KLAMATH AND SIX RIVERS NATIONAL FORESTS: Summertime Fun and Adventure (Road Trip Style) Hiking, Swimming & Camping in the Land of Big Foot

In the dead of night, I stir to semi-consciousness, scared by a threatening noise announcing the unwanted presence of something big and hairy outside the tent near the fire pit. Whatever it is, it‘s stumbling about, knocking things over, and thankfully now running away - damn bear. I crawl out to assess the damage, but don’t notice until daybreak that a half-full bottle of wine we left on the table has vanished! How on earth could a bear absquatulate with a bottle of vino? Quite perplexing! Next night, same time, same scene: a stealth creature


No matter - this day I’m perched alone on a rock in the middle of the river, lost to the world, feet dangling in a green goddess pool, zoning out on a mantra of white noise emanating from nearby rapids, soaking up the fading but radiant sunlight casting long rays over the river and creating rippling patterns and refractive displays of bewitching light. The immanence of a glorious su


As I was saying.
Yep, it’s that time of year again, for our annual pilgrimage to the mountainous and wilder parts of northern California. Up in remote renegade / outlaw / outcast / stake-yer-claim and back off territory, called the State of Jefferson by some. The largely pristine big north country of California comprises the counties of Siskiyou, Mendocino, Trinity, Humboldt, Del Norte. This is our fifteen consecutive mid-July trip up north to hike, camp, swim and explore. Vast and diverse though the area is, we are destined to return, season after season, to our favorite place - sacred Karuk stomping grounds in and around Clear Creek.
Clear Creek -- ah, now there is a mountain stream for you! Owing to a high provenan

Clear Creek is about ten minutes south of the historic mining, gold rush and Big Foot celebrated town of Happy Camp. Happy, I guess, because of all the gold the fools found on Indian Creek, and subsequently blew in legendary madrigal - make that sham


In these parts, settlements are far and few between, and people even scarcer in the back country adventure of your choice. (Except in

Finally, after five hours of hard pushing up the increasingly beautiful but exponentially dangerous Interstate 5 snaking along the eastern margins of

I just love this so much -- nothing but time on my hands (don‘t kid



By the time we get to Happy Camp, about 4 pm, there are not many Happy Campers. The skies are overcast with a smoky pall from what turns out to be 26 spot fires in the vicinity caused by lightning strikes in the past 24 hours. Yikes! We’re screwed. Only the second time in fifteen seasons it’s rained when we’ve been there. Firefighters are out in force, but severely undermanned against the (unseen) whipping blazes. At the Forest Service office, we see pushpins on a big map marking incendiary sites radiating out like spokes in all directions. We’re emphatically exhorted NOT to go to Clear Creek, for a fierce wildfire is consuming the trailhead area, the biggest fire since 1993 tha

We head out slowly, mildly disappointed that our plans have taken a downcast turn. It’s disconcerting, smelling that smoldering odor of fire put out by rain, you know the smell -- looks like these char-blackened hillsides were recently doused in a downpour. Fire and water. Well, what choice do we have? We’ve been on the road for ten hours now. In another fifteen miles, to the campgrounds, we figure we’ll

Just before the two Forest Service campgrounds, we chance upon a too-good-to-be-true spot right along the river at swirling water’s edge perfect for spending the night. We’re in the middle of setting up camp when this big honkin’ monster truck comes driving toward us. Not what I want to see. An overly-friendly long-hair / scruffy / outlaw dude (snap judgment) is behind the wheel; a ludicrously tiny fluffy white lap dog peers out from the open passenger window. I make nice with the mutt, and give the odd character a pseudo-friendly nod, engage in some (very) small talk, and before you know it, we’re best buds and he’s inviting us to camp down next to his spread by the river. Uh (snap decision), thanks but no t

