Forgotten Treasures #3: TROUT FISHING IN THE BERKELEY HILLS

Trout Fishing in the Berkeley Hills*


Since the days when Izaak Walton wrote The Complete Angler, men have
emulated his example, and gone forth with rod and reel to tempt the finny
tribe from dashing mountain brook or quiet river.

We, being his disciples, thought to follow his example, and spend the day in
the Berkeley hills whipping the stream for the wary brook trout.

April first is the open season for trout in California, but owing to the
scarcity of rain we feared the water in the brook would be too low for good
fishing. Providence favored us, however, with a steady downpour on
Wednesday, which put new hope in our hearts, and water in the stream; and we
decided to try our luck on Saturday afternoon, and take what came to our
hooks as a "gift of the gods."

Accordingly, we met at the Ferry Building, fully equipped, and took the boat
across San Francisco Bay, thence by cars to Claremont, and from there struck
into the hills. The wind blew cold from the bay, having a clear sweep up
through the Golden Gate, but as soon as we began to make the ascent our
coats became a burden.

It was a hard, tedious climb over the first range of hills, but upon
reaching the summit and looking down into the valley we felt well repaid for
our trouble, as we gazed in awed delight upon the magnificent view spread
out below us like a panorama.

The valley stretches out in either direction far below us, as if to offer an
uninterrupted flow for the mountain brook through which it passes. We
counted twelve peaks surrounding the valley, their rounded domes glowing
with the beautiful California poppy, like a covering of a cloth of gold,
while below the peaks the sloping sides looked like green velvet. Here and
there pine groves dotted the landscape, while madrones and manzanitas stood
out vividly against their dark-green background.

Orinda Creek, the object of our quest, runs through this beautiful valley,
shut in on each side by the hills. Along the trail leading to the stream
blue and white lupines grow in profusion, giving a delicate amethyst tinge
to the landscape. Wild honeysuckle, with its pinkish-red blossoms, is on
every side and the California azalea fringes both banks of the stream, its
rich foliage almost hidden by magnificent clusters of white and yellow
flowers, which send out a delightful, spicy fragrance, that can be detected
far back from the stream.

The meadow larks called from the hillside their quaint "Spring o' the year,"
the song sparrows sang their tinkling melody from the live oaks, catbirds
mewed from the thicket, and occasionally a linnet sang its rollicking solo
as it performed queer acrobatic feats while on the wing.

Ahead of us a blue jay kept close watch over our movements, but at last
decided that we are harmless, and with a last shriek of defiance flew away
to pour out his vituperations on other hapless wanderers.

Adjusting our rods, and baiting our hooks with salmon roe, we crept down to
where a little fall sent the water swirling around a rock, making a deep
pool, and an ideal place for trout. Dropping our lines into the rapids, we
let the bait float down close to the rock in the deep shadows. As soon as it
struck the riffle there was a flash of silver, and the game was hooked. Away
he went, the reel humming a merry tune as he raced back and forth across the
pool, the rod bent like a coach whip, the strain on the line sending a
delightful tingle to our finger tips. But he soon tired of the unequal
contest, and was brought safely to the landing net. He was by no means a
large fish, as game fish are reckoned, but to my mind it is not always the
largest fish that gives the keenest sport.

From one pool to another we passed, wetting a line in each with fair
success, scrambling over logs and lichen-covered rocks, wading from one side
of the stream to the other, until the lengthening shadows warned us to wind
in our lines and start for home. Well satisfied we were with the thirty-two
trout reposing at the bottom of our basket.

Our long tramp and the salt sea air had made us ravenously hungry, and the
sandwiches that provident wives had prepared for us were dug out of
capacious pockets and eaten with a relish that an epicure might covet. I
shall never forget the trip back. Night overtook us before we were out of
the first valley, the ascent was very steep, and we had to stop every few
rods to get our wind.

At last we reached the summit of Grizzly Peak, seventeen hundred and
fifty-nine feet above sea level, while to our right Bald Peak, nineteen
hundred and thirty feet high, loomed up against the sky. The path on Grizzly
was so narrow we had to walk single file, and a false step would have sent
us rolling down hundreds of feet.

The view--although seen in vague outline--was magnificent. Berkeley and
Oakland lay seventeen hundred feet below us, their twinkling lights glowing
through the darkness like fireflies. Out on San Francisco Bay the lights
flashed from the mastheads of ships at anchor or from brightly lighted
ferryboats plying from mole to mole, while far to the left, Lake Merritt lay
like a gray sheet amid the shadows. In the middle distance off Yerba Buena
Island two United States gunboats were at anchor, one of them sending the
rays of its powerful searchlight here and there across the water, and making
a veritable path of silver far out across the bay.

Jack rabbits and cotton-tails scurried across our path and dodged into
thickets. An owl flapped lazily over our heads and sailed away down the
valley, evidently on his nocturnal hunting. But we had little time or
inclination to give to these mountain creatures, as we had to pay strict
attention to our footing.

The last descent proved to be the hardest, for the grade was as steep as the
roof of a house, but we finally succeeded in scrambling down, and at last
reached the grove surrounding the Greek Amphitheater; then home, footsore
and weary, but happy with our afternoon's outing on the trout streams in the
Berkeley Hills.

_____________________________________________

*From "Byways Around San Francisco Bay", by W. E. Hutchinson
Originally published by Abingdon Press. c1915

This work is in the public domain. According to the license agreement at my
source, I may not name that source here without including the entire license
agreement......which is much too long and dull. To the best of my
knowledge, the use of this material here does not violate either that
agreement or U.S copyright law.



Wolfgang