The Lost Sierra

Alli and I were jonesing for a night in nature.  Memorial Day plans got rained out, the valley was nearing triple digit temperatures and the heavy snowpack was just starting to recede from the lower alpine.  Since I was a kid I’d read in mountain bike magazines about a magical town tucked into a deep canyon in the mountains of Northern California.  The town was Downieville and the mountains were the Lost Sierra. 

Downieville, they wrote, was a timeless village that hosted a freewheeling bike race that defied every convention of the glossy professional race circuit.  Like so many Northern California towns with both gold rush and back-to-the-land hippy histories, Downieville did things differently and I’d always wanted to visit.

With most of the mountain bike trails still choked with snow and the famous race still two months away, we grabbed our kayak and set our sights a few miles further up the road in Sierra City, to camp along the Salmon Creek and fish the incomparable Lower Sardine Lake.

Shortly past New Bullards Bar Reservoir, we met up with the Yuba River, flush with snowmelt.  Much of river is steep and cascading, decorated with massive boulders carved into sculptures by centuries of strong current.  Other areas are flat and rolling and appear painted by the imagination of a fly fisherman.

Everything is hemmed in from the skyline down by a thick evergreen forest that combs moisture from the mountain air, making the region a rich, fertile green.  Small farms and large properties dot the Golden Chain Highway, growing gardens, grass, fruit trees and broad beds of red poppies.

In Downieville, a sheriff idled in the center of town.  Things really hadn’t changed much since its heyday of the 1850s.  In fact, population has gone down.  It’s an adorable little village, charming enough to be touristy without having a bunch of gift shops or parking meters.  We crossed the old single lane bridge over the Downie River and kept on.

Ten miles up from Downieville is the handsome town of Sierra City.  On Main St. you’ll find a general store, a gift shop, a gas station, a coffee shop, a library, a saloon, a lodge and not a ton else.  The Pacific Crest Trail intersects the town and we met a solo through hiker sorting his gear at the public restrooms.   In Sierra City you begin to see the Sierra Buttes, the volcanic giants that mark the entire Lost Sierra.  We were heading their way.

At 8590 feet, the Sierra Buttes dominate the landscape.  A drive up the Gold Lake Highway gets you toward their base and the beautiful lakes that catch their melt.  The highway had reopened for the summer just days before with the last of the snow being plowed away.

Salmon Creek Campground was a ghost town, with maybe five of the thirty-one sites occupied.  We claimed a private spot at the far end of the grounds and set up camp before driving around the corner to Lower Sardine Lake.

Lower Sardine Lake is among the most spectacular lakes in California, especially among those you can drive to.  A small family resort from the forties sits on one end with a small boat launch and public parking.  On the other end, the buttes rise immediately from the shore, with a band of trees giving way to black cliffs and wide white snowfields. 

The lake is clean and clear and holds native brook trout and stocked rainbows.  No swimming allowed and resort rents row boats equipped with small trawlers.

Out on the water I cracked a beer and started casting.  It was midday but the air was crisp and windy and the water was ice cold so the trout had no reason to be lazy.  Nearly immediately I felt a bite but couldn’t set the hook.  A good sign at least. 

We let the wind push us to the far end of the lake, up against the buttes where a thick waterfall poured diagonally down a drainage chute.  I hooked into another one.  It put up a fight, my reel hissing with drag, but I pulled it up within moments.  A nice rainbow about ten inches long.  I tugged on my rod to bring the fish onto the surface to grab it when with one kicked it spit the barbless hook.  This would become a theme.

We paddled hard upwind, parking in a shallow cove for a few minutes to wait out a gale.  Ten minutes later the wind had all but vanished and it began to feel like summertime: warm, fishing on the lake under a cloudless sky in the mountains.  I hooked three more fish, never getting them closer than a few feet from the boat.  It was, in my rose colored interpretation, not lost fish but gold standard catch and release.  We all had fun in the end.

Back on shore we had a snack on the deck at the resort.  Sardine Lake Resort has a restaurant and a number of cabins in the woods beside the lake.  There’s also a small boathouse bar attached to the dock on the water.  It was nearing 5:00 and we waited for it to open.

At 5:00 the tiny boathouse was already brimming, some older couples, a bachelorette party, a group of friends.  It was remarkable to see: a tiny bar at a humble resort in the mountains, filled with all sorts of people up from the city.  It was a moment where you feel connected to history, to bygone generations for better or worse.  It’s a treat that places like that still exist and we enjoyed the sunset with a gin and tonic each.

Back at camp the sky was turning fuchsia and deep purple and we walked the campground loop along the rushing Salmon Creek.  Wildflowers were still nearing peak bloom with winter barely moved out.

We built a fire and grilled quesadillas, had another beer and turned in early, playing Crazy Eights in the tent.  I won two out of three.

In the morning I woke up early and went back to the lake to try to land a fish once and for all.  Nothing.  But the light was incredible and I got a couple photos for my efforts.  It was getting time to head home and I was feeling anxious about leaving.  Back soon I assured myself and the trout who were at this point leaping out of the water by twos right in front of me.  I watched an osprey circle the lake, dive and pull a flopping rainbow from the water and called it a morning.

Alli was awake at camp and we packed up quickly.  Back soon we said. 

Alli was craving pancakes and we decided to get breakfast in Downieville.  We stopped at Downieville Outfitters which, including selling and fixing bikes and running shuttles around the network of trails, serves coffee, breakfast and lunch.  Unfortunately pancakes weren’t on the menu.  We confessed we were inflexible on the pancakes, apologizing that we would have to move on when the owner looked at us with wide eyes, speechless for a moment and said, “Well I can do pancakes.” 

“You sure?”/”Sure!” So we happily agreed.  Just $4.00 for her troubles!

We sat out on their gorgeous patio along the Downie River and talked about the history of the place and the strategy of ever being able to have a house in town.  It reminded us of Vermont in a way, the wire fences along the old houses with green yards. But in the shadow of the buttes, it was distinctly California.

The pancakes were fantastic and there’s no better al fresco around.  Thanks again, Sabrina!

The town was filled with mountain bikers.  It turns out the lower trails were dry and ripping.  A culture was apparent and I felt at home.  Back soon, we said again.

It’s understandable why it’s called the Lost Sierra.  The quaint library, the dockside drinks, the empty campground and open land.  There’s no cell service in or around any of the towns.  But the area knows exactly where it’s at.  Much remains the same by choice and effort.  Downieville Outfitters doesn’t just take advantage of the trails, they maintain them too.  A reinvented fishing lodge, Lure, just reopened in town.  The little bar on Sardine Lake was packed. 

We also saw several for sale signs on shuttered lodges, restaurants and stores.  Like the gold rush that made this region, success is rare and difficult.  But there’s reward to be had, from the mountains, the waters, the forests and fertile meadows.  There’s a lifestyle worth wanting, beauty to absorb and plenty adventure to sharpen your days. 

The Lost Sierra isn’t lost, it’s just hiding from modernity.  Whether its work, screens, current events, or climate change, we’re burning out like crazy right now.  Stepping into the Lost Sierra, with all its own untoward history, challenges and commonalities with the world we wish to escape, is intoxicating.  It’s simply refreshing and to spend even a day in its deep canyons, lakes or ridgetops will enchant you and call on you to return again and again.