AMERICAN RIVER CANYON COUNTRY: Seeking Mysterious Fountains of Heaven and the Plash of Gleaming Cascades in Hidden California




On a scorching August day – around your 57th birthday (gulp!) - you head up to foothill canyonland country to see what you can see. You really want Gambolin’ Gal to experience the NFMFAR, because she was unable to accompany on last year’s Bogus Thunder birthday trip. But Bogus Thunder is out of the question, so that leaves . . .where? And how would access be? - always a notoriously difficult proposition in these parts. A quick internet search turns up not a whole lot on NFMFAR – a nice video made by one “Daniel of Auburn” who scrambles down from the bridge and proceeds to river whack his way to some heap-big-beautiful spots. . .nice fall-back plan, Daniel’s, but you’re worried about Gambolin’ Gal being able – or willing to – negotiate the unstable slope. Another quick search informs you of a very “easy” trailhead just before the bridge. That’s what you’re looking for!



You’re looking for a slippery, hard-to-notice trail
off the side of the road, any trail leading to a paradisiacal, hard-to-get-to
river on the North Fork of that infinitely more famous and well-rafted Middle
Fork. It’s easy to m
iss, and you right drive on by. You
make a dangerous U-turn in the road and steer back to the little pull off, get
out of the car and fume and fret a bit before suddenly noticing a grade winding
down the steep ridge face. The river lay some 200 feet below, you calculate; well,
if that’s over the course of just a mile, it can’t be all that bad (for
American River Canyon Country). But the trail turns out to be full of twists
and turns and is quite steep in places and slippery as ice owing to a fine
accumulation of smooth, colorful bay and oak leaves carpeting the ground. You
keep insisting to Gambolin’ Gal, who keeps insisting otherwise, that this HAS
to be the trail described in the Web instructions – aren’t all Web instructions
intentionally misleading? - because it truly is an “EAS
Y” trail. She laughs and
waves you off when you explain that by American River Canyon Country standards
– where trails can drop over 2000 ft. in under 3 miles – this IS easy. She
doesn’t agree, and you concede - it is neither easy nor the right trail. But the
good news. . .it’s less than twenty minutes down to the river - unheard of in the labyrinthine reverse
mountains of American River Canyon Country.
You learn all this later on, though, after deciding
to “play it safe” and just day hike down to the river – because (hand clasp
fretting!), because (worried eyes rolling heavenward), because what if it IS
the wrong place and the trail IS brutishly long and unforgiving and there IS no
good camping and there ARE hungry bears. Then what? Taking no chances in
American River Canyon Country, you load up day packs with munchies, camera and
binoculars, river shoes, extra clothes, bottles of water, and – c’maaaaan,
Gambolin’ Man – a Sunday NYT crossword puzzle? You’re thinking – geez! - might
as well haul everything down while you’re at it! But it’s too late now, you’re
boltin’ down the untrammeled track, evincing proof that it’s a scarcely trod
way down. In a few minutes, you come to a vague T in the trail where you stop,
drink some agua, eat a handful of apricots and walnuts, then go off exploring a
side branch – a promising route until a massive tangle of thorny brambles turns
you back, but not before stopping to gorge on mouth-wa


Returning to the vague T, you find Gambolin’ Gal kicked
back on the trail awaiting your gallant return (in your mind). She asks what’s
up. You confidently assert the trail is “that-a-way”, pointing the opposite
direction along a vaguely delineated trail line. You’re eager to volunteer to
scout ahead while she continues her leisurely idyll under a shady canopy of stunted
Black Oak trees. It’s just breezy and shady enough to forget it’s 108 degrees
with a dry zephyr rolling through. The trail doesn’t have too many obstacles
(downed tree, overgrown section), and not a whole lot of downhill - not so bad
after all. Nearing the river, the trail is now just ten feet above the flood
bank, but you can’t get down the bank. Well, you could, but you might hurt
yourself, so why do something stupid. Plus, you ask your
self, backing away from
a tomfoolery attempt to vertically drop to the river bed via some deft
maneuvering (in your mind) down precarious wobbly boulders, why bother when the
trail is actually in pretty decent condition. You encounter just one more hairy
spot, a nothing little wash-out you have to negotiate, no big deal but you
could get hurt if you slipped, so you’re grateful for the sturdy root bangle hand-hold
jutting out of the side of the cliff, perfectly positioned for safe clutching and
ideal for propelling your momentum across the defile in a nifty little move.
Once past that, it’s smooth sailing. A couple of moldering mounds of old
miners’ garbage - why are they such inveterate junksters? An easy surmounting
of a big rock. The trail dipping down to unveil from the riparian curtain of
vegetation a perfect TEN campsite river scene! Not quite what y
ou were
expecting.
Quick, got to get back up to Gambolin’ Gal and get your
butts back down this trail pronto. Get situated under those welcoming shady
alder trees offering up a wealth of comfort and shelter from the sizzling buzz
and crackling hum of the hot summer day. Oh, yeah, can’t forget - drink that
rapidly warming beer. First things first - you take a moment to check out just
how strikingly beautiful and remote seeming it all seems. That lovely rill-ver!
Look at ‘er, still flowing nicely in late August despite a tell-tale sign of low
flow: alga growth in the showcase swimming hole fronting the camping area. In
your haste, or just your excitement, you barely notice the old miners’ bridge
from maybe the 1930s. 

