Sonoma/Wild Side

The Call of the Wild:

Exploring Sonoma County's Wilder Side

by Robert McGarvey

"We are going to drown!" yelled Babs Fragonard as our canoe capsized for the second time in Sonoma County's Russian River. The first time had been a byproduct of my sheer awkwardness as a novice canoe-er. One instant, all seemed placid -- and in the next the canoe inexplicably was on its side. But the water was scarcely over our knees and we were back on our way in seconds.

This time was different. The canoe had been hurtling down the river and, following its own mind, had headed straight towards thick brush along the bank. I'd ducked to avoid a branch that seemed determined to poke out an eye, but the sudden shifting of my weight had put the canoe aflutter. Suddenly it was upside down and we were searching for footing...and not finding any! Slippery mud coated the river's floor and, worse, in this spot the river's depth was five-feet.

Under the water I sank, and when I came up I was laughing-- mainly at my own ineptitude. "This is really experiencing the Russian River. It's great!" I told Babs, a Sonoma County resident whom I had persuaded to join me on this journey.

"Great?" Babs skeptically said, as river water dribbled out of her mouth along with the word. But then she, too, started laughing as we righted the canoe and resumed our 11 mile paddle from the Alexander Valley to Healdsburg. Frankly, this was fun. No, we didn't know what we were doing and, yes, we had underestimated the twisting and churning of the Russian River in this northern half of its run through Sonoma County where it runs fast in places but shifts into motionlessness around the next bend. But while the river was wilder than expected, this isn't white water -- a couple dunkings are the worst canoe-ers are apt to suffer. Besides, on this day, everything else was fine -- beautiful really. The morning fog had (as usual in Sonoma County) given way to bright afternoon sunlight and the river throbbed with life.

As we paddled along, we passed hundreds of acres of prized grapes. Above us, huge white egrets patrolled their turf. Turtles sat sunning on rocks until our noisy progress in the water sent them scattering. Vast schools of fish were clearly visible in the river. Coots and other river birds ignored us as they dined on the fish. When we were quiet, there were no noises at all -- only delicious stillness filled the air.

Sonoma County is a popular tourist destination but most folks go for the wine -- and, in one count, I found over 80 Sonoma wineries, many with prestige labels (Korbell, Kendall Jackson, Dry Creek). But there is much more to Sonoma County than wine -- there is nature to be experienced and, as we were discovering, nature that is not yet tame. We were only 75 miles from San Francisco, but in Sonoma County we were in a different, wilder world.

"Let's not capsize again," Babs said as we soon found ourselves rushing at another of the many boulders that pop up in the river's path. Crunch. We hit the boulder, the aluminum canoe shrugged off the impact, but the force of the collision sent us ricocheting back towards the bushes along the river bank...and of course we capsized for the third time. But, this time, we laughed in unison because by now we knew we would make it to the Healdsburg destination.

Our muscles ached, even our hands were sore from four hours of paddling but soon a beach was in sight and it was filled with canoes. We tiredly headed the canoe into its berth. "Is this the end? Is our trip over?" I asked the canoe company employee who came over to check us in.

"Yeah, you made it," he said as he eyed our drenched clothes, soaked hair, and exhausted bodies. "You've reached Healdsburg."

Beached

Follow the Russian River to its mouth and it empties into the Pacific at Jenner, a dot of a town on Sonoma County's 49-mile coastal stretch. This strip is sandy in only rare patches, much of the beachfront is lined by cliffs, the water usually is cold (and frequently there are "sleeper waves" that trap the unwary with an abrupt lashing out of watery force), and many days there is only fog, never sunlight. Then, too, the two-lane road along the coast (Rte. 1) is a helter-skelter series of switchbacks. The most common sign is: "Road Narrows" and that is a cheerless thought because big trucks still haul trees and lumber along this route. Mud slides are commonplace when it rains (Cal Trans has "Road Closed" signs tucked in depots all along Rte. 1). This is Sonoma County at its wildest.

So why come here? The intrepid know their reward will be beaches they can have to themselves most days. All along the road there are quirkily-named beaches and each is different. At Goat Rock State Beach, for instance, perhaps 50 yards off shore there is a mountain of a rock that the Pacific has sliced an arch through. Atop the rock, plants grow and, on this day, I even see a little tree.

Further down the road there is Duncan's Landing, a rocky cove. Here the trail that leads to the beach is closed -- a sign warns that the steps leading to the water are dangerous. So they are -- many are broken. That disappointed me until, in the corner of my eye, I saw a hill, just paces from the ocean spray, and on it were growing odd, begonia-like flowering plants. I walked among the red flowers and marveled that they seemed to be sprouting out of the rocks.

