See Salmon Run December 9, 2012

With each year, I ratchet my way closer to that moment when salmon ignite the Lagunitas Creek.  Last February, Annie and I missed the event – again – but at least caught the remnants of their redds near Shaftner Bridge.  I contacted the Marin Watershed to get a better grip on the timing of their run and was instructed to wait for the first major rain in December or January, then wait a few more days for the muddy water to clear, and then go have a look.

Two storms battered the Bay Area in early December, and on Sunday, I reckoned that now was the time.  I cajoled two friends to come take a look with me and we were not disappointed.  Joined by other salmon-seekers at the Bridge, we formed our own little migration, advancing up the path to spy a few spawning pairs along the creek bed.  One coho couple was particularly animated, as a second large red male attempted to intrude, triggering a vigorous display of muscle and splashing water.  Another neared the end of the creek, where it aborts at Kent Lake, and also neared exhaustion.  Magnificent, and fatal.

The Rainy Day December 2, 2012

It was a wet weekend and my planned houseguest balked at the storm warnings, but I felt the tug of Pi and headed out alone for the day. 

This autumn's frequent sojourns at Point Reyes had given me some appreciation for the raw weather that befalls this rugged peninsula, and like a tornado tracker, I wanted to experience the impending storm first-hand.  As I crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, my car radio blared the dissonant tones that announce the emergency broadcast system.  This was not a test; it was a warning of flash floods predicted within the next hour in the direction I was heading.

Indeed, the rain was thick.  A phalanx of PG&E trucks obstructed my usual exit from 101 in their efforts to reconnect a downed power line.  I slipped off the freeway at the next ramp, circled back to Lucas Valley via Miller Creek Road, and headed west.  At Big Rock, I was held up by four men in yellow from the Marin Fire Department.  Popping in and out of red trucks and wielding brooms, rakes, and shovels, they were trolling the west Marin roads for downed branches and debris.  They suggested I trail behind them, and I readily agreed, grateful for their wake.  We wove through the Hansel and Gretel forest; the redwood-littered road was a mere slit of solid footing through gushing water.  Each gully had been transformed into a rushing rivulet and each hillside crack was animated by a thick waterfall.  There were no fowl or deer in sight today, no bicycles either.

By the time I reached Pi, it was tranquil.  The rain had quit and the sun began to pierce the gray.  I wandered down to the green bridge to peer at the swollen muddy Creek in futile hope of witnessing the season’s first salmon.  As the day wore on, the sun came out in full-force.  The green land was even greener, the blue sky even bluer, and the black-and-white cows even blacker-and-whiter than I had ever seen them.