If you’re looking for somewhere to crack a rib, the Middle Fork of the American River is a fine choice.
Flows vary widely, and dry riverbed is abundant. In other words: lots of rocks.
The Middle Fork American originates near Palisades Tahoe ski resort and is icy cold. If you can stand in this water long enough to encounter a trout or two without getting numb feet, please share your trick. Wool socks aren’t it.
Try to time your crash for late in your visit; there’s nothing anyone can do for a cracked rib, and you won’t want to move much for six weeks or so, never mind make a reach cast. My own fall followed my last moments on the river, while hiking out for the drive home. My head said “step over that big one,” but my feet heard nothing, and next thing I knew, I was lying on top of my fishing rod [points at sky in tribute] and cursing the boulders at eye level. The drive home sucked.
The spill has lingered in my fishing soul for longer than I’d have expected. This is me trying to get it out.
Fishing is humbling. I’d netted one trout all weekend and seen just a few follows despite perfect flows, weather, visible insect activity, generous advice, early starts, late finishes, and yes, extra weight to get to the bottom.
The weekend was frustrating in that compounding way that river fishing can produce. Around each bend was another pool of my dreams. Nymphs were drifted, streamers swung, hatches matched (ish). Everything was working except the fish part.
My last Sunday-afternoon pool—the one before the crash—was extraordinary. The river split just above it; half the water continued through a slot at the tail end while the other half eddied in a perfect circle from chest-height to an unknowable depth. An underwater sandbar, straight as a fashion runway, provided access to the center of the pool; I fished for two hours in slow, 360-degree revolutions. One follow. No eats. Frustrating.
On this train of thought my spill was the caboose in a string of bad luck. A disappointing weekend’s final memory would be a painful one.
Also in my fishing soul: such gratitude!
How did I fall face-first in a dry riverbed and not suffer a concussion or worse? In my mind’s eye, there were small patches of dirt in the area. I fell in the one spot for miles around where my head could land on soft soil. There were people around, but not nearby. If immobilized, I would have been there a while.
In my heart of hearts, I know that my frustration from that last fruitless pool showed up in my clumsy fall. When I should have been most cautious, my head was elsewhere. My cracked rib is an obvious, lingering lesson in staying present.
And that river! Two and a half days of fascinating water, something exciting around every bend, no cell reception. I may or may not return to that exact spot on the Middle Fork of the American someday, but I certainly will never go back in time. In this narrative it was two days of California magic culminating in a miracle I wasn’t more hurt.
Of the two stories, I chose the latter, starting now.
