Siskiyou National Forest & the Salmon River

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The land out here is not entirely welcoming. As it should be: this area is nearly pristine, not a place you want to share. Those who live here suit themselves in spines, and rub elbows rarely.

Jon has been here for ten years, and has seen some things; he left word that we weren’t to go exploring the Salmon River willy-nilly. Some places are for us, some are private, and some are sacred. A few decades ago, a White man could die after sunbathing in the wrong spot; now, you might escape with a tongue-lashing, but it’s still not advisable to go tramping around in somebody else’s woods.

And so it is that I haven’t done much exploring here. But today was my last day in town, and rain was lowering, and I decided to take my chances in the Siskiyou Forest.

vines? roots? branches?

There’s nobody around, ever. A few trucks, a few dogs ramble up and down the 45-degree slopes on roads barely wide enough for two cars (and with precipitous embankments). You have to watch constantly for rock slides; the banks show clear evidence of erosion and crumbling, and you never know when you’ll round a corner and run smack into a fallen boulder. Everything depends on the rain. Water dug this canyon, and keeps digging as fast as it can. Tree roots are laid bare everywhere, signs of the amount of soil washed into the canyon each year. These roads don’t stand a chance against a good spring flood.

 

exposed roots in embankments. click to enlarge.

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Walking along the road a few days ago, Face and I looked over the edge and saw a car bumper, hundreds of yards down. It would have taken an hour to climb down to it, and we’d need ropes to get back up. Not an easy trip, but even now we’re both intrigued. Is there a body in that car? Did somebody drive off the road, some rainy night? Maybe, maybe not. Word is you’ve got 24 hours’ grace period if your car breaks down around here. After that, it’s trashed, set on fire, and pushed into a canyon.

I wonder a lot about the Native Americans who live around here. Everyone says they generally don’t put up with Whitey much, and I’m not surprised. This is one of the last few good spots in California, and I wouldn’t like to share it either. Besides, these tribes have managed to hang onto their ancestral territory, and every new hippie traipsing around in their Subaru & Tevas means a new threat. I get that. Still, if I were staying here longer, I might try to get the full story somehow. What it’s like, what they think of us.

But it’s my last day here, and I love a river more than a good story. I pull off the road in one of the Forest-Service-approved turnouts, and clamber down the cliff to spend a little time with the river gods.

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The water here is a color I haven’t seen since the Alps: a clear bluish-green. The color of snowmelt, too cold for algae and too high up for silt.

The rocks are mixed, everything from granite and quartz to sandstone. Lots of grayish-green clay, and exposed sediment layers where the river’s chewed through the silica. Water seeps from the rocks and banks, leaving stream-like paths of moss.

The water’s low now, but it’ll rise as soon as this rain arrives. The floods last year must have been huge: there are stranded roots everywhere, still clinging dryly to pebbles.

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I haven’t felt this alone on a river, perhaps ever. I know there’s nobody around, even though I’m barely two minutes’ walk from the road. But I still feel exposed; it’s probably all those tall tales of pernicious cougars and hungry bears. I tend to take those sorts of stories lightly, knowing how people love to exaggerate; still, it’s important to recognize when you’re not in Kansas. I’m not on my home turf, and it never hurts to be extra respectful of a place you don’t know.

Along the Salmon, where nature is generally untouched, any building sticks out like a sore thumb. This Forest Service outhouse has a new coat of paint which, even though I can’t read it, gives me another reminder that I’m far from home.

Time to leave, yes. This place is hanging onto its wildness by the skin of its teeth, and I have no business sticking around. Tomorrow, then, I hop a bus back to Oakland, and from there it’s on to Los Angeles.

Bye bye Siskiyou.

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