For Thur., March 6, 1997 Drummer Column, Gibbs, 703 words

Spring falls

We have returned from an uneventful and momentous adventure.

Susan and I drove to the foothills in search of trailheads. I'm scouting for the spring Backpacking Club hike. We found only dead-ends, mudslides, and a shortage of local advice.

First we drove to the backside of Lake Oroville at Feather Falls, the 4th highest waterfall in California. We found a beautiful 7-mile day-hike up to the lookout point of the 640-foot falls, but we found no long trails with overnight campgrounds.

We drove deeper into the Sierras, up winding and unmarked Lumpkin Road for 35 miles. We saw only one vehicle all morning, a 4-wheel-drive pick-up that followed us the last 10 miles.

Suddenly, around the bend, out in the middle of nowhere, 35 miles from the intersection, wooden horses blocked the roadway. A "Closed" sign hung from the center one. A tractor slept along the berm.

We parked for a moment, wondering why the highway crew hadn't posted a sign 35 miles back at the freakin' intersection saying, "Road Closed 35 Miles Ahead. Don't waste all afternoon up here, Steve."

The people in the pick-up got out. They were boyfriend/girlfriend. They held hands and kicked the snow. We turned around.

Halfway back we recrossed a lone T-intersection that we'd ignored earlier. According to the topographic map, the western route, Porte Road, would take us first through hell and then to the same lake that the closed road had intended. We tried it. Eight winding miles later we came upon a string of wooden horses blocking the road. Propped against them was a "Closed" sign. A tractor slept along the berm.

We then turned the Camry around and drove back to Oroville, after 86 miles of wasted wandering.

Coming in that morning, we'd stopped at a restaurant to eat and learn the territory from the locals, but there were no locals. We'd asked the waitress if she'd ever hiked Feather Falls. "Only as an infant in a basket," she said.

Coming in that morning, we'd driven to the Dept of Forestry Headquarters at Lake Oroville, but they had no Saturday hours. We'd stopped and bought Snapple at the Gold Flake Saloon, halfway up the mountain, but the clientele didn't seem interested in discussing trailheads and campsites.

Now, coming out, it was 4 p.m. We decided to drive north on Highway 70 toward Quincy, 75 miles away. At one point the Pacific Crest Trail crosses 70. The trail leads to enticing lakes in either direction. I wanted to learn what I could by standing at the trailhead in the dark.

Five miles out of Oroville we found another sign. "Highway 70 closed 22 miles ahead."

"Well, at least they told us ahead of time," said Susan.

We turned around and cruised south, calling it a day. "I don't want to see another flood-damaged road, mudslide, or waterline for the rest of the weekend," I said, as we drove towards Marysville and Yuba City.

Long pause. "Marysville and Yuba City! Ahhhh! Left. Left."

We turned east on Highway 20 and drove to Nevada City, where we took a room at the Northern Queen Hotel.

That night we walked into town. We checked out a dozen fine, crowded restaurants in this small rural mountain town. Eventually, we settled on Friar Tuck's, an old favorite.

If you've never been to Nevada City, check out the night life, which means you'll need a room.

We slept until noon, ate an opulent breakfast, and headed home. Our goal was to get all the way to Sacramento on back roads. We slipped off 20 and drove south through the town of Cedar Ridge. We followed this road for several miles until we came to Chicago Park, where a right turn led through the towns of Shady Glen and Eden Valley. We came the back way into Loomis and through Newcastle, making it all the way to Roseville before climbing the ramp to I-80 and home.

The next day I drove to REI and bought $80 worth of reference materials. I'm scouting trails from home for now. I'll be looking at the coast from Oregon down. The foothills are just too wet and the mountains too snowy for our spring trips.