There’s a stretch of the East Walker River, just outside of the town of Bridgeport off of Highway 395, that is known by anglers as the “miracle mile.” Mike had heard of this spot for close to twenty years, and recently got further directions from his brother Alan, also an avid fisher.
A day later than when we dropped Caleb off, we left Yosemite with the intention of finding this holy grail of fishing on our way to the next stop.
When Mike pulled off to the side of Highway 395 at a likely-looking pullout beside the East Walker River, I got out of the car and was engulfed in the sights, smells, and sounds of early morning in the Sierra high desert.
Meadowlarks sang, crickets buzzed, large busy ants crawled over piles of sand and dry stone. The air was filled with the scent of vanilla and incense cedar, a delicious combination of early summer’s blooming.
The river turned out to be disappointingly choked with algae and flowing low due to drought, even so early in the season. We didn’t see any of the gently moving shadows in the water that indicated the presence of fish.
The “miracle mile” was a bust—this year at least.
Mike continued to investigate, tramping along the overgrown riverbank with his pole, while Koa and I took shelter in the shade of a fir tree. It was coated in golden pollen that covered the tips of each branch. I couldn’t resist rubbing the mustard-colored powder between my palms, sniffing the smell of pine.
The dust on my fingers reminded me of the story of the Three Wise Men with their offerings of gold, frankincense and myrrh. The fir’s pollen seemed like an alchemy of all of those three.
“Tree spunk,” our son Caleb had called the pollen crudely—he was allergic and avoided the stuff.
I rubbed the pollen between my fingers and held it to my nose, enjoying its potent scent. “Forest fairy dust,” I pronounced. Koa wagged his tail, assuming I was telling him some important nugget.
I was still meditating on how the words we use and the names we call things elicit different emotional responses. Forest fairy dust definitely brought a different emotion than tree spunk, but I liked the contrast, too. Dusting off my hands, I knew I was struggling with an emotional hangover from Caleb’s departure.
We got back in the car, a silent cloud over both of us. Mike was irritable about the Miracle Mile being a bust, and I was still in that nostalgic/sad mood I couldn’t seem to shake.
We were headed for a place Mike had found online called Carson River RV Resort near the small town of Markleeville, outside of Tahoe. We’d been to the area several times in the past and knew it to be beautiful countryside with good fishing.
Mike has been planning the trip so far due to my lack of interest, so fishing spots featured heavily as destinations.
I didn’t mind that. For me, the journey was the thing. As long as we were in a nice place in nature and the weather was tolerable, I didn’t much care where we were going. We were on The Big One. We had the luxury of time, for once in our lives.
We turned the rig and joined the same road we had driven Caleb on to reach the PCT, precipitous Route 108 that went to the top of Sonora Pass. I distinctly remembered loudly declaring that it would be a very bad idea for us to tow on that road, and being nervous on the drive.
When I saw which direction we were headed, I burst out, “I don’t want go on that route over the mountain with the trailer. It’s not safe or acceptable!”
“We’re not going that way, we’re going on 89. The turnoff is off of this road,” Mike snapped. “And if you would bother to look at the map and see where we were headed, you would know that.”
“I didn’t feel safe on that road and I told you I didn’t want to take the trailer on it!” I was too freaked out to register what he was saying. I was anxious as hell about going on a road I’d found scary even without towing a five thousand pound trailer.
“And if you would listen to me, you would hear me telling you that we’re not going over that pass.” Mike’s words were loud and measured. “I would like you to get involved with planning the trip and researching any questions you have ahead of time. I’m not your guide, or your encyclopedia.”
I folded my lips mutinously and stared out the window. He had a point, but I wasn’t about to concede it.
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