Norcross is on the western edge of the Marble Mountain Wilderness. Elk Creek Trail is a spur off the Pacific Crest Trail, so this is a perfect place to access the back country. Parts of this magnificent wilderness are so popular that permits are required due to years of insensate backpackers, in huge numbers, trampling delicate habitats, severely degrading the ecology. That’s one reason I’ve never really done much actual backpacking in the MMW or the TA, but I’m sure one could find peace of mind somewhere in a half million acres of dispersed wild lands.
The lighting is getting spooky. Only a couple of horse trailers are parked nearby to giv


We have just enough energy to take a leisurely late afternoon stroll down to the creek - a confluence of two precious streams, Bear Creek and Elk Creek. There, to our delight, a beautiful sun-dappled pool, not great in size, but deep enough to consume us, and wipe away the dust and grit and bad vibes of the fire, shimmers in the fading light of the day. We enjoy a much-anticipated soul-cleansing, refreshing baptismal dunk in pure mountain waters. What could be better or more healing? With the sketchy character having gone into town, we’re now the only humans around. In their homes, dens, burrows, and nests, though, thrive hundreds of animals, many unique and endangered species (but thankfully protected). And yet we see very little animal life outside of a few cacophonous birds and a couple of bushy-tailed grey squirrels. A tremendous forest, though! Primeval and dank smells mixed with tinderbox dry herbaceous aromas, it is a perfect setting for Bear Creek to come tumbling in to conjoin with Elk Creek and create a soothing Jacuzzi like jet stream in the tranquil pool. Naked (Mary yells at me - “BIGFOOT!“), I

The skies are getting cloudier with smoke. What the hell? It’s wafting across the dusky ridges and drifting down ravines like dirty fog, but thankfully, so far, wind patterns keep us breathing pretty fresh air. No


Time to move on down the road, even if it means going all the way until the coast is clear. But first, a visit the campground’s port-a-potty. I pull up, hop out and yank open the door. Now, here it is, barely 7 am and no evidence of anyone in sight, and you never expect to see anyone actually in one of the fetid structures out in the middle of nowhere, at 7 am -- but to my and his collective horror and chagrin, there, squatting on the crapper, I behold an unkempt, stunted, unidentifiable species of anthropoid -- talk about cryptozoological mysteries! -- whom I later dub the Outhouse Ogre of the woods! His pants are pushed down around his ankles, his legs angled such that his knobby knees are touching, and his hands are covering up his private area. An embarrassed scowl / grimace contorts his

Now we’re driving south along California Hwy. 96, cruising the Big Foot Scenic Byway, seeking egress from the vaguely apocalyptic landscape of hazy bluish smoke settling in the ridges and filtering lower to the valley floor. We’re dismal and rueful, downright pessimistic, having d

Imagine how relieved we are, when, just fifty miles down the road, now on t

We stop for supplies at a market in Somes Bar - a former mom ’n pop dive recently taken over by some enterprising folks who’ve managed to turn it into a pretty decent pit stop for emergency this and critically in need of that. (Uh, let’s see - ice, beer, sunflower seeds, batteries. . .) No gas, but a phone’s outside, and there’s always some city-slicker guy in a Beamer making a call. We dawdle a few minutes, then h

We know of a great swimming hole where once, sick and nauseated, the cold healing waters brought me to my senses within minutes. We park along the road side and scramble down over a jumble of rocks leading to the pool at the river’s edge, where we strip naked and don’t waste time plunging in for a morning bath. It’s only 9 am, but already the day is hot and the water is super-refreshing, cleansing, and undoubtedly, healing. We spot two frogs, a fish or three, and a ton of bumblebees (harmless little cusses) swa

We spend a couple of hours in this old familiar haunt, mostly in silent contemplation, then decide it’s time to discover a new place. A few miles down, we stop at a bend in the road - barely a tell-tale sign of a pull off -- and scramble down to a magnificent gorge we’d seen from high up on the road many times, but never stopped at, mainly because it was always so full of noisy people having their peculiar brand of fun on brightly colored polyurethane floating devices. But not today! We have the place to ourselves, just how we like it! With the help of rope hand-holds someone has tied to tree and rock, we make our way down a steep hundred foot tr


