and I could tell he was concerned. He struck up a casual and friendly conversation which revealed he was born in San Francisco, was raised in Berkeley in the 60’s, graduated from Cal, and his daughter graduated from Cal as well. This was cool as we had so much in common. Once the fire calmed down, he was satisfied we weren’t going to burn the joint down, so he headed off to his cabin. I don’t remember what we BBQ’d, but I do recall it was excellent. I also recall, I had another of those large beers we bought on the road and it too was excellent.
We again were up pretty early. It had rained that night, and that kept us up –which was fine because it was cool to hear. We also heard a substantial scream of an animal that was impressive as hell. No idea what it was, but it was significant. We packed up leisurely like and headed back to the bridge we had walked to. I grabbed a rock or 2 and pulled off the road by the bridge. I wanted to dip in the Trinity if I could because up along 299 where we first stopped, the water was freezing cold. I could barely get my feet in. On this cold cloudy morning, I could barely imagine getting in, but I wanted to try. The pool below the bridge was great, and the shore to it was reasonable.
In my swim suit, I was cold; the air was wet and a healthy breeze came up and down the river. The cold mountain in the distance reeked of coldness, but I was determined to try. When I first dipped my little toe in, I was shocked. I figured I was already hypothermic so I couldn’t actually feel the cold, but as I actually took a step into the water, it wasn’t bad. I eased into the water and squirmed about for a bit, but then it just really wasn’t bad. I crossed the narrow stream to a real sandy point on the far side and hung out there for a moment – taking it all in. I must have been in shock, but it just wasn’t that cold in the water. I was super happy I tried and was actually doing it, because it really did complete the cycle for me. I swam in every river and a couple creeks to boot, achieving my goal for the trip.
Back in dry clothes and back in the warm rig, we headed to the highly recommended breakfast place in Trinity Center, the Yellow Jacket. This place could have a book written about it – just the hour or so we were there could be the subject of a novel. At first, all seemed so normal. We were seated, our table was cleaned, we were asked what we wanted to drink. But it went off the cliff from there. We weren’t told that you had to order up front at the window. We weren’t told that the entire menu was on the chalk board, and that nothing else was possible, even of some of the items could be served in different combinations, that kind of radical thinking was not appreciated. The man I think was trying to be courteous and act like he was running a business and cared about customers, but the lady was simply angered by having to do what she had to do.
Two older men came in to ask if they could have eggs, hash browns and toast, a combination not on the menu, and they were literally insulted out of the restaurant and then further insulted for another few minutes – all at volumes too loud to ignore. We quickly ordered something on the menu, although I am not sure exactly what, we just didn’t want to be yelled at. No more coffee, water or juice was offered, but I was not about to ask. More people were insulted and made fun of, but fortunately we didn’t know them. The chef made it perfectly clear she was too busy to put things away or make special orders or do anything other than what was on the chalk board.
When three generations of guys came in, I felt like I should warn them, but they got the treatment right away. We all got to the point, after twenty or so minutes of waiting for the scrambled eggs, toast, packaged ham and frozen hash browns served to us, and nothing at all coming out for these guys, that we were laughing with each other, trying like hell to keep it from the management, lest we also get run out of the place. On my way out I approached there table and said “Good luck”, to which we all had a good laugh and a snicker or two. This place was like the angry soup kitchen guy in the Seinfeld episode. It was comical if not so sad. These poor people were angry and they let their customers know it in every respect of their restaurant visitation.
Happy to be back in the safety of our own car, putting some distance between us and the restaurant, we came to the first vista of an expanse of Trinity Lake. While seeing some signs of the drought on our trip, it was never really obvious in any river or creek levels that we saw. This was, after all, October; pretty much the low point of the annual season for any body of water. However, Trinity Lake was empty, I mean empty. We could not see any water anywhere. We couldn’t see the entire lake from this point, but unlike Indian Valley Reservoir near the Mendocino National Forest we had visited earlier this year that at least held water on the low end, Trinity appeared to be totally dry. Nowhere, as we drove around the lake, did we see water. This was startling and scary.
Heading down Highway 3, back near Lewiston and Weaverville, we decided to take Rush Creek Road to avoid going back into Weaverville and cutting off a fair chunk of Highway 299 that had so much construction on our way in. Rush Creek becomes Trinity Dam Road in Lewiston, and brings you back to 299 much farther East of Weaverville. Fortunately, the construction crews were not working on the weekends so we cruised down 299 into Redding, picked up I-5 and were home in good time.
Find this SpotNorthern California Rivers Trip Photo Gallery
