Following the Tide at Noyo

The Noyo is not one of those dramatic rivers which fall sharply through dangerous rocks, nor is it noteworthy in term of length or contents—a dozen or more equivalent rivers exist nearby, and although a great deal of logging has been done along its banks, only small-time timber operators remain in the area.

It is instead the sort of river which exists in everyone’s memory, either consciously or unconsciously, a stretch of swimming holes, fishing holes, rail trestles and monotonous paths between berry patches and woods that in some spots are untamed. In and near it one can find sustenance, both physical and spiritual. I speak from experience, having found sport, food, shelter and escape along its length; having sunk to its gritty bottom and forded its merest origins, deep in the hills.

Such rivers are fundamental to the myths and realities of our history, but they are also the location of our earliest, simplest, most satisfying memories, for the simple reason that we build our lives around them. The oldest villages were made near rivers. All human cultures logically orient their activities to the cycles and products of the nearest river or creek; the gold rush itself was nothing less than an uprooting and displacing of numerous rivers, agriculture and industry are inseparable from rivers.

Growing up along the Noyo I naturally spent a good deal of time in and around it, but I had never floated on it. Except for an ill-considered attempt to build a raft out of green logs one winter, and some inner tubing, I was a landlubber as far as my favorite river was concerned.

So when the opportunity finally came along I was excited to finally make my journey through the tidal zone with no public access, which I had hardly seen except for the logging road bridge.

People would arrive in canoes at our swimming hole just above the tunnel every once in a while, but casual kayaking was unheard of in Fort Bragg when I grew up.

By now, it has become at least a small business to the company called Liquid Fusion, which maintains a small fleet of rental kayaks. Access to the river on South Harbor Drive is uncomplicated, with easy free parking if you look for it.

To make the upstream trip, timing is critical. I jumped the gun slightly by getting in the water at 11 am for a 2:30 high tide of around five feet. Waiting another hour would have made it easy to reach the tunnel, or come close. I have seen extraordinary high tides reach a mile or so past the tunnel, but most days it backs up the riffles at the tunnel and a curve or maybe two beyond. At its upper limit the tidal influence is more a slowing down of flow than a stoppage: the water is still fresh and moving downstream although at a slowed pace.

It was interesting to observe the flow into pools along the river, which sat dry in the sun until breached, filled rapidly, then became lost under the flat sheen of stilled current. The work of the tide has prevented the kind of clean sandy beaches common upstream: the banks were lined with growth, elderberry in green fruit, ferns of several kinds, especially on the south bank, alder, willow and redwood, and where the growth was interrupted the banks below the high water line were mossy, damp and still littered with recently-collected woody debris.

Being early had the benefit of providing solitude: we saw nobody on the river as we paddled upstream to the point where the riffles were visible, at least a mile but not much more. We beached on a gravel bar to have a snack and watched the water fill behind us at a pace that was just noticeable enough to provide a narrative. My bare feet were dry when we sat, under an inch of water about twenty minutes later. We were able to traverse another bend or two before we encountered a windfall that we could have rounded half an hour later, within sight of a gravel bar that would have made a nice picnic spot in the sun.

It was easy enough to cruise back down against the tide, letting the breeze push us part of the way and seeking shelter from it along the south bank at times. Around the logging bridge we began to encounter other kayakers heading upstream. Local knowledge helped them predict the optimum time to set off to catch the peak water level.

The best wildlife experience was the display put on by osprey living near the mooring basin. They actively hunted around the berthed boats, coming up with fish that they transported to nests in ghostly lichen-hung timber on the north bank.

There were Canada geese and mergansers on the water everywhere, with a few mallards and unidentified ducks scattering ahead of us, and the usual crowd of turkey vultures, sometimes swooping low overhead, and roosting in a big redwood near the logging bridge.

The upper river, from the tunnel to Irmulco and the mountain beyond, is easily explored by rail. We heard the steam engine firing off downtown, and once or twice it seemed to be coming from upstream. Special trains catering to wine, beer and food have replaced the old-school ride on the M-300 which I took a few times.

It and others like it used to pass the swimming hole at regular intervals between morning and afternoon. With the Super Skunk coming along at the end of the day. It was common to see them on the Pudding Creek side while fishing in the morning and on the Noyo side while swimming in the afternoon.

Most of the time the people on the railcoach waved and smiled and we did the same, but there were times when at least some of the boys found ways to express their creativity through performance art which sometimes looked surprisingly like a line of adolescents bending over with their cutoffs around their ankles, hoping to photobomb unsuspecting grannies.

I’ve heard they succeeded at least part of the time. Such antics caused a nostalgic reflex when a group of teens treated the Amtrak train I was riding to a similar exhibition several years ago outside Fernley, Nevada.

#noyo #tide #osprey #geese #birdwatching