Our secret spot is ours for the day, not another human being around. We bivouac under a shady willow tree next to the small creek and just kick back for the next six hours doing nothing but swimming, napping, eating -- we gorge on wild blackberries - exploring, taking photos, reading, building Andy Goldsworthy inspired sculptures and “nature art”, and checking in on our froggie friends, who are zen meditation masters in their hours-long motionless perches in the riffling water, and nearly impossible to spot until -- watch out! - you almost step on one. Well, for doing nothing, that’s doing a whole lot! No wonder, at the end of the long, long summer day, sun burnt and burnt out, you

We end up in Nordheimer campground and to our delight, find it’s rather desolate. Just as we like it! Even the next night, Friday, only a handful of people are here camping. Nordheimer is a wonderful place to car camp, because of the wild and remote setting, with a river running through it, and hardly any people. The long and winding 17 mile road to Forks of Salmon - that narrow ribbon of rock-strewn asphalt, prone to constant avalanches, and perched precariously along the cliff’s merciless promontories - this road keeps all the RV and big trailer / generator “campers” from hauling their loads in. Thank God, I say.

The evening is shaping up to be a splendid finale to our do-nothing / do-everything day. We stroll down to the river, walking hand in hand, past high piled rocks (from mining days), remnants of old homesteading orchards, and wicked patches of succulent wild blackberries. (Got to pay the scratchy price if you expect to eat the best of the bunch of this brambly gift!) The river can wait for a second - more leisurely gorging ensues; Mary, watching me, compliments, “you’re no different from a hungry ol’ bear.”
Down at the river, in the glinting late afternoon, a transcendental shadow and light show is spontaneously, fugaciously in the works, and we’re blessed to catch it -- pure nature doing its thing without an audience, no one about to pay notice, homage or respect -- except us! -- to a no-doubt-about-it, hands-down, flat-out b

The Salmon flows in a narrow course upstream, then veers off here to one side for pools and over there it forms rapids, beyond widening and bending away out of sight. (The Salmon River is deeper and more powerful than it seems, so you can never be too careful when recreating in these waters.) The campground’s namesakes creek -- Nordheimer - comes crashing in to add drama and heft to the Salmon‘s discharge. After a perfect temperature swim, with the day winding down, we watch as the river’s surface transforms into a reflective mirror, hundreds of feet long, smooth as glass, holding dreamy underwater images of now shimmering, now perfectly still, shapes of salmon-colored hillsides and salmon-colored clouds and upside down pine trees; when the breeze dies

And then -- they must be river swallows -- a dozen or more of the lovely birds perform (surely not for our benefit) aerial antics, swooping, loopy maneuvers over the pools, chasing one another playfully, it seems. Perhaps they are elaborate mating or feeding / territorial rituals. Who knows? Not I, I’m only a casual bird watcher, a humble flower admirer, appreciative observer of the small, the overlooked, and prefera

Suddenly, our reverie is interrupted -- Oh, no! It’s people! I take note of an aging bohemian couple, probably in their late fifties, stripping naked and kicking back after a nice evening swim. I wave to them, they wave back, off in their own world. I turn my attention again to the magical, reflective waters when I notice Gambolin’ Gal trying to get my attention, pointing to the opposite bank and mouthing sotto voce, the horses, the horses! To my amazement, once I can focus on reality, indeed there is a herd of wild horses - nine of them - drinking at river’s edge. Wild horses in these parts? Who knows? Walking back to camp, we encounter them nonchalantly grazing in a dried up area, seemingly

The next morning, we hear neighing and rustling; the horses just invite themselves right into our camp, all nine of them, two or three at a time, definitely now intent on eating something, a towel, a plastic bag, some sunflower seeds, a cork. We indulge them for a while and then shoo them on their way. (But the white horse carries a message for us! It’s in the magical animal cards!) The ho

