Huffing hard, my lungs felt like bellows on overdrive as they
frantically pumped oxygen into my system. Saturday morning, I sat
on my mountain bike and churned peddles furiously. I made my way up
a steep dirt trail leading to Henry Coe State Park’s Mississippi
Lake.
Huffing hard, my lungs felt like bellows on overdrive as they frantically pumped oxygen into my system. Saturday morning, I sat on my mountain bike and churned peddles furiously. I made my way up a steep dirt trail leading to Henry Coe State Park’s Mississippi Lake.
One weekend each spring, the park administration opens the backcountry gates to the public at Bell Station along Pacheco Pass (Highway 152). Adventurers chosen in a lottery drawing are allowed access to 23,300 pristine acres of the Orestimba Wilderness. This is a secluded section buried deep inside the 87,000-acre state park located east of South Valley.
My Morgan Hill friend Stu Nuttall had won a spot in this lottery and invited his long-time friend Tom Bardin and me for a weekend mountain bike/backpacking excursion.
Now ascending the County Line Road trail, I gasped for air as I made my way slowly along on my Specialized Rockhopper bike. A 50-pound backpack was strapped to my shoulders, adding to the challenge.
The three of us were a mere quarter-mile from the parking site where we’d started. We had miles to go still, and my legs felt like they were on fire. I questioned my sanity for saying “yes” to Nuttall’s e-mail invitation to this camping trip.
Suddenly, my bike tires hit soft trail dirt, and I started toppling toward some poison oak. Quickly, I jumped off the bike. I decided it might be easier – if less macho – to just walk and push my bike up the precipitous hill. Soon, Bardin and Nuttall were also on foot.
Mt. Everest must reach its peak and so did this switch-back hill. The steep grade lasted maybe a couple of miles. When we reached the top ridge, we found a relatively easier ride. Dramatic panoramas of the canyon landscape spread below us.
Two hours of strenuous exertion later, we earned our reward: Mississippi Lake. Tule reeds bordered the bucolic man-made reservoir surrounded by rolling hills of shady oak. We were among the first to reach this destination, and Nuttall (who had been here before) found a convenient site near the restroom to establish our base camp. We put up a tarp lean-to just as a gentle shower sprinkled from grey clouds. For lunch, we ate trail mix and Cajun spiced-flavored Pringles potato chips. Hunger stimulated by hard exercise made every bite a gourmet delight.
Bardin and Nuttall spent the rest of the afternoon fishing. Meanwhile, I did my Daniel Boone imitation by exploring the wilderness. My hike down the park’s Hartman Trail took me to a secluded canyon creek verdant with oaks. Grass along the meandering stream was dotted with a celestial display of wild flowers. Lupine, poppies, buttercups, owl clover and other species created a kaleidoscopic eruption of color. I felt sorry to leave this grand floral display, but the trail back to the lake was steep and it was getting late.
After a pasta dinner, Bardin and I took a sundown ride around the lake while Nuttall rested a sore back. I noticed a steep trail up the Willow Ridge Road, and while Bardin returned to camp, I headed up this for a mile or so. Bathed in a golden aura, the dropping sun kissed the cloud bank along the western horizon. The light seemed alive – Mother Nature at her Technicolor best.
And over to the east, the astronomical wonders continued. A full moon glowed bright like a dream sailing ship among drifting clouds. As night began to spread across the sky, I returned to our camp. A chill breeze blew from the lake, and soon we oozed into the cocoons of our sleeping bags. The heartbeat of croaking came from tule reeds nearby.
“Someone turn off the frogs,” I murmured as I drifted off to slumberland. Sunday morning arrived with a gift of clear skies. After breakfast, Nuttall and Bardin went off to explore areas around the shore for fishing opportunities. Meanwhile, I peddled along the lake trail in a quest for photo ops.
At the far end of the lake, I met fishermen campers – the Sweitzer trio from Soulsbyville in Tuolome County.
As his grandpa Dave Sweitzer fried Spam on a griddle, Chad Sweitzer, age 7, sipped at a cup of hot chocolate.
Chad’s father Steve Sweitzer told me that on Saturday, he’d caught 13 fish. Before breakfast this morning, he had caught 17. All big-mouth bass.
Chad told me he caught six fish on Saturday. “There’s so many fish in the lake,” he exclaimed. I hesitated telling them that Nuttall and Bardin hadn’t caught a single fish on Saturday. Bardin had lost several lures, including a rubber worm to one hungry bass.
This was the first backpacking trip for the first-grader, and it was quite the adventure. According to his grandfather, Chad hadn’t whined or complained a single moment throughout the whole outing despite the arduous hike to the lake. Getting into nature helps the boy learn to value the environment, Dave told me. “It also teaches him self-reliance and independence,” he added.
A while later, I discovered Nuttall and Bardin down a steep bank of the lake casting their lines. Right before I arrived, Nuttall had caught a fish, and opening it up, found Bardin’s favorite rubber worm lure inside its guts.
“Dang, it’s the same fish,” Bardin told me.
“That was a high-value fish,” Nuttall observed. “We both caught it.”
“Maybe that fish has got a death wish,” I suggested.
Continuing my biking, I happened to meet senior state park volunteer Matt Pauley with a plastic Macy’s bag in his hand. No, he hadn’t just been out shopping at some wilderness mall. He was gathering beer cans and trash some fool fishermen had left on the lake shore the day before.
I told him that Nuttall and Bardin had found several bottles and cans also. They’d stowed them to carry back to a trash can. “Generally, the folks who come out here come for the wilderness,” Pauley said. “We rarely have problems.”
We discussed the environmental impact on the Orestimba Wilderness from so many visitors that weekend. Most people respect the beauty of the rugged landscape and want to keep it like they found it, Pauley told me.
As for those who were too lazy to pack out their beer bottles … well, if you happen to be reading this, be aware there’s at least one park volunteer who’d like to give you a good scolding for your disrespectful treatment of Mother Nature.
Around noon, Nuttall, Bardin and I packed our gear, climbed on our bikes and said “adios” to Mississippi Lake. Having built a reservoir of potential energy on our climb up the hill the day before, the ride back down seemed a cinch. The last couple of miles were a roller-coaster thrill ride along a twisting-turning trail. With a breeze cooling my face, my speedy gravity-pulled coast was more fun than any amusement park ride.
As I arrived back at “civilization” – the parking site – I felt truly sorry my weekend backcountry adventure had come to its close.
By a volunteer tent at the trail head, I met Nuttall who gulped down a Styrofoam cup of water. “That…” I exclaimed with gusto, “was a lot of fun!”