Got to go get Gam
bolin’ Gal now! Heading back, you
get turned around thinking you came this way when in fact it was the other
direction; you stumble about a bit, bang your knee, knock your sore ankle,
brush up into thick poison oak. You begin having panicky thoughts about getting
lost and what with poor Gambolin’ Gal languishing there trailside, who knows, a
mountain lion or demented miner stalking her, you scramble to get your bearings
and soon you’re back on track once you come back upon the miner’s old trash
heap. From there, it’s an easy retrace back to Gambolin’ Gal, who’s waiting
patiently in the shade, surprised to see you so soon. (So soon? You’re thinking.
. .weren’t you gone like four hours?) Out of breath and barely containing your
excitement, you e
asily convince her it’s doable.
No sooner are you down in the canyon, marveling at
the beauty and isolation, than you announce your wired up intentions to race
back up to the car to get all the camping gear at once – cursing yourself for
not doing it in the first place. You get everything you “need” – sleeping bags,
ground pads, water purifier, food, cooking stove and gas, pots, mugs and
utensils, more extra clothing – all in one man-sized haul, everything stuffed
in your big REI Mars pack or bungeed on the outside – look at you, ya big lug,
loaded down like an old fart 49-er on his last leg, and you’re good to go.
(First things first, though – that still-cool beer to suck down, you mean savor.)

From the time you leave Gambolin’ Gal all by her
lonesome, and race up the steep hillside, gather your things together, fumble
with the newfangled security fob on the rental, and race back down, only 35
minutes have passed! Unheard of! But that’s how close you are to the car! Do
not let that 35 minutes fool you – it’s a mofo getting in and out of here; and you
just happen to be a scampering billy goat, with a bad wheel, but hey, the
difficulty, the getting there and back and there again isn’t about to stop you.
If it keeps most people out, so be it, and thankee. (Besides, what are the
mobile web app internet addicted among us going to do down there anyway, just
sitting on a bunch of rocks for hours on end staring at the water. . .)
Happy and relieve

It’s a beautiful natural world. You suddenly notice the miners’ bridge just
downstream – a 100 ft. span of rusted metal – a relic from another era when
miners relied on the vital connector to get their loaded down draft mules from
one claim to another. On first glance it’s an annoying feature blotching up the
scenery, but on second consideration you come to appreciate its presence for
what it is, for what it represents – an icon of blood, sweat, tears, labor and
drudgery of those who chose to placer and lode mine for a living in
California’s Gold Country. Most returned home tired and broken and beaten. Today,
this is a heavily “claimed” land, with clearly marked “Private” notices posted.
You get to wondering about claims – what gives someone the right to “own”
(claim) a piece of natural land under government jurisdiction for the use,
benefit and enjoyment of
all the public? The government gives that right to all
citizens. So is it first come first serve? Who are the lucky claim jumpers who
got first dibs on the rich lodes? How long can they keep a claim as theirs? Are
they handed down from family to family, generation to generation, until the
treasures are depleted? Or are there “term limits”? And surely, a “Private”
claim cannot embar you or me from being there, enjoying the public land, right.
Rousseau hit the nail on the head with his observation that “you are lost if
you forget that the fruits of the earth belong to all and the earth to no one!”
So far as
you can tell, ain’t no claimants around
these parts. You’ve got the place all to yourselves – you and the resident
animal population! Just how you like it. You’re thrilled at your “discovery” –
your serendipitous blundering to find this secret little spot – in hidden California – dreamily idling the day away on an isolated stretch of the river reminiscent
of last year’s Bogus Thunder trip. On a smaller scale, to be sure, and with but
a hint of the grandeur of that truly wild place. Still, here, right here, is a
revelation of pristine beauty. You and Gambolin’ Gal just keep shakin’ your
heads, like, man, can you believe it? At first you try not to notice glimpses
of vehicular traffic high above on an arc of roadway cutting across the ridge
face – rafter vans, motorcycles, even a cement truck whizzes by. You laugh at
the absurdity, at the contrast of being s
o “remote” yet within eyeshot of a
fairly steady stream of Sunday traffic! You can see them, but doubtful they can
see you, or the pretty thread of blue green river far below in the canyon, their
eyes fixed on the winding, narrow road. Chalk it up to the subtle splendors of
hidden California.
You spend the remaining inscrutable hours idling about
under a colony of shady alders, waiting out the dragon-breath sirocco blowing
through daily for a couple of hours before abruptly stopping. You swim
endlessly in the deep pools, up and downstream from the campsite; off you go exploring,
checking out the bridge pilings, the rickety structure, a surviving section of
moss-covered rock wall. You take note of the extraordinary perfectly chiseled
round, deep holes created in the rock by repetitive swirling water action over
thousands of years. Downstream, the river narrows into a squeeze channel
flanked by finely sculpted “Ohlone blue” bedrock, with elephantine tufts of
Indian rhubarb springing up from the shoals. Across the way is a Mining Claim, impeccably
neat, and clearly marked “Private”. You cross the river and climb up the
embankment to check things out, find nothing of particular interest (another
pile of trash stashed in a pit beneath a manzanita tree), sn
So far as



