I’ve been exploring Northern California’s streams−above and below the surface−for most of my life. One of my most memorable adventures took place on a hot summer’s day in 1964, not long after my sixteenth birthday. My fishing buddy, Paul Martens, had heard that some trophy browns could be caught in upper Chico Creek. The only way into this treacherously steep canyon was an overgrown Caterpillar track that hadn’t been traveled or maintained in years. Throwing caution to the wind, I shoved my 1947 Chevy pickup into first gear, gingerly stepped on the gas, and inched down the steep embankment.
“I just bought a new Mitchell 300,” said Paul. “I can’t wait to try it out.”
“If this road gets any narrower you might not get your chance,” I replied.
Moving at a snail’s pace, it took us almost an hour to reach the end of the path.
“OK, where’s the trail?” I asked, climbing from the truck.
“It’s supposed to be here somewhere,” said Paul.
“It’s only nine o’clock and already hot,” I complained. “The temperature’s supposed to hit a hundred today.”
Teased by the sound of the rushing water below, Paul and I peered over the canyon’s edge. All we saw was a seemingly impenetrable wall of scrub oak, manzanita, gray pine, and poison oak. Determined to reach the stream, we searched the canyon wall for a way down. Paul discovered what might have been some kind of human foot path a short distance from the truck. I thought it was nothing more than a deer trail, but it would have to do, so we gathered our gear and began the day’s adventure.
Both of us carried cloth fishing creels and two-piece spinning rods with reels attached. “Watch for snakes,” I cautioned, as we carefully squeezed between patches of poison oak. About fifty yards down, the trail disappeared and the canyon became even steeper. Sweat poured from our foreheads and into our eyes. The fear of stepping on a rattlesnake paled in comparison to the anticipated joy of reaching the stream and flopping into the refreshingly cool water. Expletives rolled off our tongues as we crashed our way downward, pushing brush and sharp branches aside. “It’s too late to turn back, Paul. Keep going, we’re almost there!” I finally reached a clearing, a hundred feet above the stream. It was then that I heard Paul cry out, “Sheiiiit!” I looked up just in time to see my two-hundred-twenty-pound, bespectacled fishing buddy burst into view. He was still on his feet but sliding on the soles of his Converse All Stars, fishing rod and brand-new Mitchell reel firmly clutched in his right hand. Suddenly, his feet flew out from under him, and he fell backward onto the hard, red clay. The impact loosened Paul’s grip on the fishing rod and away it went, bouncing down the canyon, over the rimrock ledge, and into the stream below. [Read more...]