At Stump Beach, I found that -- contrary to the name -- reasonably sized pine trees managed to grow, nearly down to the water line. Here, too, there were cattle grazing -- on what I couldn't say, but the cows seemed contented with whatever morsels they were finding.

There are many beaches along this road (others just as good as the ones I have singled out), but near the end of Rte. 1 in Sonoma there is a place that stands unique -- Fort Ross State Historic Park. Here there is history because Ft. Ross was founded in 1812 and not by the Spanish or by Americans. Russian traders built it (the name is a shortening of Rossiya, the tsars' name for their nation) as an outpost of their Alaska operations. Their intent was to stay. The fort's walls were thick redwood plank and two blockhouses provided room for 41 cannons. But nobody ever opposed the Russians' presence. The local Indians, Kashaya, were happy to trade food for Russian technology (knives, guns) and the Spanish (and their Mexican successors) never got this far up the coast.

When the Russians left in 1842, it was because they couldn't earn a dollar here. The once populous sea otters had been depleted, local farming was hard scrabble, so the Russians sold much of the fort to John Sutter (of 1848 gold rush fame). When the state gained control in 1906, Fort Ross was a wreck. But a few of the original buildings were in tact (including a chapel said to be the oldest Russian Orthodox church in the mainland US) and, by now, the state has restored Ft. Ross's barracks and houses to historians' best guess as to their original appearance. There's even an old well that is still wet 175 years after it was dug.

This day, the fog is rolling in around noon and a costumed docent eagerly tells the stories of the remarkable Russian pioneers who lived here. I am keen to listen, but I find myself paying more attention to the details of the site the Russians chose. The fort is high on a cliff, inside a protected harbor. Sensing my interest, the docent says, "The Russians chose well. An attack from sea would have been nearly impossible. This site is naturally well protected and" -- she paused to look around -- "it also is very beautiful."

The Howl of the Wolf

If there's an American writer who thrived on wild beauty, it's Jack London, a novelist who reveled in tales of the Klondike, South Seas islands, the high seas. But everywhere he went, London was just passing through, a confirmed lifelong wanderer, until he saw the Sonoma Valley. That's when he decided to invest his Call of the Wild royalties in a home. London tells you why: "I ride over my beautiful ranch...I have everything to make me glad I am alive."

Today we can visit that estate -- it's the Jack London State Historic Park -- and we can marvel at its beauties and we can also feel the sadness that nonetheless envelops the place. London died at 40 years of age in 1916 -- hard living destroyed his kidneys and "uremic poisoning" is listed as the cause of death -- but before he died he had accumulated 1400 acres and nearly completed "Wolf House," the majestic three-story rock structure that was to have been his permanent home.

Wolf House was two years in the construction but it was never finished. Just days before London and his wife, Charmian, were to move in, fire engulfed it. Redwood beams, tapestries, draperies -- all went up in smoke (spontaneous combustion of oil-soaked rags was the verdict of a recent re-investigation). London was emotionally crushed and, three years later, he was dead.

It is an easy, half-mile hike from the parking lot to Wolf House. The trail meanders through a lush forest of madrones, redwood, and manzanita. I have made this walk several times and each time I go slower, to delay confronting the sadness of Wolf House. The exterior walls and some interior walls -- all made of rocks quarried locally -- still stand. It is monumental but it also is a hollow and roof-less shell. I can see the magnificence London intended and I can feel his loss.

But there is cheer to be found in the park, too. From the parking lot, the Beauty Ranch trail takes us there. London called the home we soon come upon a "cottage," but it numbers over a dozen rooms. Go inside and there's Jack's sleeping porch, Charmian's sleeping porch, a guest room. There's also the den -- a spacious room constructed as an addition after Wolf House burned -- and it's here that he wrote until he died. Most of these rooms can be walked in and doing that I immediately sense London's bubbly, expansive personality.

I decided to do as London himself often did and that's to explore his ranch on horseback. "I am the sailor on horseback! Watch my dust," London once wrote and it was his conviction that on horseback was the only way to prowl his spread. So I joined a small group for a two-hour ride through the forests that had belonged to him.

This proved a voyage through a series of surprises. Not long into the ride we came upon a lake for instance. Today it is filled with marsh plants but, 75 years ago, on summer days London and his friends came here to swim.

There also is a large, manicured vineyard (it's private land, owned by a London descendant who sells the grapes to the Kenwood winery), but much of the park's acreage is untended. There are acres of eucalyptus trees (planted by London who somehow thought he could turn them into a profitable source of lumber), a neglected apple orchard, and everywhere there are redwoods -- "second-growth," as Redwood Empire folks call them, but these trees now are nearly a century old and they are huge.

Exploring the back trails of the park, the horses shared the paths with hikers, but hikers were in fact few because everywhere there are hills. Every hiker I saw looked winded, frazzled, but on horseback -- as London knew -- the tour of the grounds is simply relaxing.