You head back upstream to explore in the opposite
direction. It’s an easy walk along a few hundred yards on smooth sculpted
bedrock, dry as a bone now but flushed clean every winter by ravishing snowmelt
waters that steamshovel everything in its way, casting piles of driftwood high onto
rock shelves. Eventually, an impenetrable chaos of boulders forces you veer away
to the shiny thread of river where
you boulder hop a few hundred more yards
until – Lo! - you come to an Olympian-sized emerald pool that stops you in your
Keen tracks.

An angular sun refracts gorgeous Goddess beams, mirroring
deep reflections of salmon-colored hillsides, shimmering images of alabaster
rock formations voluptuous in their soft hardness, and dense stands of conifers
and alders creating a mirage of a forest on the undulating surface. The pool is
deep enough to dive into from a high ledge, not that ten feet of water is any
big deal, but late in the summer, with snow melt and spring run-off winding
down, a pool of depth and clarity such as this is a beautiful and magical thing
to – not just behold – but to immerse in and become part of, which you waste no
time doing. The next several hours are a lovely interlude of a lazy day
unfolding, just you
and Gambolin’ Gal, with no purpose or agenda; finding this
perfectly wonderful spot to kick back; relaxing on perfectly form fitting
therapeutic hot rocks; swimming and frolicking in perfectly cool water; sitting
back and taking in Mother Nature’s perfectly unnoticed events and occurrences –
a refulgent inch long black wasp, drunken with nectar, flitting around a white flowering shrub; a green stink bug plummeting to the water in an odd death
spiral; swarms of minnows nibbling skin bits at your ankles; gigantic
dragonflies patrolling, occasionally darting to the rippling surface to snatch
up mouthfuls of swarming gnats; a scrub jay letting loose; and finally, it’s
been a while, you hear the high pitched whistle of Ms. Canyon Wren paying you a
visit. Indeed, your lame imitation earlier of Mr. Canyon Wren has brought her
down from the cliff face to peck and inspect just ten feet away from you –
unheard of! Such a close encounter makes you wonder if perhaps she’s never seen
a human being, and is just curious as to what kind of creature you are. She
doesn’t stick around long, though. From this dreamy reverie, you suddenly look
up, distracted by a mechanized roar – wtf?! High above in the distance is a yellow
sign on the road. Through your binoculars, as you suspected, it’s a 15 mph
curve sign. Just then three motorcycles race by, their revving motors echoing
for a nerve-shattering second. It hardly matters, since they’re up there, and
you’re down here, worlds apart. Universes apart. That’s the last time you even
notice traffic above.

Nightfall approaches, the magical hour. A lackadaisical
time to quietly sit by the river, sneak in a final dip, listen
to whispering
winds, and await for the day to fade into darkness - the undefinable,
protracted crepuscular hour, a twilit gloaming where silhouettes and shadows
take on spooky visages and time seems to stop. Old timey music combined with nonsense
chatter and imagined growling creatures are unsettling aural hallucinations
adding melodrama to the moment. Then the bats come out – more than you’ve ever
seen at once above the river sky. You watch several of them masterfully demo
their hunting prowess, plying along an inch above the water in lightning quick
coordination, snatching up mouthfuls of gnats swirling on the surface of this
insect-rich pool, feeding to their heart’s content, performing incomprehensibly
adroit aerial maneuvers aided by sleek aeromechanic body design and super advanced
powers of echolocation. Amazing creatures. . .and hopefully this species is unaffected
by “white nose syndrome” devastating bats across North America. A few are drawn
to your dazzling output of red heat wave energy, too close for comfort, and so
you stagger back up to your sleeping area, spread out on a simple sheet beneath
the great exposed firmament of the vast glimmerings of the Milky Way Galaxy -
where after a long, hard day of sun-drenched calorie-burning activity, it’s
easy to drop into a daze. You’re barely able to stay awake to spot an asteroid,
but you persevere in consciousness until a final “Whoa!” moment to witness
a flaming bolt of yellow orange fire streaking across the sky. Fading, fading, good night, sweet night, pleasant dreams until dawn’s early light.
Bonus video coverage of Gambolin' Man luxuriating in the sculpted soaking tub:
And if you missed the epic post of last year's Bogus Thunder episode, check it out!
http://gambolinman.blogspot.com/2011/09/bogus-thunder-strenuous-exploration-of.html

Bonus video coverage of Gambolin' Man luxuriating in the sculpted soaking tub:
And if you missed the epic post of last year's Bogus Thunder episode, check it out!
http://gambolinman.blogspot.com/2011/09/bogus-thunder-strenuous-exploration-of.html