We blow a mile past the easy to miss turn-out. Folks, a mile on this stretch of the Salmon River road is one helluva fifteen minute cliffhanger. So there goes a half-hour, but who cares, it’s gorgeous even in the car. At the top of the scramble trail, where a rope had been just the day before, I’m shocked to see now there is no sign of a rope ladder! After we left yesterday, some local guy (I presume) took it upon himself to slash the rope ladder, thereby making it about five times more difficult (for the average tourist or m

It’s about a cool ninety in the shade under the willow tree. I’ve been dozing and half-reading Abbey’s Road by Edward Abbey, a rambunctious collection of the gambolin’ man’s

But suddenly a rush of adrenaline overcomes my lethargic stupor. I toss the pages aside and jump up, eager and ready to confront the challenge du jour -making the big plunge. You see, it’s taken me hours to gather the

Atop my perch, the view opens up to big, pretty country. Looking down from on high


Time to return to camp, and settle in. The reflective river at Nordheimer once again wins top prize for Ms. Nature Beauty Contest. For a couple of hours, we swim, admire the swooping swallows, and mostly just stare at the reflecting river‘s illumined surface. Finally, our stomachs insist we go back to camp and prepare some food. (With another stop at the berry patch, natch!) After a long day on the river of doing nothing / everything, it sure feels good to eat, rest, have a birthday toast with a glass of vintage Montepulciano (homage to my roots, Sicilia), and before we know it, we’re zonked and ready for bed.

Night time in the deep woods is always magical, snugly kicked back, fighting off sleep, staring up at the curvy and expansive celestial dome pin-pointed with a gadzillion stars, and the Milky Way’s famous swathe clearly visible like when I was a boy in the sixties in Indiana, and it’s always a superstitious joy to see a few streaking meteorites, and indulge in an eye-squinting exercise tracking barely discernible satellites in their zippy progression across the immense firmament. Finally, dozing off, dozing off, in the middle of a dream encountering a different sort of Ogre of the Woods - Big Foot?! -- when suddenly a scream from Gambolin’ Gal in the dead of night - she’s heard something big and threatening just outside our tent! Having a valid monthly reason to fear her scent might attract a curious bear, she’s clearly terrified! My heart’s beating pretty rapidly too! Something IS out there! I grab my headlamp and shine it in the distance, casting a perfect spotl

Thoreau counseled, “Rise free from care before the dawn, and seek adventures.“ So, that’s what we do. I’m eager to move on, see other sights, check out other things. We’ve only got this day remaining, so we heed Henry‘s last bit of advice for the day, “The serenity, the infinite promise, of such a morning . . .Let the noon find thee by other lakes, and the night overtake thee everywhere at home.” Home. Home. . ..Hard to fathom we’ll be back in the urban Bay Area, “home”, before midnight. Why does it have to be like this?

So, off we go, stopping briefly for a cuppa joe at a roadside diner in Orleans boasting a billboard plastered with radical (Native American inspired) posters, and a totally kitsch interior décor of frying pans, hanging up by the hundreds, with peoples’ names and home towns painted on them. Two old-time farts, both in overalls, are sipping coffee at a table, eyeing us, not quite suspiciously, but with a certain knowing nod that we’re outsiders, city folk, and you‘d best be movin‘ on. The waitress is friendly enough, but standoffish. Maybe she wants us to order breakfast. Well, the coffee sucks, anyway, and we plan to make tea and oat bran down at the river access of Big Bar. We entertain ourselves for a long while interpreting mys

Next stop on our whirlwind drive south, on the Big Foot Scenic Byway, is a fifteen minute stop at the confluence of Bluff Creek and the Klamath River. We pull off a side road (closed) leading to Fish Lake and get out of the car. No trail to speak of, but we follow a faint trace along a crumbly ledge, skirting depths of two hundred feet to the creek bed below. Bluff Creek. Bluff Creek. Where do I know Bluff