After the ride, I wanted to say goodby to the man who had given us this place, so I made the half-mile hike to Jack London's grave. Here, there's a sign posted by the state, but there is no formal grave marker, just a large rock. That's how London wanted it. Today this grave is a wild place -- flowers grow everywhere and the grass is long -- but that of course is in keeping for London, a man friends called "Wolf."

Going The Cycle

Jack London was not one to shy from a challenge -- and I had that thought in mind when I recalled past trips to Sonoma County and how I had eyed bicyclists as they peddled along Healdsburg's Dry Creek Road. They radiated excitement as they cycled past vineyards and I had wanted to join them, but a fear that my out-of-shape, middle-aged body would collapse at the roadside always held me back.

It wouldn't this day, not with Jack London's inspiration before me. So I marched to a bike shop, filled out the papers for a rental, and was on my way out. Then the clerk asked: "Are you familiar with the 21-speed shifter?"

"Last time I was on a bike it had three speeds," I said and it was true because I hadn't been atop a cycle in 15 years. But I shrugged off the clerk's offer of instruction because I wanted to hit the road. I had miles to go that day -- 10 by the count of my car's odometer. The start point was Healdsburg's plaza and the intended halfway point was the Dry Creek General Store, a well-stocked deli. The plan said that after lunch I would re-mount the bike and return to Healdsburg.

"Ten miles," I told myself. "You can do it."

I set off and, within a couple minutes, I was on Dry Creek Road, where cars were few, a bike path was clearly delineated, and the peddling was easy, mainly because I kept shifting gears. I had not a clue what gear I was in at any specific moment but when the going turned hard, I fiddled with the shift and invariably found an easier gear among the 21 the bike had available.

Forty minutes later I pulled into the Dry Creek General Store. I looked at my watch in disbelief. This was supposed to be a whole-day trip. I went into the store and looked at a clock. Yes, it was 10:40 a.m. I sipped a soda as I pondered my options.

"Head on," I told myself. I looked at a map of the Dry Creek region and decided the next logical stopping point was Lake Sonoma, a lake built by the Army Corps of Engineers a couple decades ago to help tame the Russian River's winter flooding. How far away? I couldn't say -- not too far, judging by the map.

I climbed atop the cycle and peddled away. I was getting the hang of Dry Creek Road. From a car it seems flat. It isn't. It's a series of gentle hills and the cyclist's secret of course is to maximize use of downhill momentum to get up the next hill.

As I peddled, I saw things I had never seen from a car. Clusters of nearly ripe grapes were on the vines on this September day and I hadn't seen them from a car because they are hidden by leaves. Rabbits were everywhere in the vineyards, scurrying among the rows, nibbling fallen grapes and ducking the red-tail hawks that circled above. There was real pleasure in this up-close sightseeing...but would I make it to Lake Sonoma?

My legs had begun to hurt, so I stopped the bike, pulled out my reporter's pad and, for once, I was glad I had that pad. Usually I find it a distraction -- it takes me out of the experience -- but today I welcomed it because as I stood by my bike on the road and an occasional car passed I was not a weak-kneed cyclist who needed to rest. Nope, I was a writer to whom a glorious thought has occurred and I had stopped to write down a brilliant insight.

Which was: Geez, maybe I should have stuck to the original plan and turned around at the store.

But I resumed peddling towards Lake Sonoma -- which, miracle, I reached at exactly 11:50. This is a huge complex, with a state-of-the-art fish hatchery, but I had seen all that on past trips and this day I was a man on a mission: I will cycle back to Healdsburg.

I had pointed the bike towards Healdsburg and started peddling when I heard a truck approaching behind me. For an instant, I thought about flagging him down and begging a ride home. What had before seemed like gently rolling hills now appeared to my legs to be mountains, and a soft breeze now pelted me with what felt like a gale-like force..

But I let the truck go by, and I kept peddling because, by now, it had become almost a reflex. My head might have quit but my legs hadn't gotten the message.

At 1:40 p.m. I pulled in front of the bike shop. I climbed off the cycle and nearly fell down, I was so tired. "How far is Lake Sonoma from here?" I asked the clerk.

"Round trip, maybe 20, 25 miles," said the clerk. "You went that far?" he added with evident disbelief.

"Yeah. Just an easy peddle," I said, as I staggered out of the shop.

Later that day I got in my car and re-traced the route. I had peddled precisely 23 miles and that is longer by double than I had ever before gone on a bike. Even when I was a kid. And that is why I have come to love Sonoma County. It is a place to be a kid again -- to canoe, ride a horse, peddle a bike and to do it all with a kid's wild enthusiasm. And that is a rare place indeed.

Copyright by Robert McGarvey. All rights reserved.

This article appeared, in slightly different form, in Westways Magazine.