Tales From The Clavey River

My Dad would leave camp early in the AM to go fishing on the Clavey River. He would usually be gone for at least half of the daylight hours leaving me, my little sister, and my mom alone at camp.

In those early years, it was usually just our family which consisted of my Dad, my Mom, my little Sister, myself, and our dog Hobo. And you better believe that our mom would become like a mama bear when our dad left camp. You can imagine a beautiful, young woman with 2 cute little girls.

Alone.

In the middle of the Sierras.

In the middle of nowhere.

With not another living soul for many, many miles.

Certainly the likelihood of anyone within hearing distance was slim to nothing. Cell phones? The concept hadn’t even begun.

Each time before my dad would leave, they'd have the usual safety talk and affirm with each other what she is to do if a stranger approached out of the nowhere. My dad always checking 1st that the .38 caliber hand cannon they owned was locked and loaded with my mom checking it a 2nd time. Then she would strap it to her waste in a holster. My mom practiced often and she was a good shot. To the adults in our camping group her nickname became Annie Oakley.

You see, where we camped on the Clavey River...It was not the typical type of camping that most people know of and that my friends told me about. They would go on one camping trip every summer to the same “campground” every year, and it was only once a year. For a lot of families in 1970 it became a tradition.

They told me where they went you have to reserve a spot and pay a fee for a space to pitch a tent and park a vehicle in what looked like a parking lot. The campground could have hundreds of other campers. Most of which were strangers. And there was a 10:00pm quiet/bed time. Eeeek! Not only that, but there were bathrooms with toilets and showers, and running water and electricity. That kind of camping was foreign to me and from a very young age, I knew I would not be a fan of doing that.

Camping on the Clavey River was so different from my friend’s family camping trips. Our family went camping every weekend, not once every summer. We would drive up to Sonora in Northern California. Then continuing further North on SR 108, we would turn off at a small town called Long Barn. It was then that I would get this feeling. I can still remember it and I can only describe it as a calmness of being at home and at Peace. Because once we were off the paved roads, our camping journey would get surreal as we would drive deep into the Stanislaus Forest for 30 miles on Forest Service roads. These were dirt roads mind you, complete with ruts & rocks as well as creek & river crossings. I'll go ahead and mention that none of these crossings had any sort of bridge to drive on, but that's another story. I am a storyteller, but that one comes later.

Camping at the Clavey was not anything like the kind of camping my schoolmates spoke of every Summer. At the Clavey...There were no bathrooms, no toilets, no showers, no running water, no electricity, no reserving a spot, no fees, no people other than the ones we knew, and no rules!

That’s right...We squatted in the woods when we had to go to the bathroom and bathed ourselves in the icy Clavey River when we got dirty. We always had a rather large campfire that would burn most of the night; and we played music from my dad’s truck as late as we wanted and as loud as we wanted. There were no rules.

Oops, I got side tracked - My apologies. Back to the fish story...I would begin to anticipate my dad’s return around midday. I would start looking eagerly up and down the river never knowing which direction he would come in from. Finally, I would see him from a distance thru the trees...always with a stringer full of what must have been 20-25 Brook Trout.

I loved when he got back. Not only because I loved to eat the fish (ok, and because I missed him too), but because it meant he would be cleaning the fish. I loved watching that to see how many of them had eggs. I thought it was so cool to see all those eggs!

But then, when I was 8 or 9 years old, my dad asked me if I wanted to learn to clean the fish. Of course I did. "Really? You’re going to teach me?" He said, "Yes. Just follow my directions step by step. I’ll clean one first then I’ll give you the knife and a fish and walk you thru it."

"Ok, Hold the fish belly up in the palm of your hand holding its sides with your fingers & thumb. Take the knife and cut it up the middle from its, eh-hem, butt...all the way to its jaw, careful not to cut the jaw or mouth. Then put your fingers down its throat and your thumb in the cut right under the jaw grabbing as much of its guts as you can and pull it all out thru the mouth with a quick tug. Then hold the fish with its empty body open in the river and take your fingernail and run it from the bottom to the top of the spine scraping out the vein. Make sure it’s rinsed well then put it in the basket." From then on, I got to help my dad clean the fish.

But alas, you have not yet learned of my favorite part of this fish story. Right after the fish were all cleaned, I would start bugging my dad to cook them. If he wasn’t ready, I’d wait a little while then start asking again. And again. And again until he would. I loved that part the best because we would watch their eyeballs sizzle and pop as they were cooking! I would anxiously be watching and start asking my dad if the eyes were going to pop out? He would tell me that when I see the eyes start to sizzle, that meant they were going to pop. Then it would happen...

Sizzzzzzzzle,

Sizzzzzzzzle,

Poppppp!

I thought that was so cool! Is that sick or what???

“Boy Stuff”. That’s what you get when your dad, your 2 uncles, and your Papa looked like they were straight out of an episode from the TV show Bonanza! My dad had 2 girls so we grew up doing boy stuff. No wonder. Not a big deal these days, but for an 8 year old girl in the 70s who lived in Blossom Valley in South San Jose, California...It was not of the ordinary. Most of my schoolmates did not know about my separate camping life. At least, not until I began to ride dirt bikes. But that's another story. And...you guessed it, I am a storyteller.

Check back soon for my next story:

Tales from the Carson Valley - #1 Cattle Drive! Or

Tales from the Clavey River - #2 Donner Party Pt. 2, Near Miss!

Ciao!