Next stop, very briefly, is Weitchpec - the local Indian term for “confluence“, where the Trinity and Klamath merge forces - a pretty sight indeed but a dull town, it seems, of rednecks, white trash, bored teenagers, and indigent Indians - probably not a fair nor accurate assessment of the town‘s demographics, but that‘s what I saw in ten minutes there stopped by the bridge and market. Down the road from there, just on the edges of the Hoopa Valley Tribe reservation, is Tish Tang. There’s a campground and river access allows cars to drive right up to choice holes. Hopefully, people do that only when laun

Our next stop is the pretty little active outdoors lifestyle tranquil community of Willow Creek, the self-proclaimed Big Foot Capital of the World, located at the juncture of Highways 96 and 299. Who lives here out in the sticks, I wonder? (Besides Big Foot.) Nearly ten percent are of native American ancestry, a half-percent are black; the vast majo

A festival, small but cheery, is livening up the day for a couple dozen or so very mellow town residents (and tourists?) selling arts, crafts and popcorn. A bluegrass - country band, fronted by three venerable native dudes who look Japanese, provides entertainment. We hang for a minute, listen to them belt out Kansas City, and then take a look-see in the town museum, which also has a wing specially dedicated to Big Foot. It’s a musty, chalky sort of smell that hangs in the air, as we check out exhibits of Indian artifacts of the various tribes -- the Hupa, Yurok, Karok, Chimariko an


We end our stay in the Willow Creek “designated census area” by parking on the bridge over the Trinity River just outside of town, and taking a well-worn path down to a nice sheltered spot, for a final swim in this historic and contentious river. It’s a popular place we soon find out - a group of ten tubers float by, the first of many river revelers to come. Oh, well, time to get moving anyway.
Diving Hwy. 299 west through

It’s 5 pm when we get there, ample time to take a hike, stretch out, unwind, enjoy this special Shangri-La forest. We take a 3 mile loop trail at some Founder’s Grove - I meant to remember which - near Redcrest, and soon we’re engulfed by an enormous canopy of trees towering high above, with a fairytale understory of gigantic sorrel and profuse thickets of great Western ferns sprouting amid fallen trees that are like elevated roads, whose root structures are twenty feet wide or more, and the humongous burned out stumps that are monuments in and of themselves, and the crowning glories of Hyperion-achieving Sequoia sempervirens, awesome specimens of longevity and adaptation in the plant world. Imagine when the entire continent was blanketed in these magnificent Methuselahs, some of which might have ro

And, to cap off the day the way we began it, we enjoy a dusky swim in the refreshing waters of the Middle Fork of the Eel River in the heart of Mendocino County. An oft-visited place, right off busy Hwy. 101, but now there’s no one about and it’s serene and beautiful enough at the near twilight hour to charm and entrance, if ever so briefly. Oblique rays of light cast long shadows and create the magical effect of reflective images rippling across the river. Our last dying gasp of visual splendor before the long drive home. Home. Wherever that may be, we take heart that we are, as Thoreau promised, “everywhere at home”.
3 Comments:
Thank you so much for blogging this roadtrip, Gambolin' Man. I grew up on the Klamath and it made me quite happily homesick. It's a magical place.
I don't think you care for people very much. I think they're as fascinating as nature! But your reverence for the natural world comes through in your beautiful photographs.
Carry on!
~willow~
Hey, your photographs are beautiful! Any chance you'd be willing to donate the use of some of those Klamath River shots to Klamath Riverkeeper? You can learn more about us at www.klamathriver.org.
THanks,
Malena Marvin
Outreach Director
Klamath Riverkeeper
You have definately made me homesick with your wonderful, descriptive writing about the magical place where I grew up. There's no place like it any where else in the country as far as I'm concerned, and I have been every where.
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